Thankful I'm out of the media.

I'm going to parts of Sardinia I've never been to. Along the north and northeast coasts. We're gonna visit my true love's brother. He recently settled there. After living in Milano. That's his favorite city. But he's back in Sardinia. Because that's where he found a job. There's lots of unemployment in Italy. More than in the USA. Maybe I retired at just the right time. In 1998. When I was 62. I never had difficulty finding jobs. All of my life. I had many job choices. As a journalist. A writer for newspapers. But the newspaper business is on the decline. People get their news from other sources. Many newspapers have folded. In my younger days, newspapers thrived. And they were beholden to nobody. Which made reporting rather independent. One could alienate an advertiser, and a news source, and readers, and still get away with it. But that changed when newspapers had to act more like a business than a public service in order to stay in business. So very many papers sold their souls. And started feeding readers crap instead of real news. Because that's what so many readers wanted. Crap. Entertainment. That's what the news business has become. Entertainment. Because that's what sells. Much of the news today is fabricated. In order to be entertaining. One doesn't have to be informative in order to sell a 'news' program. It's exaggerated and biased and bombastic. Entertaining, above all else. Anyway, when I'm traveling in Sardinia over the next few days, I'll be away from the news of the world. I'll be on Mediterranean beaches. Listening to the peaceful sound of surf. Thankful that I'm no longer a member of the news media. --Jim Broede

The right balance of narcissism.

I see nothing wrong with being narcissistic. To some degree. To be involved with one's self. With I. It's one way of getting to know one's self. Thyself. I suspect some people aren't narcissistic enough. They don't probe their depths. They don't understand what makes them tick. They are too consumed by trivialities happening around them. Rather than living inside themselves. And if one tries to reach 'em, they are conveniently turned off. Maybe because they are narccissistic in negative ways. Rather than in positive and well-balanced ways. They don't want to understand themselves. Maybe because that would be too frightening. They might even hate themselves. But they don't see it. Don't grasp it. Because they don't face reality. And they are the very ones that accuse others of being too narcissistic. Ironic, isn't it? I try to get 'em to talk about themselves the way I talk about myself. In self-analytical ways. To face the hard and brutal truths -- about themselves. Recognition and acceptance of these imperfections could open their minds to all sorts of possibilities. They can learn to be what they are or move in other directions. Some of 'em may even evolve and live life in a constant state of flux. Which can be thrilling. With just the right balance of narcissism. --Jim Broede

Life ain't over 'til it's over.

I'm looking at life as being never over until it's over. Sure, I'm retired. I'm 76. My dear wife Jeanne died of Alzheimer's almost 5 years ago. After 38 years of marriage. Maybe it's time for me to mark time. But I can't do that. Because there's still a lot of living left. Even if it's only a day or two. But I'm hoping it's still many, many years. And the idea is to live. To the fullest. That's why I'm living at the moment with my Italian true love. In Sardinia. An island in the Mediterranean Sea. Every year that I live seems to be better than the last one. That's the way I want it. An adventure. Doing things that I never dreamed of before. Or doing the things that I dreamed of but never accomplished. After retirement 13 years ago, I thought it was time to slow down. Funny thing. By starting to live more in slow motion, I actually speeded up the gratification quotient. Because as I slowed, I was able to savor more. Savor the moment. The day. I learned not to get ahead of myself. To never be in a hurry. To take my good-natured time. Find new and profound ways to enjoy life. To be a romantic idealist. A free thinker in the spiritual realm. A political liberal. A lover, particularly of life. And I write abundantly. About anything. Whatever moves me. Invigorates me. Inspires me. Taking life at a more leisurely pace. I'm cramming more and more into my life. But I'm no longer overwhelmed. I'm relaxed. Energetic. I can do a whole lot and never become tired. Makes me wonder if one's life really begins in the 60s and 70s. Maybe even in the 80s and 90s. Especially if one can retain good health. Because by then one has learned how to live. Effectively. Passionately. Maybe that's the great shame in life. That one eventually runs out of time. It all ends some day. But until then, it's important to recognize that life ain't over 'til it's over. --Jim Broede

At the expense of duped suckers.

It worked in Iceland. And it can work in America and Italy and all over the world. Iceland refused to bail out the banks when they made foolish investments. Iceland allowed banks to go bust. And instead used what would have been bail out money for a better purpose: Helping ordinary people. Yes, the poor. The middle class. Expanding the social safety net. Iceland refused to allow ordinary people to bail out the bankers. Bravo, for Iceland. As a result, Iceland's unemployment rate is low. And ordinary people are being helped through tough times. By increased spending for social services. Just the opposite of what's being done in the USA and Europe. Where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. I've left the USA for Sardinia. Because I like living in Sardinia. More than I like living in America. If I ever become disenchanted with Sardinia, maybe I'll give Iceland a try. Icelanders speak English, too. Yes, I'm an American. By birth. But America isn't necessarily the best place to live. Especially for the poor and middle class. America is being designed more and more for the filthy rich. For millionaires and billionaires. For rich bankers. Bankers know that when they get into financial trouble, they'll get subsidized by the government. At the expense of the duped suckers of the world. The poor and the middle class. ---Jim Broede

Grazie, Vincenzo.

I was driving our little 1986 Fiat out of a graveyard this morning. When the front left tire went flat. My true love and I are no good at changing flat tires. Totally inept at performing the most rudimentary mechanical chores. Back home in Minnesota, I'd use my American Automobile Association membership and quickly summon roadside help. For free. But here I was in Sardinia. And I began to think, 'Oh, my gawd, what are we gonna do now?' I unloaded the spare. Which also turned out to be flat. And I looked at the jack, and wondered 'How does this damn thing work?' Quick action was necessary. My true love had to report to school for her teaching job in less than an hour. I thought about praying. Yes, asking for help from the divine spirits. Something I rarely do. When suddenly Vincenzo appears on the scene. A Sardinian who was working on a tractor in a nearby field. He saw our plight and offered to help. Unsolicited. Does it all. Even takes the flat spare to his home, which is a 10-minute tractor ride away, and fills the spare. Comes back and gets everything fixed. Pronto-like. And I pull out 20 euros and give him effusive thanks. And Vincenzo refuses to take the money. Even over my protestations. And I tell my true love, this fortifies my belief that bad events often lead to the nicest experiences one could ever imagine. Yes, Vincenzo made our day. It's a flat tire experience we'll fondly remember forever. Grazie, Vincenzo. -Jim Broede

We are each other's main course.

People that live alone learn to eat alone. And that's not always good. Or so it seems to me. Better that dining, whether it be breakfast, lunch or supper, be a shared experience. With someone. A true love. Family. Friend. Even a total stranger. Yes, make dining an opportunity to converse. People who eat alone often have no diversion. They are focused solely on the food. On eating. Often, too fast. They don't take their good-natured time. They get it over and done with. Almost like a chore. A task. Not a ritual. I want my dining experience to be a ritual. Even when I eat alone. But better yet, with my Italian true love. Which is now possible daily. Because I'm living with her in Sardinia. In the cradle of civilization. In Paradise. I want dinner to be a relaxing and pleasurable event. An opportunity to get to know my true love all the better. She's an appetizer. A dessert. She intoxicates me. Like a sip of wine. We used to dine alone. When I was in Minnesota. And she in Sardinia. We lived apart. But now we are together. And I am promoting not only Italian food. But lively and pleasant conversation. We dine 'in' far more often than we dine 'out.' But no matter where, it should be dining full of conversation and conviviality that adds to the taste of food and drink. Yes, we are not alone. And we have become each other's main course. --Jim Broede

The Nervous Nellies of the world.

I tend to be relaxed. Yes, calm, cool and collected. Wasn't always that way. I was capable of losing my cool. But that seldom happens anymore. Because I have more or less learned to accept what I can't change. To take life as it comes. And to deal with it. Effectively. To my satisfaction. Used to be I allowed nervous people to rankle me. I absorbed their bad and unsettling vibes. But I don't do that any more. I let them be nervous. And if anything, I rankle them. By giving them advice. To cool it. Anyway, I like my new relaxed approach. I go about living with a thick skin. I can even take abuse. Insults. Recriminations. I'm capable of returning an insult with an even deeper insult. Usually in a sarcastic manner. But I do that less and less. More for fun than meanness. For the humor. There's something really funny about insult humor. Like the schtick of comedian Don Rickles. I call nervous people Nervous Nellies. My mother was that kind. Maybe that's what made me nervous in my younger days. My mother taught it to me. But I wised up. I separated my mother's good traits from the bad ones. Same goes for my father. Or for most anyone I know. I separate the good from the bad, and focus primarily on the good. That's reason for me to like most people. One thing is for sure. I can find something interesting about everyone. No exceptions. That includes the Nervous Nellies of the world. They're a strange lot. --Jim Broede

Accepting life as it is.

