Friday, November 30, 2012

I have sunshine all the time.

After three cloudy days in Sardinia, the sun is out. No clouds. But even on cloudy days, I have my own sunshine. My Italian true love.  Unfortunately, too many have sunshine only when there’s a break in the clouds.    But I’m blessed.  I live by a different standard. Different rules.   I’m privileged. An elite. Sunshine every day for me.  Even at nighttime. When the sun goes down in the sky. I still have my sunshine. –Jim Broede

Let nothing stop you, Obama.

It’s make or break time for Barack Obama. He’s not allowed a third term. So he ain’t gonna run again. Doesn’t have to worry about getting re-elected. Maybe that will encourage him to go for it. To truly fight for what he believes. Hopefully, a relatively liberal agenda.  And a narrowing of the obscene gap between the rich and the poor.   Yes, it’s likely Obama will lose some battles. But hey, fight, fight, fight. Relentlessly. Take your case to the people.  To the majority. The poor and the middle class.   Stymie the opposition - the rich and their paid political dupes. Yes, Obama, it's class warfare. Nothing wrong with that. It’s morally right. If you make your case, Obama, most of us will be with you.  So go, go, go.  Let nothing stop you. –Jim Broede     

The most patriotic war ever.

The class war is on. In America. Where it rightly should be. I also want it waged all over the world. Let’s make this class war a real World War III. Yes, a good and decent war. The best war this world ever had.  Let’s make winners of the middle class and the poor. And losers of the rich. Especially the millionaires and billionaires that have long found ways to screw the less affluent.  In America, the next big battle in World War III will most likely be going over the so-called ‘fiscal cliff.’ The Republicans, the party of the rich, want the rich to keep getting richer. Even if that means making the poor poorer. They have no conscience. No scruples.  They’re for the good of the individual rich. They couldn’t care less about the common good. They are selfish and greedy.  And that’s what makes this war so moral. It’s very much the good guys versus the bad guys.  This war is well-defined.  It’s a class war. No doubt about it. Let’s call it exactly what it is. A class war. Nothing less. Nothing more.  The rich say that ain’t fair. Ain’t right. Well, it’s fair and it’s right. And long overdue.  Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah for World War III!  The most patriotic war ever. –Jim Broede

Immersed in thought.

Thoughts.  I can be easily preoccupied with thought. Not sure if that’s good or bad. But probably mostly good. I’m unaware of any harm coming from my preoccupation with thought. Though that’s the point. Not always being fully aware of what I've just done. Because I’m immersed in the thought. And unaware of whether I’ve just shampooed my hair in the shower. I was on automatic pilot. Going about things. Like a robot.  Fascinating stuff, isn’t it?  And subject of my current thought.  Maybe it can be dangerous. If I’m driving. And I’m wrapped up in thought.  Fortunately, I haven’t had any driving accidents in a long, long time. At least, any of which I’m aware.    –Jim Broede

Thursday, November 29, 2012

How Crazy Jim discovered love.

Never ever was I a handyman. In the traditional/common sense. Maybe because I have a mental block. When it comes to fixing things. Mechanical stuff, that is. But hey, I’m pretty good at dealing with mental problems.  Wouldn’t mind being a psychoanalyst. Figuring out people. And what motivates ‘em.  Maybe I don’t always do it accurately. Can’t always be sure. But I start by trying to get people to psychoanalyze themselves. By making suggestions. By making them a character in a novel. Yes, to get them to imagine living inside a world in which they can be anything or anyone. That tells me something. Usually, something meaningful. I’m not afraid to ask questions. Of others. But especially of myself. I’m fascinated by the thoughts that flit through my mind. Other minds, too. Minds were made to think. But many of ’em are broken. Shut down.  They need fixing. Maybe it’s that some people are afraid that they might go crazy if they started to think. But I’m not afraid. Because I am crazy. I consider that an attribute.  A desirable trait. Don’t mind being Crazy Jim. That’s how I discovered love. By going bonkers.  -Jim Broede

A reminder: She's in Paradise.

My Italian true love tells me that winter has arrived in Sardinia. But she’s gotta be kidding. The overnight temperature has dipped into the mid-40s Fahrenheit. That might seem like an autumn or spring day back in Minnesota. Where winter really is winter. Sardinians have a fake winter.  Which would make most Americans happy.  We could live without a real winter. In three winters in Sardinia, I have yet to see snow or a freezing temperature. I’m not complaining. But my true love is putting extra blankets on the bed. Thick, heavy blankets. She’s cold. Genuinely cold.  My gawd. She just walked in. Dressed in a parka. With hood.  She’s gonna venture outdoors. Into what Sardinians deem bitter cold. And I gotta remind her. She’s living in Paradise. –Jim Broede

Getting angry. It's a choice.