I hear Alzheimer care-givers complain that there's no worse way for their loved ones to die. But I'm not so sure about that. I'd have taken it harder if my dear Jeanne had died of an accident at a young age or by suicide or in a war. So many ways to die. None of 'em are really nice. Death is death is death. Dying wouldn't have been any easier if my Jeanne had been murdered on the day she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. As it turned out, she lived an additional 13 years. In varying states of dementia. Many of those years were productive and loving and memorable. Her final weeks may not have been the best time of her life. But still, we milked a lot from the Alzheimer's sojourn. It wasn't a total loss. And I gotta say it was nice to have the extra time I had with Jeanne. Time bought by the relatively slow progression of the dementia. It didn't all happen at once. And today I'm still benefiting from my time as a reasonably devoted care-giver. I learned a lot. Including new ways to love. In unconditional ways. It's as if Jeanne and I were being put to a test. And we passed it. Maybe not always with A-plus grades. But with pretty good grades overall. We graduated cumma sum laude. And neither one of us is whining about the experience. We accept life as it is. --Jim Broede

It helps to be a political appointee.

I wanna know everything. About everything. And that includes what it's like to teach in a high school in Sardinia. Which means that my Italian true love has to open up. And tell me everything. Because she teaches English and English literature to Italian teen-agers. And she's in school at least 5 days a week. But six days this week. Because she's gotta attend meetings. A 3-hour meeting on Monday. And it didn't get finished. So she had to return to a continued meeting on Tuesday. Didn't exactly put her in a good mood. Because many meetings are a waste of time. One could be doing better things. But I tell her that's part of life. One must take a certain amount of crap. And turn it into something nice. By the way, much of a teacher's day is spent outside the classroom. Preparing lesson plans for class. It's not unusual for my true love to spend several hours a day in preparation. And that might even include weekends. Depends. Some weeks are busier than others. Often, my true love comes home frustrated. And she'd rather not talk about the school day. But I keep suggesting that it's good to talk. About frustrations. About everything. Especially to me. Because I'm a good listener. She'll put me off. Until the next day. But the next day, she might ask for another day. And then still another. Endlessly. But I try valiantly to learn what's going on in school. It's my responsibility. To educate myself. To know what her day is like. I often try to make it a topic of conversation at supper. But anytime, really. I like conversation. About any and everything. Silence is good, too. So I'm willing to go for proper balance. Anyway, I have insights into schools and education. Because when I was a journalist -- a writer for newspapers -- my beats often were schools/education. And it also helped that I was on a school board for three years. And in that role, I was pro-teacher. Yes, I'm pro-labor. Now I have an opportunity to make comparisons between the American school/education system and the Italian one. There are similarities and marked differences. But the teacher frustration level is high everywhere. In America. In Italy. In Sardinia. Especially in time of budget reductions. In Sardinia, teachers often take the brunt of the cutbacks. By losing their jobs. And losing pensions. And they might even have to bring their own toilet paper to school. Because the school system no longer provides ass-wiping rolls in teachers' restrooms. How's that for frugality? Italy has a minister of education in prime miinister Silvio Berlusconi's cabinet. But she's considered a joke. Unpopular with teachers. At least with the teachers I know. And I'll bet she has an abundant supply of toilet paper and her own private restroom. Yes, she's privileged. It helps to be a political appointee. --Jim Broede

To experience life on Mars.

In the distant future, I wanna go to Mars. For a day or so. Not by a space ship as we know it. Because that would take too long. Maybe six months or a year. But if it could all be accomplished in a day, give me a ticket. One day on Mars would be fantastic. It'd make my day. My dream may be possible in a few thousand years. By then we'll have the technology to travel fast. Not at the speed of light. But mighty fast. The ancient Greeks, I presume, never dreamed that one could travel from Minnesota to Sardinia in 10 hours. Or to make a quick round trip to the moon. So, why not from Earth to Mars in a single day? Anyway, I have a feeling that I lived before. In ancient Greece. And I'm living now. Maybe I'll live again and again and again. To be able to experience life on Mars. Sooner or later. --Jim Broede

The best drug ever invented.

I take deep breaths. Let them out slowly. A nice way to relax. I can breathe comfortably by taking two or three breaths a minute. Of course, I don't do that all the time. Only when I want to focus on relaxing and breathing slowly. Puts me into a nice rhythm. A neat frame of mind. Many nervous people hyperventilate. They breath fast. And erratically. As if they are gasping for breath. I can't dance. But I have a rhythm in the way I breathe. And the way I think. And maybe even in the way I write. And live. It's my rhythm. And to others it may not seem like a rhythm. But I march to my own drummer. I don't let others tell me how to think or to live or to breathe. I do it my way. But I try not to foist my way on others. Some think I'm abrasive. Because I express my opinions and my ways even when they aren't solicited. I'm willing to listen to other opinions. Even stupid ones. And I let that be known. That rubs some people the wrong way. But one thing about me. I'm accommodating. And reasonably courteous. But I also try to be honest. Some people don't like honesty. They prefer lies. I'm not totally against lying. Lying can be a best alernative. And convenient. And kind. Example: Telling a friend that he looks good. Even when he doesn't. Because he's sick. A lot of sickness is in the head. Psychosomatic. All one needs to feel better is a placebo. Or a lying compliment. The placebo may be the best medicine/drug ever invented. --Jim Broede

Just what I deserve.

I'd like to see the world. All sorts of places. But there are at least two cities in the USA that I have no desire to see. Ever. Los Angles and Las Vegas. Yes, maybe I should keep an open mind. Maybe there's a lot to see and admire in those two cities. But I gotta admit, I can live without visiting every place. I have my priorities. I think of Los Angeles as far too congested. Too busy. As for Las Vegas, seems to me it's too glitzy for my tastes. I'd rather spend a day in the country. Away from civilization. I've been to places that turn me off. Places I'd avoid. No desire to return. Texas, for example. I don't like the weather or the political and social climate. Closest thing to hell on Earth. Especially west Texas. Meanwhile, I'm living in Sardinia for the next few months. It's heaven. Paradise. Just what I deserve. --Jim Broede

I'm curious about Methuselah.

I wish I could get old without growing old. Maybe by living as long as Methuselah. Of course, he got old eventually. And died. At just under 1,000 years, if the bible is correct. Methuselah, of course, may be no more than a fable. But I'm inclined to believe fairy tales. Because I want to. I want to live forever. But right now, 900 and some years would seem a reasonable compromise. As long as I didn't feel old until maybe about 800. That would give me time to accumulate vast amounts of knowledge. I could become quite intelligent by then. I'm a slow learner. Thing is, if there was a Methuselah, and he really did live for almost 10 centuries, then it's really possible. Why not me? I'd like to know how Methuselah did it. What did he eat? Did he exercise daily? Did he ever get tired of life? Did he have a midlife crisis, maybe on his 500th birthday? Did he ever come close to an accidental death? Did he go in for annual check ups? Oh, so many questions. If I could interview anyone from the past, it might well be Methuselah. I suspect he could give me some helpful survival tips. --Jim Broede

A right time for suicide.

I wish for suicide. When it comes to politics. I want the Republicans to commit political suicide next year. In the presidential election. By putting up a candidate that can't win. Even against the Republicans' most despised enemy, Barack Obama. Yes, I want a Republican candidate so very looney that he/she can't win. Seems to me that virtually all of the GOP aspirants for the job fall into that mode. Maybe the lone exception is Mitt Romney. And he's considered unacceptable by lunatic fringe Republicans because he isn't looney enough. Although he's very, very looney. But in comparison to the others, he might be construed as just plain crazy rather than radically crazy. He's still capable of tying his pet dog to the top of the car when the Romney family goes on a vacation to Canada. And he's disliked by the craziest of the Republicans. For being less crazy than they. He doesn't pass their crazy test. Which means some crazies may not vote for him if he's the nominee. Yes, Republicans may be crazy enough to not vote for anyone for president. Boycotting the polls. And therefore, giving Obama a second term by default. That goes to show just how crazy Republicans can be. They'd commit political suicide just for the hell of it. On principle. That there should be no compromise. That death is better than to give in on principle. All I can say to Republicans in favor of their own suicide -- go for it. --Jim Broede

All kinds make up this crazy world.

I never let drudgery take over my life. Even for 5 minutes. The moment I experience a feeling of uninteresting toil, I get out of it. Pronto. I suspect that drudgery is the most common malady of modern society. And it may even be the root cause of depression. Life becomes so full of toil, so lackluster, that one begins to think that it ain't worth living. Indeed, a sad state of affairs. I keep reminding myself that I'm happy to be alive and that every moment has the potential to be precious. No drudgery for me. Yet, I know people who don't seem to have any fun or pleasure in life. They are bogged down by drudgery. Everything is work. No pleasure. No time to indulge themselves. They make lists of things they 'have to do.' Everyone of the 'haves' being a task. I suggest that they carve out an hour or two of pure pleasure in their busy, taskful day. But they claim to be obligated to the pursuit of drudgery. I insist we are all entitled to the pursuit of happiness. And they generally agree, in concept. Not in practice. They say the pursuit of happiness must be postponed until all of the drudgery gets done. When will that be? They have no idea. Because their list of drudgery is virtually endless. As if they are staring into a bottomless pit. For gawd's sake, they are entitled to at least momentary relief. They say, no. They must toil relentlessly. Forever. They are masochists. Actually enjoying suffering and carrying a heavy burden. Sounds sort of sick. But it takes all kinds of people to make up this crazy world. There should be a place for everyone. Including those addicted to drudgery and masochism. Like I often say, to each his own. --Jim Broede

In Sardinia...maybe forever.

I'm out for a walk in a town of 30,000 in Sardinia. But it seems like a ghost town. Uninhabited. Because it's Sunday afternoon. Truly a day of rest for many Italians. They take Sunday seriously. As special. Staying at home. For Sunday dinner. A family gathering. Stores are closed. I'm taking a break. Sitting on a stone retaining wall at a city park just off Piazza Roma. I'd sit on a park bench. But they're all in the sun. Too hot. So quiet. Except for the chirping birds. I spot an old man. Walking down the sidewalk. Hands in his pockets. I like the scene. The lack of hustle-bustle. Italians have a word for this kind of day. Pigro. Yes, lazy. A lazy Sunday afternoon. I remember Sundays like this. When I was growing up. In Wisconsin. The family gathered for dinner. Pleasant talk. A day off. A slow, leisurely life. I miss that in modern-day America. Living has become fast-paced. Hectic. Reason for me to stay in Sardinia for a long time. Maybe forever. --Jim Broede

A crazy thought.

Leonard Cohen. I never heard of the guy. Until my Italian true love introduced me to his music. Subdued music. That's the way it sounds to me. Very subdued. Tranquil. Sort of a monotone. Like he's speaking the song. Rather than singing. My true love put on a Leonard Cohen CD this morning. And I got caught up in the flow. Didn't have to listen to the words. Instead, I listened to the mesmerizing voice. That's all I need. To be hypnotized. Interesting, isn't it? Cohen sings like I would sing. If only I could sing. I can't. I'm not even sure if I know how to write. Let alone sing. But I do put words on paper. Maybe I write like Cohen sings. I try to mesmerize myself. I don't care about being a good writer. I'll settle for bad. I merely want to write my way. My natural way. Whatever makes me comfortable. That's even more important than making others comfortable. I'm not out to please anyone. Other than myself. And my true love. Though I don't have to set out consciously pleasing her. I can merely be myself. She's as accepting of me as I am of her. But in different ways. Mostly, by being herself. That's what I want her to be. Her genuine self. She doesn't have to please me. I can take her every which way. Which is precisely the way I take myself. The good and the bad. But I think of bad as good. So that everything is good. That sounds crazy, I know. But that's me. Crazy. Downright looney. Having no idea where I'm going. That's the story of my life. I go with the flow. Downstream. To places I've never been before. I don't need the familiar places. Because I want to explore the unknown. Often I dig deep into my own being. I head into the interior of my soul and mind. Better than venturing outward. Going inward makes me feel good. I can do that alone. All by myself. At any time. As long as I am conscious. I'm curious. I'd like to explore the cosmos. And eternity. But better yet, I'd like to explore the deepest depths of my interior. My mind. My soul. Fantastic that I can even comprehend that I am alive. That I exist. And that I am not a mere robot. Though I've often wondered if I'm fooling myself. And that I'm on cruise control. And that I have been duped into feeling that I have free will. Maybe I'm no more than a sophisticated computer. Planted here on Earth by creators much smarter than I. Ah, such a crazy thought. --Jim Broede

Putting off death and taxes.

There's no sales tax in Italy. Or so I'm told. Maybe it's hidden. But the fact is that the state doesn't require an added-on tax. No matter what one buys. I'm also told that many Italians evade taxes. Income taxes. That there's a lot of unreported income. I suspect that the cost of living is cheaper in Italy than in the USA. And it helps that there's universal health care. Although one might have to wait a while to get it. Back home in America, I have Medicare and a supplemental health insurance policy. That pretty much covers everything but my dental bills. For dental, I pay out of pocket. Everything. Not a penny of insurance coverage. So if I have a toothache while living in Sardinia, I'll go to an Italian dentist. And expect to pay far less than I'd fork out to my dentist in Minnesota. American medical bills are the highest in the world. But America is far from the top in health care outcomes/statistics. I probably have a better chance for a long life in Sardinia. Yes, it's a place where I can put off death and taxes. --Jim Broede

My love extends to wildflowers.

Oh, so many wildflowers in Sardinia. I won't ever learn the names of 'em all. But I'm browsing through google. And asking Sardinians to identify 'em. But even Sardinians are stumped. So many wildflowers that they can't all be mastered. Other than by the experts. And with some wildflowers, I give 'em my own fancy names. There's something that looks like a rich man's dandelion. Looks more like a miniature yellow lily. And it grows on 3- to 5-foot tall bushes. Blooming now. Vast waves of 'em in fields. Where I see some sheep grazing. I broke off a sprig the other day. And showed it to my Italian/Sardinian true love. And she's baffled. Doesn't know the name. Which is surprising. Because she knows just about everything. Sort of like me. But she knows more than me. For which I am grateful. To have her as a font of information. Anyway, I'm in love. With her. With Sardinia. With life. With wildflowers. --Jim Broede

The grandest place of all.

Come to think of it, my life has been divided into segments. Connected to places. That's the way I like to think of my life. Focused on the places I've lived. And my experiences there. So very different. My life has been affected, in large part, by my environs. I was born in Chicago. But the first place I consciously remember is Iowa. Before I even started school. So I must have been 2 or 3. And I remember waking up in the dark. And suddenly seeing the light of day. A sunrise. And I told my mother about it. Up to then, it was probably the most profouund experience of my life. Still etched in my conscious memory. The family moved back to Chicago. Again, before I started school. And I remember my aunt Anna taking me to a graveside funeral service. I did not yet understand death. My aunt told me that when people die, they get buried. Put in the ground. I saw the big hole. And a lady seated on a bench. Crying. I thought she was the one that died. And she didn't want to be put in the ground. I couldn't blame her. And I thought, how awful. For the first time, I became aware that I didn't wanna die. Because I'd be forcibly buried. Anyway, my mother told me that when I was very young, the family was homeless for a while. During the Great Depression. And that we lived out of my father's car. In Chicago. I don't remember that. Or maybe I just assumed that was a natural home. The first home I truly remember was the basement in my Uncle Carl's house in Chicago. We shared the basement with my paternal grandparents. That's where we lived when I started school. Kindergarten. On the first day, I cried. Guess I was still mama's baby. Another time, I got lost while walking home from school. And I cried again. Gawd, I must have been a real crybaby. Anyway, after that, I don't remember crying any more. And while I was in the first grade, the family moved to a small town, Watertown, in southeast Wisconsin. Where I completed elementary school and high school. And then I'd be off to college in a place called Sheboygan. And into the military. Stationed in Germany for two years. Then into newspaper writing jobs in Fond du Lac in Wisconsin, Lakeland and Vero Beach in Florida and the St. Paul Pioneer Press in Minnesota. Where I married and raised a family. My dear Jeanne died of Alzheimer's after 38 years of blissful wedded life. But here I am, almost 5 years later, living with my Italian true love in, of all places, Sardinia, an island in the Mediterranean Sea. Maybe this is the grandest place of all. --Jim Broede

Don't worry. Have a blast.

People tell me they are tired merely because they are sleepy. Often, I don't buy that. Because when I'm sleepy, it's usually a sign that I'm relaxed. Very relaxed. Enough to go to sleep. I feel mellow rather than tired. I'm really better off doing something stimulating. Such as jogging or bicycling. Working out. Odd as it may seem, some people think they're always tired. That there's something chronically wrong with 'em. Physically. They worry about it. Enough to go to bed. When really they aren't all that tired. In fact, they suffer from insomnia. Because they work themselves into a dither. When really they were more relaxed than they imagined. But not for long. Because they pulled the worry trigger. I suggest that they quit worrying. And go out and live life to the fullest. Don't worry. Have a blast. --Jim Broede

I feel good.

I'm a believer in mind over matter. I can pretty much control my physical being with my mind. Doctors call it biofeedback. I can will away tensions. Lower my blood pressure by thinking soothing and pleasurable and relaxing thoughts. Not let things bother me. Mentally. I develop a thick skin. Events occur every day over which I have absolutely no control. Bad things. I can't prevent 'em. So I learn mental acceptance. And not let stuff affect me in negative ways. I've not mastered self-control 100 percent. Never will. Impossible. But I have a handle on most of it. Especially when I'm in love. And I'm in love. Because I wanna be. And I need to be. That's part of being a romantic idealist. I also live one day at a time. The easiest and most natural way to live. I don't get ahead of myself. Savor what I have at the moment. A good life. Don't worry that it all may end tomorrow or next week or next year. Instead, I live today as if it's forever. Some people tell me I'm crazy. Indeed, that's a possibility. Doesn't frighten me. Because I feel good. About myself. About my Italian true love. About life. --Jim Broede

Let it be winner take all.