I know people who get obsessed. Over wrongdoing. And incompetence. As if they never do wrong themselves. Or never make mistakes. They tend to be unforgiving of others. Instead, they only forgive themselves.  It’s all right to be forgiving. In fact, even desirable. But seems to me forgiveness should be on both sides of the street. And both ways. I also notice that unforgiving people tend to get angry. Very angry. It’s as if they take a holier-than-thou attitude.  As if they never do wrong. Only others do. I try not to get upset with other people. Even if they slight me. And do harm. Often, it’s unintentional. And if it’s intentional, I suspect they need psychiatric help. Often, they are mentally sick. When I see angry people, I try to be a calming influence. Usually, I find it’s the result of overreaction to a situation. That things aren’t as bad as they seem.  I used to get angry because something didn’t go my way.  Even things over which I had no control. But I learned that I can control my reactions.  I don’t have to get angry.  It’s my choice. –Jim Broede

Don't wanna fake it anymore.

Nothing comes harder for me than learning another/second language. Particularly at my advanced age. And despite my professed love of words. Makes me wonder if I really love words that much. I know what I gotta do. Convince myself that Italian is an extension of English. That in learning Italian words, I’m merely expanding my overall vocabulary. I’ll pretend having the wherewithal to blend two languages into one. Imagine such power. I already know a gaggle of French words. Having taken two years of French in college. And I know a smattering of German. And some Czech words, too. So, I can sort of fake it with some people who aren’t natives of those countries. But I don't wanna fake it anymore. Especially when I’m in Italy. Also known as Italia. –Jim Broede

Sweating comes easily in Italy.

Glanced occasionally at an old Italian film on television last night.  So old, it was in black and white. Didn’t fully understand what was going on. Because it was in Italian. But easily ascertained it was a love story. Set in the 1930s. Somewhere in Italy. Many of the scenes in the countryside. Perhaps Tuscany.   Looked like torrid summertime.  When it gets very hot in Italy. Yet, remarkably all of the men were dressed in three-piece suits.  Suits probably made of wool.  Everyone must have been sweating. Profusely. Had Italy not yet discovered cool cotton leisurewear?  -Jim Broede

Feeling life and love. With words.

Thinking. Thinking. Thinking thoughts. That’s why I was put on Mother Earth. To think. About things. About life.  About meaning. And I do that. With words.  Language.  Without words I wouldn’t exist in meaningful ways. So every day I try to keep learning. With words. More words. Maybe that’s why I need a second language. Or a third language. Because the more words I have, the more I understand about life. Allows me to write. To put all thoughts into words. And best of all, I like love words. That’s how best to feel life and love. With words. –Jim Broede

When life truly begins.

Dislike having a boss. Until retiring some years ago, I was gainfully employed. Which meant catering to bosses. One way or another. Now I’m more or less free of bosses. I do pretty much as I please. As a writer. No boss/editor. Gives me a sense of fulfillment. Contentment. Satisfaction. Allows me to be unorthodox. To experiment. To take risks. Do things my way.  Freedom. Freedom, alas.  Too often in life, one is compelled to do things other people’s way. Oh, one can negotiate. Maneuver.  Persuade. But it’s nice sometimes to have to persuade only one’s self. To be one’s own being. I still listen to dictates of others. To society. To rules of law. But I’m also free to disobey. Albeit, that sometimes involves consequences.  Anyway, maybe it’s freedom that I have been pursuing all my life.  Freedom and happiness. Makes me wonder if it’s all the same. Happiness  interlocked with freedom.  Being a free spirit. Some day, maybe that can be taken literally.  Being a spirit that’s truly free. No longer linked to a physical being. Just spirit. Free to roam to any place in the cosmos. No limit.  Then maybe I’ll be able to declare beyond a doubt, ‘Freedom, alas!’ Maybe that’s when life truly begins. –Jim Broede

I could've been a linguist.

I’d fit into almost any society. If I spoke the native language as well as I speak and write English. Unfortunately, that will never happen. It’s taken me a lifetime to learn decent English. Enough to become expressive in meaningful ways.  And I’m running out of lifetimes. Actually, I have only one. Anyway, I’ve learned something meaningful. In this lifetime. That it would be a real plus if we all spoke the same language. Yes, a universal language. I suppose music comes closest.  My thanks  go to the creator. For linking me with an Italian who speaks English.  Otherwise, I’d be at a loss in Italy. She’s become my true love and trusted and vital translator.  She’s my key link with Italian people. Soon, she’ll start translating some of my blog pieces into Italian. I’ll study the translations. And maybe that’ll help me learn more rudimentary Italian.  If I were raising children today, I’d see that they were enrolled in multiple language courses at very young ages. Chinese. Russian. Czech.  German. French. Italian. If my parents had done that for me, it would have been a blessing. Instead, they hauled me off to Sunday School. Maybe that was a blessing, too.  Made me a free-thinker.  I suspect language school would have made me a boundless linguist and more understanding of other cultures.  –Jim Broede

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

A game of everyone for himself.