It's time for Barack Obama to quit being a pussy-footing political moderate. And become what he's portrayed as by the enemy Republicans. A true blue liberal. In his heart, I suspect that's what Obama really is. But he's tried to be conciliatory with Republicans. Meeting them halfway on most issues. In order to get deals done that are somewhat politically palatable to everyone. Obama isn't a winner-take-all guy. He's willing to meet the other side approximately half way. That's the nature of a nice guy. But Republicans are not so nice. One musn't trust a Republican. And if Obama hasn't learned that yet, he's downright stupid. Gullible. Therefore, I want Obama to take on Republicans by pushing for a totally liberal agenda. And by recognizing that if that means class warfare, so be it. After all, that's exactly what Republicans have been waging for decades. By siding with the rich, with big corporations, with Wall Street bankers. Obama must align himself with the poor and the middle class. The underprivileged. Against the filthy rich. Against the millionaires and the billionaires. Against virtually everything that Republicans stand for. And let it be winner take all. Because the political and social liberals and society's long-time downtrodden can win this time. --Jim Broede

The best way to learn.

I like talkers. Especially people willing to talk about virtually anything. Any subject. Because that gives me an opportunity to talk. To respond. To react. To argue/debate. Fact is, I can out-talk just about anyone. I've been talking almost non-stop since the day I was born. I came out of the womb talking. My own language. My mouth was made to eat. And to talk. Of course, I find it difficult talking and eating at the same time. But when pressed, I can do both of 'em simultaneously. I didn't particularly like my teachers in elementary and high school. Because they seemed to lecture more than encourage class discussions. That changed in college. So very many of my classes became bull sessions. We talked about ideas. Right and left. It was very stimulating. I acknowledge that it's sometimes nice to shut up and just listen. But more often than not, I need real good conversation. That's the best way to learn. --Jim Broede

Making work for the sweepers.

I could settle for a life as a street sweeper. In Sardinia. Where I'm living with my Italian true love. I don't need the job. Because I'm retired. And able to live on my social security and pension and savings. But if I ever had to supplement my income, I'd gladly accept a job as a street sweeper in the city of Carbonia. I see the street sweepers almost every day. And I consider their way of life as idyllic outdoor work. One pushes a cart up and down the streets. And most sweepers come equipped with at least two brooms. They look homemade. With a design that harkens back to the 18th or 19th century. Bristles at least a foot long. Crafted, I presume, from some stiff organic material. Nothing like the conventional brooms I see in the USA. The sweepers work at a leisurely pace. I saw one standing behind his pushcart today reading a newspaper. Maybe he was on a break. Educating himself. Street sweeper would be my second most coveted occupation. First and foremost, I'd seek employment as a shepherd. I like the tranquility of it all. Out in the countryside. Although I have seen some shepherds at work in the smaller towns. Directing their flocks across the streets. Stopping traffic. And quite possibly making dirty work for the street sweepers.--Jim Broede

A believer in the grandeur of life.

I like to give people advice. Unsolicited advice. I see nothing wrong with that. But many people don't want advice. Especially from me. They wish I'd keep my thoughts and advice to myself. But hey, that's not me. Guess they are giving me advice to not give advice. That's downright stupid. So I tell them that they are telling me, in essence, to be stupid. When really they are being profoundly stupid themselves. Instead, if they were smart/intelligent, they'd listen to me and follow my advice. After all, my advice works for me. And maybe the same advice might work for them. They might as well give it a try. But often, they recommend that I mind my own business. That my way may be the wrong way. For them. Granted, it may be. But give it a try anyway. Put it to the test. If it doesn't work, try something else. Nothing ventured. Nothing gained. Fact of the matter, life may be a grand and continuous experiment. Keep experimenting. One might be surprised by the outcomes. I've made plenty of mistakes. The stubborn people don't wanna risk making mistakes. That may be their biggest mistake. Life was meant to be risky. One must learn to take calculated gambles. Especially if one is to become a romantic idealist. Believe in destiny. In love. In miracles. In divine guidance. Follow my advice, I say, and become a believer. A true believer in the grandeur of life. --Jim Broede

A choice between life & death.

I'm gonna buy my Italian true love a stationary bicycle. So that she can exercise indoors. Conveniently. Maybe when she's watching TV. Seems to me that exercise today has to be made convenient. A multi-tasked activity. Otherwise it doesn't get done. So one might as well pedal a bicycle while watching a soap opera or a sporting event. Personally, I prefer a real bicycle outdoors or a jogging path in a wooded park. This artificial indoor stuff doesn't inspire me. But so many people claim they have too much to do. And something has to give. And too often, it's exercise that gets sacrificed. That's a big mistake. Especially in today's highly stressed environment. One needs to work off the tension. With sustained aerobic exercise. If I were the CEO of a big corporation, I'd install stationary bicycles at the conference tables. I'd require everyone to pedal away as we discussed corporate matters. I'd want all of my directors and managers to be in tip-top physical condition. In my opinion, that also leads to good mental health. Yes, there's a possibility that some corporate leaders may drop dead from my exercise regimen. But that would be the risk of working for me. A choice between life and death. --Jim Broede

The entertaining politicians.

I'm not the least bit homesick. Which means, I suppose, that I don't miss Minnesota or the USA. I've been gone only three weeks. Maybe I'll miss the old haunts eventually. But for now, it's a sign that I have adapted to life in Sardinia. And why not? There's nothing to dislike in Paradise. I'm living with my Italian true love on an island in the Mediterranean Sea. I'm only 20 minutes away from the nearest beach. I also know that winter is coming to Minnesota. Very soon, if not already. And that 'winter' in Sardinia really isn't winter. No freezing temperatures. No snow. And palm trees. Cacti, too. I've become addicted to the sunny beaches and the crystal clear water. The Italian food ain't bad. Though I am showing more restraint at the dinner table than I did last winter. I'm eating in moderation. And exercising like a world class athlete. Makes me slim and trim. Svelte, actually. Another thing. I'm taking time to write. All sorts of stuff. Including my blog. Writing comes easy in Sardinia. Because I'm always in a good mood. I have more or less forgotten about American politics. I'm more focused on Italian politics. As a sideline observer. Rather than an active particpant. I tell Italians that they don't have it as bad as Americans. Politically and socially. Maybe the economic conditions are about the same. Yes, Italians have a buffoon as prime minister. Silvio Berlusconi. I like to pronounce Berlusconi's name. Sounds so Italian. No mistaking Berlusconi for a Frenchman or German or American. He's 100 percent Italian. A billionaire, too. Far richer than any American president. And he owns swank villas all over the place. Even in Sardinia. Where he's alleged to have cavorted with prostitutes. Some of 'em quite young. Teen-agers. Which takes some daring and doing. Because he's 75. His male Italian libido keeps him going. And his money doesn't hurt. It's all so very entertaining and the subject of many nightly TV programs and newspaper articles. Maybe that's why Berlusconi is able to cling to power. For 17 years, and counting. He's so very scandalous. In today's world, that counts more than substance. The world wants to be entertained. By politicians. --Jim Broede

Because I'm curious.

Seems to me that Americans are more likely than Europeans to greet strangers. If I'm walking casually down a street or on a path in the woods or along a seashore in America, and a stranger comes toward me, I'm likely to voice a greeting, a hello, a wave of a hand. I'll make eye contact and give some sense of recognition. But it's different in Europe, including Italy, where I'm now living. Often, we don't even make eye contact. Let alone exchange nominal greetings. That's sad. But then, maybe it's that in America, I initiate contact with strangers. Because it's the nice thing to do. But maybe, if I wasn't the initiator, we'd ignore each other. I tend to act boldly. Because I feel comfortable doing it in my native country. I know the language. That helps. In Italy, I have difficulty even making small talk. Wish that weren't so. Because then I would become big and bold. I'd foist contact on strangers. Because I like to get to know people. Even strangers. And maybe especially strangers. Because I'm curious. --Jim Broede

I have higher priorities.

I'm fantasizing. About catching a plane this weekend. From Sardinia to London. A quick hop. A little over two hours. So that I can see my Chicago Bears play the Tampa Bay Bucs. In a National Football League game. Intended to introduce Brits and Europeans to American-style football. And since I'm living in Sardinia for the next several months, London ain't all that far away. I can hop aboard one of Europe's many economy airlines. With direct flights to all sorts of exotic and romantic cities. Anyway, I'm not going to London. Only dreaming about it. I'd rather spend my time traveling around Sardinia. Going to a beach on the Mediterranean Sea. I can be there in 20 minutes. And I'd rather go to Prague or Budapest or Vienna for dinner than watch a football game. I have higher priorities. --Jim Broede

I'm a lucky and blessed guy.

I have great respect for anyone that learns a second language. Or a third language. Multiple languages. I envy them. Because I'd like to speak a second language. But I won't. Because I think of myself as too old to master another tongue. Or too lazy. Or too stupid. I don't have the gumption or the mental prowess to make it happen. Oh, I'll learn rudimentary Italian. Enough to get by. But not enough to carry on a lively philosophical discussion. For that, I'll have to rely on my English and an Italian that can speak English. Such as my Italian true love. Maybe if I were 30 or 40 the circumstances would be different. I asked an English woman living in Italy how long it took her to learn to speak fluent Italian. And she said 10 to 12 years. I suspect that to learn another language it takes daring. And a willingness to make mistakes. And to sound like a fool. My true love is the daring sort. For which she wins my admiration. When she was 30 years younger, she ventured to England. To test her English. Not sure if she could make herself understood. She was scared. But she did it. And now she's teaching English to Italian teen-agers. She's even teaching me. More about English and English literature. She knows far more about Shakespeare than I. More about lots of things. I like that. She's not only daring. But very talented. And intelligent. And beautiful. My gawd, I'm a lucky and blessed guy. --Jim Broede

Far more revered than any cat.

Living with anything or anybody poses challenges. Which I'm willing to accept. And there's no better example than my two cats, Loverboy and Chenuska. I have to put up with 'em. The good and not so good. But overall, I look at having cats in my life as a gigantic plus. Although I'm not with 'em now. I didn't bring my cats to Sardinia. They are being cared for by a house-sitter. But when I'm at home in Minnesota, the cats are constant companions. And that especially goes for Loverboy. Anyway, I inadvertently brought a reminder of the cats with me to Sardinia. My Italian true love spotted a few cat hairs on my clothes. Of course, that's a problem, of sorts. Nuisance cat hairs. One must put up with cat hair. On the clothes. On the funiture. On the bed. Fortunately, I don't have any carpet at home. I live with tile and vinyl floors. Easier to keep clean and relatively free of cat hair. Another thing. I give the cats pretty much free rein of the house. Morning. Noon. Night. That can be a disturbing influence. Especially at night. But I put up with it. Even allowing the cats to jump up on countertops. Shows I'm rather tolerant. And it makes more work for me. Constantly wiping countertops. I never grew up with household pets. My mother wouldn't tolerate 'em. Maybe with one exception. She had a canary or two. Confined to a cage. No cats or dogs. But when I got married, that all changed. My wife Jeanne had three dogs. And eventually our daughter brought in a stray cat. I said, 'No way. No cats allowed.' But I was overruled. And eventually, I became the real true blue cat lover of the family. I encouraged taking in more strays. We had as many as five indoor cats at one time. And I saw to it that they had top-notch care. We also had a long line of dogs. Adopted strays. But since my favorite dog died about 12 years ago, I've lived without dogs. They need too much daily attention. Can't leave them alone for more than a few hours. Cats are different. They are independent. Taking care of themselves for a weekend. Posing fewer difficulties. In some ways, I'm closer to my cats than I am to real people. Of course, I make one exception. For my Italian true love. She's far more revered than any cat. --Jim Broede

I'm dancing through life. Slowly.

I am living slowly. Ever so slowly. Supper takes an hour, or more. No hurry. My true love takes 20 minutes, or less. We move at our own paces. We don't foist our ways on each other. Which is good. But I tend to slow her down. And she speeds me up. But I'm the winner in all this. I've convinced her that it's probably best to live life slowly. To take one's time. To savor virtually everything. Especially everything that's nice. Such as a meal. I don't eat much more than she. But I'm the one with no problem losing weight. Staying slim and trim. Svelte. And I suspect it's because I'm slow. And steady. When I go out to exercise, I do it relatively slowly. I'm walking these days. Rather than running. But I hardly ever go less than 8 miles a day. Often more. I've already done 10 miles today. And it ain't even noon yet. And I'll have a light lunch. Very light. But it'll take me a half hour to consume everything. I'm gonna sit down and write, too. Slowly. And I'll think some thoughts. Slowly. I wasn't always this way. I used to live fast-paced. Meeting daily deadlines. Seems to me that speed and stress go hand-in-hand. My true love leads a fairly stressful life. So I try to relieve some of her stress. By taking on some of her menial tasks. So she has more time. Not to do more. But to slow down. And to do less. My true love often makes lists of things to do. For the sake of efficiency. But I've gotten away from lists. I don't wanna be reminded to feel overwhelmed. With too many things to do. I'd rather put the unessential things off. Until tomorrow. Or maybe next week. Or maybe forever. I'm trying to dance through life. Slow-dance. Ever so slowly. One might not even know I'm dancing. But believe me, I am. --Jim Broede

Thank god, I wasn't born too soon.

I've never felt completely comfortable with my physical being. With my body. My arms. My legs. My torso. I feel much better about my soul, my spirit, my emotions, my mind. I'm more interior than exterior. Strange, isn't it? I don't know why that is. Guess it's that I don't have a good grasp of physical existence. I'm able to cultivate my spirit. Make it grow and thrive. But as I get older, I'm slowing down. Physically. Someday I'm gonna deteriorate and fade away. Physically. But I feel there's more ever-lasting substance to my spirit. In fact, maybe my spirit will be set free. My body is far too limiting. It's as if I'm trapped. Shackled. Caged. So difficult to express myself with physical gestures and actions. I can't dance. I can't sing. Although I can feel dance and song within me. But I can't perform. Physically. I am moved instead by my inner spirit and my mind. Not my body. Maybe my salvation is that I can write. Physically. Manually. With paper and pen and pencil. With a computer or typewriter. I can capture a thought and see it and read it. It's physically tangible. Enough so that I convey a feeling with written words. My form of dance and song. Interesting, isn't it? Dance and song came into exiatence long before the written word. Thank god, I wasn't born too soon. --Jim Broede

That's the magic of love.

It's Sunday afternoon. I'm on the Porte Botte beach with my beautiful and intelligent Italian true love. She's lying on a lengthy and colorful beach towel only a few feet from the Mediterranean Sea. I'm 50 feet away, on a sand hill, beneath pine trees casting a comfortable shadow. Reading a book. And writing. I worship the shade. She worships the sun. Apollo the sun god and I don't exactly hit it off. I can take only so much sunshine. Especially at mid-day in Sardinia. Even winter here seems like summer. For me, that is. Not for the natives. They think of their winter as sort of a cold hell. Because they've never been to Minnesota. They have no earthly concept of true winter. Sardinia has palm trees, like in Florida. And cacti, like in Arizona. And a whole lot more. Shade trees and other greenery abound. Mountains and valleys and meadows, too. Sheep and goats are grazing near the seashore. I can hear the tinkling of bells tied around their necks. The shepherd is on a motor scooter. Everything tranquil and nice in Paradise. Not the least being my adorable true love. She makes a big difference to any scene. As long as I'm with her, I probably could survive in any place. Even in hell. We'd still find a way to make the best of it. That's the magic of love. --Jim Broede

A reminder often works.

My true love has been known to fret. Over trivial stuff. Such as going to the beach and discovering it's 65 degrees instead of a more balmy 75. But you won't find me complaining. I take whatever I can get. I'll even settle for 35 degrees. And thank gawd that it isn't freezing. Because I know I am living in Paradise. Doesn't matter whether I'm in Sardinia or in Minnesota. Wherever I am, the weather is beyond my control. So I accept whatever Mother Nature sends us. Even a blizzard and 30 below zero. But nowadays I'm living in Sardinia with my true love. And 65 is balmy. At any time of year. And I'll take it. Especially when I have my true love to keep me warm. Or cool, for that matter. My true love is a teacher. And today she has meetings. At school. Meetings she wishes she didn't have. But hey, that's part of life. I used to have meetings. With editors. Sometimes I wished I could tell an editor to go to hell. And maybe a time or two or three, I did. But generally, I listened. And learned something about writing. About getting along with people, too. Anyway, I've learned to cultivate a loving relationship with a beautiful and intelligent Italian woman. She occasionally frets over this and that. But I keep reminding her that we have each other. Usually, that works. --Jim Broede

I wanna join Robinhood's gang.

In America, equality is a hoax. Always was. From the beginning. Oh, the founders declared all men were created equal. But that was baloney. Because the slaves were anything but equal. Same goes for women. And for poor people. And for many immigrants. Makes me less than proud of my nation. The people that run America don't believe in equality. And that's mostly rich people. Millionaires and billionaires. The privileged ruling elite. Many of 'em in roles as bankers and corporate bosses. They use their money to exert power. To get their way. To satisfy their greed. They used to do it largely with a slave economy. But now they do it by keeping people poor, or with little more than bare essentials. They pursue economic and political policies that keep widening the gap between the rich and the poor. The 400 richest people in America have more wealth than the bottom 150 million. Seems to me that ain't good. Of course, I could be wrong. But I suspect that some day society will recognize that the gap between the rich and poor is grossly immoral. And something will be done about it. Just like we finally did something about slavery. Now it's recognized as indecent. Takes awhile for a society to wake up and do the right thing. Seems to me that some of us are waking up faster than others. Evidenced by the onslaught of public protests over Wall Street manipulators. The protests seem to have drawn many young people. They know that if things stay pretty much the same, they'll have a bleak future. Because the rich will continue to rob the poor. I'm not so young any more. Call me an old geezer. But it's not too late for me to join Robinhood's gang. I like the idea of taxing the rich to pay for social programs that benefit the poor and middle class. --Jim Broede

More reason for a revolution.

Here's something to read and weep:

¶The 400 wealthiest Americans have a greater combined net worth than the bottom 150 million Americans.

¶The top 1 percent of Americans possess more wealth than the entire bottom 90 percent.

¶In the Bush expansion from 2002 to 2007, 65 percent of economic gains went to the richest 1 percent.

All the more reason for a revolution in America. And in the world, too. --Jim Broede

Maybe it's time for a wake-up call.

I am encouraged by a worldwide protest. Against bankers. And against monetarily rich people, in general. And the protests have been peaceful. Except in Rome. So overall, the demonstrations are well-controlled. Which is the way they should be. At least at the start. It's best to win friends and influence people without violence. That's the last resort. When nothing else succeeds. The plea should be for common sense. Fact of the matter is that rich people could lose half of their fortunes and still be very, very rich. And in the process, the poor and the middle class would be far less poor and destitute. That would be the right thing to do. To narrow the gap between the rich and the poor by redistributing the wealth. There's plenty of wealth to go around. If only it could be more equally distributed. Yes, a little bit of socialization is what we need. Rather than unfettered capitalism. The rich have become greedy. They want bigger and bigger shares of the national and international wealth. Seems to me that ain't very moral. Not really what god intended -- that is, if there's a god. But even if there isn't, we humans can easily come around to the notion that we need social and economic progress in this world. By lifting the standard of living for everyone. Rather than for just the few. We need to put curbs on rampant greed. And that's exactly what we have on Wall Street. I have nothing against profits. Reasonable profits. But let's draw the line on obscene profits. Let's start thinking about the common good. Rather than the good of a few elite individuals. If that means changing human nature and the essence of mankind, so be it. Seems to me that's why we have religions. To get at the better nature of mankind. But somewhere along the line, we seem to lose track of it all. And become selfish and greedy. Maybe it's time for a wake-up call. --Jim Broede

I know the language of love.

I like living in a place where I don't speak the native language. It isolates me to a degree. Limits me. And I like to test those limits. By improvising. Imaginatively. By finding ways to cope. Despite the handicap of not knowing the language. Maybe it's a little like being blind or deaf or dumb. One can still make it work. One doesn't necessarily need eyes to see. One can see, for instance, by carefully listening. Or by touch. Or by asking questions. Being curious in all sorts of ways. In Sardinia, I see so much and I understand the sound/tone of language. If not all of the words. And I catch the meaningful hand gestures. And I'm still able to shop and go get a haircut, as I did yesterday, by using a few words and hand gestures. I know enough to get by. To make my wishes known. And really, I'm learning words and meanings here and there. A little bit at a time. Making myself understood. Often in imaginative ways. I'm learning despite being stupid and lazy. I already know the Italian words that describe me. Io sono stupido. Io sono pigro. These words make Italians laugh. That's a good start in cultivating human relationships. My Italian true love speaks good English. With a charming accent. She answers many of my questions and inquiries. And she actually teaches English. To Italian teen-agers. Anyway, I can't say that I'm always fully satisfied when it comes to my mastery of language. It's against my nature to be satisfied. I want to be able to struggle. To get things somewhat right. Eventually. I don't want anything to be too easy. That includes the mastery of love. The very concept of love. There's always something new to learn. One magical journey after another. Love being a constant renewal project. A new adventure every day. Nothing taken for granted. Today's love letter is outdated by tomorrow. Love is like a flower that blooms anew every day. Right here in Sardinia. I may not know the native (Italian) language. But believe me, I know the language of love. --Jim Broede

Free and clear of politics.

Politics. It's a game played at every level of society. A form of wheeling and dealing. Getting what one wants. And I want to rise above politics. Above the game-playing. And to do that, maybe I have to live in isolation. Sort of. In a solitary way. Away from people. Maybe that's impossible. There's no escape. Because I have to rely on people. Sooner or later. Maybe only a very few. Such as my true love, for instance. So that I don't feel totally alone. It's a sign that I need someone in my life. Other than me. I can't make it alone. Totally. Or can I? I suspect not. What if I were the only human being on Earth? The original Adam. Adam, I assume, relied on his maker to get him through. Took his marching orders from god. And maybe god was merely a creation of Adam's imagination. A god created so that he didn't feel alone. But god wasn't good enough for Adam. Because god was a mere spirit. Not a tangible physical being. So, one way or another, Eve came into being. Maybe anything Adam could imagine became real. The result of magical powers. Imagine that. Being able to create an imagined life. So real that it becomes real. Nothing more. Nothing less. Whatever fulfills one's needs. We humans, we descendants of Adam, have assumed the role of god. But we are humble enough to create a designated god, a separate god, that lives above and beyond us. In a world that we have yet to fully imagine. Beyond our grasp. We have even created an endless universe. A vast cosmos with no beginning and no end. And most fantastic of all, each one of us can break away. And create a life. Our own. Alone, if we so choose. Aloof. Independent. Free and clear of politics. --Jim Broede

Learning unconditional love.

I like the idea of cultivating true love. With an Italian. In Sardinia. Especially at my age. Yes, 76. Not the same way I would have done it 50 years ago. I have progressed, thank gawd. Age makes a difference. Makes me a romantic idealist. Because I've gone beyond adulthood. I've reached a more spiritual understanding of the notion of love, and what it's all about. I'm in a different realm, a different sphere. I'm at what I should have been, ideally, at 25. My good fortune. It ain't too late. I'm now fully capable of living love one day at a time. Savoring every moment. Every experience. Nothing fazes me. I let it all happen. Soothingly. Smoothly. Peacefully. Blissfully. Idyllicly. Doesn't matter if there's no tomorrow. Because I am living fully today. I am living as if it's forever. Makes me a true blue romantic. I am capable of writing a love poem. And a love letter. Daily. But I'm also living that poem and letter. Without trepedation. No fear. But I see people around me living scared. Waiting for tomorrow to fall in love. Because they have not yet discovered how to love. Truly love. Romantically. Unconditionally. --Jim Broede

Or did something go awry?

Silvio Berlusconi brags that he's a self-made billionaire. And he claims every Italian can do the same. Become a rich fart. And for those who fail -- well, it's their fault. For lacking initiative. And not because of lack of opportunity. Berlusconi has dominated Italian politics for the past 17 years. Most of it as prime minister. He's loved and revered by some. Hated and despised by others, including my Italian true love. She thinks Berlusconi is a rascal, a charlatan, a buffoon. And that he will leave a shameful legacy, one that may take a century to eradicate and return Italy to respectability again. Of course, Berlusconi is no worse than many American politicians. He'd fit well into the American political scheme and scene. He's a typical capitalist. A man without scruples. Someone who long ago sold his soul. In exchange for money and power. In keeping with long-standing capitalist tradition cultivated in America. Berlusconi knows how to gratify his bulging ego. He's a politician through and through. Follows his own rules of convenience. Makes 'em up as he goes. Berlusconi represents everything that's wrong and downright dirty and despicable about capitalism. Greed abounds. The freedom to become a millionaire/billionaire at one's whim. No rules. No regulations. No interference by government. Just full-speed ahead. Survival of the most corrupt. The most ruthless. Berlusconi look at those who settle for the 'basics' in life as unfit to live in the real world. As gawd-forsaken socialists that prefer the welfare state that makes the likes of Berlusconi pay taxes to serve the common good. Berlusconi wants no part of the common good. It's far too common to suit his extravagant tastes. He wants only what's good for Berlusconi and his rich cronies. In Berlusconi's realm, wealth was not meant to be shared. But hoarded by the few. By the rich elite. Berlusconi would cozy up to Italy's version of Wall Street bankers. Out to make quick and easy bucks off the poor, the middle class, the gullible. And the amazing thing is that the Berlusconis keep getting away with it. By making the vast underclass subservient and docile and powerless. Ordinary citizens don't seem to have a clue on how to go about dumping Berlusconi and those of his ilk. The few that raise a protest often can be bought off. With paltry sums. With governmnet-related jobs. They turn into Berlusconi's paid allies. His dupes. His henchmen. Thus, life goes on in Italy. Much as it does in the USA. The capitalists prevail. They get richer and richer. And the poor keep getting poorer and poorer. Makes one wonder if that's the way the creator designed the world. Or did something go awry along the way? --Jim Broede

I'll settle for an idyllic life.

I'm gonna stop reading polls. Because the results are becoming scary. And downright depressing. For instance, A Gallup poll found that for the first time in at least a decade, starting in 2010 more people believed that Republicans would do a better job than Democrats at keeping the country prosperous. And since 2010, more people believed that Republicans would do a better job than Democrats at handling the problems they think are most important to them, reversing Democratic dominance on the question since 2004. Personally, I'm unenamored by both Republicans and Democrats. But I suspect that under Republicans we Americans will end up in hell. But the Democrats may bring us only to purgatory. Where there's still some hope of escape. Maybe I'll adopt a position of not giving a damn any more about the happenings in America. Instead, I'll settle for an idyllic life with my true love -- in Sardinia. --Jim Broede

My ancient pocketchange.

I lost maybe 10 Euros yesterday. Coins from my pants pocket. That's the peril of carrying my pants in my arm. As I frolic down a Mediterranean beach in my pocketless swimming trunks. My true love says I should know better and put my coins snuggly into a coin purse. Safe and secure. She lamented the paltry loss. As a foolish gesture on my part. But I looked at it as payment for a beautiful day. Peaceful. Tranquil. Serene. A way for the sea gods to collect their rightful bounty. Think of it. Fortunes at the bottom of the sea. From shipwrecked galleons. There forever. Or there for the taking by adventuresome fortune hunters. Meanwhile, I feel cheap. My only contribution. Pocket change. Maybe lost for 20,000 years. To be found again. When my ancient pocketchange becomes worth a fortune. --Jim Broede

The language of the sea.

A beach day. The nicest of days in Sardinia. Like yesterday. A day at Cala Domestica beach. Tucked in an inlet of the Mediterranean Sea. A narrow beach. Protected on both sides by cliffs. I walk into the sea. For several hundred feet. Into crystal clear water. Chest high. My true love is a good swimmer. She ventures out. Like a mermaid. Maybe a dolphin. Like most Sardinians, she's naturally attracted to the sea. Sardinians need the sea. For spiritual nourishment. I'm addicted, too. To the lure of the sea. I could spend 7 days a week, 30 days a month, forever at the seaside. Even in the winter. It doesn't get wintry cold in Sardinia. More like a September or early October in my native Minnesota. No snow at the seaside. Ever. No freezing temperature. Ever. Granted, it seems like a chill for Sardinians. But for me, it's balmy. Paradise. I've been judged daffy for walking into the sea in January. But then, I've been hardened by Lake Superior in a Minnesota summer. The Mediterranean is still warmer. Yesterday, my true love worshipped the sea and the sun. I scurried into the shade. Along a rocky overhang. Nestled on a beach towel. But still, my feet are red. Sun-burned. I didn't have sense enough to use sunblock or pull my feet into the shade. We had the beach almost to ourselves. But there was an international flavor. Overheard conversations in German, English and Spanish. But best of all. The language of the sea. Beckoning us. --Jim Broede

And definitely in love.

I can take sunshine. But dense, dark clouds can be nice, too. For instance, today on a Mediterreanean beach in Sardinia, overcast skies moved in. And I thought, how nice. It was welcome relief from a burning sun. But my true love felt a bit chilled. She craved the sunshine. And I crave whatever I can get. I'll make the most and best of it. Especially when I'm in love. Everything becomes a delight. Amazing, isn't it? I have yet to experience a bad day at the seaside. Even last year in the middle of a Sardinian winter. After all, winter ain't that bad. It hardly ever snows in Sardinia. And even the coldest of temperatures where I'm living hardly ever dip below freezing. So nothing fazes me. It's all tolerable. For me, that is. Even when my true love may be bothered a little by a temperature of 65 degrees. Nothing is perfect, I suppose. But I ain't gonna fret over it. I'm even gonna enjoy life's imperfections. If for no other reason than I can't do much, if anything, about it. Even when I'm back in Minnesota and the temperature dips to 30 below zero, I'm gonna take it in stride. Without cussing. That's mellow me. Laid back. A cool cat. Easy going. And definitely in love. --Jim Broede

Early in life. Before it's too late.

All over Carbonia in Sardinia I see brightly-colored posters promoting local Britsih schools. An opportunity for Italians to learn the English language -- and more. The Brits also have taken to teaching German and French locally. Take your choice. Yes, the Brits are trying to make Italians more multi-lingual. Which is a good thing. Anyway, the posters are attractive and alluring. They certainly caught my attention. With youngsters sticking our their grossly big tongues painted with either the British flag, the German flag or the French flag. Choose whatever tongue you want to learn. The Brits will give you ample opportunity to learn it. I'm thinking that we need more of British ingenuity in America. That sure beats efforts by some ultra-conservative elements in the U.S. that want to limit communication to a single language -- American English. I'd like to see foreign languages required in American public schools, starting in kindergarten. The aim should be to make every educated American multi-lingual. And the best way to meet that goal is to start teaching foreign languages when they are most easily learned. Early in life. Before it's too late. --Jim Broede

Feeling my way.

I don't try to evaluate myself. Or my performance in life. Or if I do, it's done inadvertently, and less and less frequently. Instead, I've learned to accept myself. Foibles and all. Because the so-called foibles can be attributes. Maybe annoying to other people. But good for me. They help make me what I am. I have no desire to be like other people. Or like what other people want me to be. I respectfully tell people that I am a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, maybe even a radical, and a lover. By my nobel definitions. Which happen to be in a state of flux most of the time if not all of the time. I'm really an incomplete being. Making something new of myself daily. I may know what I am at any given moment. But moments are elusive. They come. They go. Some savored longer than others. I occasionally retrieve some moments. How I accompish such a feat, I don't exactly know. I just do. I don't need explanations for everything. And I don't mind contradicting myself. That's part of my nature. Which means it's hard to pin me down. Because I'm always on the move. Feeling my way. --Jim Broede

For the sake of humankind.

I'm in Sardinia. But if I were to return to the U.S., I'd head to Wall Street. To join the sit-in protest against Wall Street bankers. And I'd encourage the protest to spread. Like wild fire. Or a contagion. All over the U.S. Into big cities. Into small towns. Into the countryside. Even all the way to Sardinia, my adopted land. Yes, across the entire world. Wall Street bankers. They are the enemy. Corrupters of the capitalist system. Ruled by greed. Creators of economic havoc. Not only in the U.S. But worldwide. They have manipulated the economic system. To their personal benefit. And contrary to the common good. They make the rich become richer. And the poor become poorer. Their goal is to steal from the poor and the middle class and concentrate the wealth in the hands of rich elite. To fatten the pocketbooks of millionaires and billionaires. To set no limit on wealth. To allow for future trillionaires. A world ruled by the rich elite. And it ain't gonna stop until there's a revolution. An uprising of the underclasses. The long-time exploited. Yes, it's class warfare that we need. The rich have waged war against the lower classes almost from the beginning of capitalism. And duped so many of us into thinking it wasn't war. But it was and is. And let's recognize that the rich started the war. And if it's war that the Wall Street bankers and the rich want -- well, that's what they'll get. We middle class and poor can easily outnumber the rich. Maybe we can't outspend 'em. But we have the vast and overwhelming number of people. We can occupy Wall Street and every nook and cranny of the world. Until we get our way. We can take charge. Take control. And finally see to it that government and economic systems are designed to serve the common good. And not the good of Wall Street bankers and the filthy and obscenely monetarily rich. Let us finally be rich in spirit. For the sake of humankind. --Jim Broede

Living one story after another.

I'm reading a book of short stories. They are entertaining stories. But I much prefer living my own short stories. Which is far better than writing a story. Living and writing are two very different experiences. Writing often is imaginary. Rather than actual living. That doesn't stop me from writing. About life. About my experiences. About my thoughts. But so many of my stories are never put into written words. Because the real satisfaction is in living the story. Which I do every day. Without miss. I live a power-packed story every day. A very entertaining story. Full of intimacy. Some days, I am fascinated and captivated and thoroughly entertained by the story I've lived. Nothing short of incredible. If I hadn't lived it, I wouldn't believe it. I'm in Sardinia. An island in the Mediterranean Sea. With my Italian true love. I've made it happen. Not as a work of fiction. But real life. I have two homes. One in Minnesota. Back in the USA. But also in Sardinia. In Italy. It's the way I want to live. One day at a time. A story each day. Lived. Fully. I don't know how tomorrow's story will evolve. Because I still have to live it. And often I don't know how it will go from one moment to the next. I just let everything flow. Naturally. I plot a little bit ahead. But the plot can change. I'm flexible. I've mapped out a departure from Sardinia in February. For several weeks in Minnesota. To experience a genuine winter. But not for too long. I know my limits. By March, I'll be in sunny Arizona. Taking spring training with the Chicaggo Cubs. Watching exhibition baseball games. I'll be in Sardinia again in time for Easter. In early April. And maybe I'll return to Minnesota in June. For the duration of summer. Living one short story after another. Until the day I die. And then I expect life to still go on. Forever and ever. Making for an endless sequence of short stories. Lived. --Jim Broede

Who's the dumbest of 'em all?

I'm trying to get my Italian true love to explain to me, in simple terms, the innerworkings of Italian government. And why Italians seem to support prime minister Silvio Berlusconi. My true love seems to be at a loss. She detests the man. Because he's a philanderer in politics and love and in virtually everything. But like me, she can't just merely write him off. Because she's an Italian. And thinks of Berlusconi as a national disgrace. I'm not an Italian. And that makes a difference. He's not my prime minister. Though I tell her I'd be able to accept Berlusconi in trade for any of the Republican candidates for president. We Americans are fully capable of doing worse than Berlusconi. Far worse. Or so it seems to me. So we are locked in an eternal debate over which country has the worse politic. We concede that each of 'em are bad. Very bad indeed. Maybe beyond redemption. I've fled the U.S., in part, to isolate myself from the mayhem of American politics. The utter inability or willingness of politicians from rival parties to work together. For the good of the country. For the common good. The Republicans, I contend, would rather wreck their own country than see Democrats or President Barack Obama get credit for saving it. They oppose any and all solutions to political, economic and social problems -- merely because Obama is in favor. Many of the solutions were once advocated by Republicans. But they balk now only because Obama favors 'em. Of course, that's stupid as stupid can be. But nobody ever accused a Republican of having a brain. Same goes for Berlusconi. He's a billionaire. Capable of buying his way into political power. And it helps that he owns a vast network of TV channels. Therefore, he can spread his bullshit across all of Italy. And Italians are just as susceptible as Americans to political bullshit. We Americans have a rich legacy in the fine art of political bullshit. We were inundated in the smelly stuff from the beginning. By founders that thought it was right and proper to have an economy based in large part on slave labor. And even in modern times, it's an economy designed to make the rich richer and the poor poorer. But apparently a majority of Americans think that's the way it's suppoed to be. Because we do nothing to change the system. We are just as dumb as the Italians. Or is it that the Italians are just as dumb as us? --Jim Broede

Immersed in loving bliss. Forever.

Life goes into slow motion in Paradise. Believe me. I know. Everything lasts longer since I arrived in Sardinia. To be with my Italian true love. It's almost as if time stops. In a sense, everything takes longer. Because I have the desire to savor it all. I'm in no hurry to move on to the next moment. I could live the existing moment forever. And be happy. I suspect that's the way life was meant to be. The way god designed it. Only thing is, many of us don't take the time to live. Truly live. Instead, we are too busy not really living. Playing politics. Or getting monetarily rich. Mainipulating other people. Fighting wars. Being angry. When all we need do is to flee to Paradise. Paradise comes from our very being. From our souls. In the form of love. Of someone. And of life itself. It's so pleasant, so pleasing, that one begins to will that time either slows to a snail's pace, or stops, completely. To be immersed in loving bliss. Forever. --Jim Broede

To become a creator.

I am inundated by biased/slanted news. Nothing totally objective. Means that I can't figure out what's going on in the world. It's purely guesswork. Once upon a time I thought there was such a commodity as objectivity. That was a fairy tale. I was brought up to believe that my country was the greatest and most honest and truthful and morally correct. Second to none. That was bull shit. But I was too stupid/ignorant to know it. I'm a citizen of one of the most corrupt nations in the world. Built on lies. Misrepresentations. And I was even part of the propaganda machine. As a member of the media. A writer for newspapers. I'm trying to make it right. To correct the errors of my way. But I don't personally know right from wrong. I am so confused. So mislead. I don't even know where to go to find objectivity any more. Never did, I suppose. Because objectivity doesn't exist. Maybe even god himself can't find objectivity. Objectivity is elusive. A total myth. Therefore, I have turned into a subjective and biased being. Perhaps because I have no choice. That's all there is. Subjectivity. I see the world from my own jaundiced eyes and mind. I do things my way. Subjective as all hell. My way is right for me. Maybe not right for anyone else. Because we are all different beings. Looking at life from our own slanted perspectives. In that sense, I have created my own world. There is no other way. I am forced to play god. To become a creator. --Jim Broede

My so-be-it attitude.

When I was at the beach the other day, I spread my beach towel next to a sand dune shaded by a squat pine tree. My true love set up shop a few feet away. In the sun. She encouraged me to do the same. But I balked. For comfort sake. And for health reasons. Thinking that one can get too much sunshine. And never too much shade. At least on this particular day. When we go to bed at night, she prefers a hot drink. Tea. But give me something cold and icy. Maybe even a small milkshake. I like the fact that we have differnt tastes. And that she's a woman. And I'm a man. We have many different likes and dislikes. Over things that really don't matter. No life and death issues. Which makes it all insignificant. I can co-exist with virtually anyone. Even with a Republican. Which she ain't. Fact is, I am tolerant. Doesn't mean that the Republican has to be equaly tolerant. I can accept intolerant and bigoted people. Gives me opportunities to make analytical case studies. And in the process, show off my ability to turn the other cheek. At least for a while. During a testing period. My behavior in this regard may annoy or irritate the Republican. But so be it. --Jim Broede

My encounters of the French kind.

How lucky. I'm sitting next to a middle-aged woman from Paris on my American Airlines flight from Chicago to Paris. I suspected she was French. Right from the start. Before any conversation. She was reading a French book. I was trying to be courteous. And didn't interrupt her much until 90 minutes into the flight. When she had difficulty opening a well-sealed bag of pretzels. So I became the gentleman. And ripped open the bag. On the first try. Adeptly. Like magic. She has children. And grandchildren. Several. Living in the U.S. They are considered true blue Americans. Not French, she tells me. Mainly in Oklahoma. I feel like getting into a discussion of politics. American politics. French politics. But I think better of it. I sense that this woman may not want my probing on such matters. And maybe she's apolitical. I allow her to go back to reading the paperback book. I think it's a romance novel. Meanwhile, I size her up. She looks French. Ordinary. But pleasant. A short haircut. Brownish hair. Looks intellectual. But may not be. Her reading glasses give her a erudite look. She's got a big, ornate ring on her left hand. Another ring on the right. Anyway, the next time we talk, I mention that once I arrive in Paris, I have to catch another plane at an airport in Beauvais, 55 miles north of Paris. How am I gonna get there? She tells me by bus. And that she'll help me make a connection when we arrive. But she didn't. Maybe she forgot. And I didn't mention it again. I wasn't worried. Because I had a 12-hour layover. And I'm confident enough with my pathfinder abilities. Even if it turned into an adventure. Which would be all the better. Anyway, I took a taxi from Charles DeGaulle Airport (costing 45 euros) into the heart of Paris. Where I had a Sunday brunch at a sidewalk cafe. Watching the French pedestrians pass by. Some carrying and munching on baugettes, thin, long loaves of French bread. And I marveled at the gaunt demeanors of many French men. In sharp contrast to Germans and Italians. I wonder why. There's no shortage of amazingly good food in France. And economical, too. My brunch cost only 5 euros. Or about $8. The French women wear lots of tight dresses. Most men dress casually. But I'd see some in three-piece suits reminiscent of the 1970s. Who knows? Maybe the three-piece suit is making a stylish comeback. In Paris, that is. With the rest of the world to follow. -Jim Broede

Fertilizing the fields in Paradise.

I'm reading national polls. Showing that Americans hate politicians. Which is good, I suppose. Politicians need to be despised. But then, Americans think that they have little choice. Disastrous. And cataclysmic. No matter what, we end up with something politically putrid. A stench pervades the land, and especially the halls/barns of Congress. No matter whether it's Republican or Democrat manure. Our American brand manure is manure is manure. No getting around it. Sadly, more Americans seem too ready to buy Republican crap next year. Personally, I want to plant roses and bouganvilla. Which I can fertilize with small amounts of manure. So I've moved to Italy. To lovely, idyllic Sardinia. Where there's ample supply of top quality Silvio Berlusconi (prime minister) brand manure. With amazing results. As fertilizer for the fields of Paradise. Italians know how to put the stinking stuff to good, practical use. Thank gawd for Italian ingenuity. Finding ways to make Paradise a better place. -Jim Broede

Paradise Found!

So here I am. Living in Sardinia. With my Italian true love. Won't return to the states until mid-February. Paradise Found! On Monday, on a Mediterranean beach. Sunshine. Crystal clear water. Bathing. Swimming. A picnic. On Tuesday, seated on a park bench in the city of Carbonia. Content. Io sono pigro. Si, I am learning Italiano. Feeling lazy. But energized. Inspired. Blessed. How else could this be? If not by the grace of the Holy Spirit. I'm going with the flow. Taking life leisurely. Imbibing in a feast. With the gods. I am savoring ambrosia and nectar. --Jim Broede