Unfortunately, where I live in Italy, there isn’t a decent-wage job for everyone. Far too many people go jobless. That’s the state of the economy. And it ain’t right.  I want an ideal society. In which everyone has the opportunity to work for a living wage.  And if there isn’t a job, it’s up to society to provide assistance. Support.  To get one by. Until the economy gets better. I prefer that the aid come from government. Local. State. Federal.  That’s the role of society and government. To serve the common good.  To redistribute the wealth, if that’s what it takes. If the private sector steps in and provides some of the relief – that’s fine, too. I like team effort.  Thing is, we’re all supposed to be on the same team. But we don’t always act that way. It’s almost as if it’s a game of everyone for himself. –Jim Broede

The system ain't working.

The capitalist system works for me. Therefore, it’s often convenient to ignore  the ways capitalism doesn’t work for others.  For the poor. The destitute. The unfortunate. Too easy to say, if it works for me, it’s gotta work for others. But that ain’t necessarily true. There’s an ever-widening gap between the rich and the poor under modern-day capitalism. That’s not right. It’s immoral. That’s my opinion. At the breakfast table this morning,  my Italian true love read in the newspaper that in Milan, 100,000 people stand in food lines daily. They can’t afford food. They need help. Assistance. A hand-out. If it can happen in Milan, it’s certainly happening in the rest of the world. All over. Even in industrialized nations. Because people are out of work. And even if they have jobs, they don’t earn enough to provide themselves with the basics of life. Look around. Especially in big cities. You’ll spot homeless people. Roaming the streets. Sleeping under viaducts. Or on a grassy knoll. Again, it ain’t right. I don’t see these people as worthless bums.  Instead, many of ‘em are victims of a capitalist system that doesn’t work. That rewards the few at the expense of the many. That fails to serve the common good.  I’m not sure about the solution.  Maybe it’s a revised, better form of capitalism.  All I know is that capitalism isn’t working. And something needs to be done. For too long, as a society, we’ve ignored the obvious.  The system ain’t working. –Jim Broede

Spoiling one's self.

My Italian true love has a chore to do. In Portoscuso. A small town 20 miles away.  She’s been putting it off.  Because it’s complicated and something she doesn’t particularly want to do.  And it may ultimately require two visits. So much inconvenience. I have the solution. Let’s find something pleasant to do in Portoscuso. Such as strolling  along the Mediterranean beach, or finding a nice place for lunch.  So simple.  Make the best of a bad situation.  All it takes is a little planning.  And spoiling one’s self. –Jim Broede

Acting like a coward.

Thunderstorms. I like the fury. Lightning. Thunder. Torrential rain. Had it all. In Rome. The day I arrived. Waiting.  At the airport. To catch a flight to Cagliari. I sat down.  On the floor. Leaning against a huge pane glass window. Watching.  As the roof leaked.  A puddle.  A trickle of water approaching.   I’m used to romping in thunderstorms. Do it often. Back at home.  Makes me feel  the kiss of nature.  Water. Water everywhere. Streaming down my face. Dripping off my nose.  But in Rome, I was a coward.  Stood up. Moved out of the way.  To avoid a trickle. Merely to keep my pants dry.  –Jim Broede

Will I see her again?

A strange moment  yesterday. While sitting in a hovel.  A waiting room. Waiting. Waiting. With my Italian true love. Waiting to pay her property tax bill. Almost like waiting in line. At a bank. To give the teller one’s money.  One waits in Italy. Sometimes for hours. At the post office. The doctor’s office. The grocery store. Everywhere. One needs patience. And not everyone has it. I do. Because I’m waiting with my Italian true love. And I’m experiencing life in Italy. Real life. Like an Italian.  An opportunity for me to study. To observe.  A waiting room. This one unique. Narrow. Dingy. Must have once been a hallway. Lined with six plastic armchairs. Facing three wood doors. With glazed glass windows. To make for a blurry, shadowy view.  I wonder. If this is a waiting place for a Kafka-like novel to unfold. Maybe an interrogator on the other side of the door.  My true love must wait in line. Two ahead.  A light. A bare bulb. Lighting the Spartan room. A somber, dull effect. I cross my leg. My foot dangles. The tip of my shoe nudges the wall.  My true love cautions. Be careful. You might smudge the wall. I look askance.  At many, many smudges.  Old smudges. New smudges. Mine, the newest. Doesn’t matter.  I look down. Slits of life escape from within. Out the bottom of two doors. But not the entry door. Flush to the floor. Nothing escapes. And my true love is about to go in. I wonder. Will I see her again? –Jim Broede

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Finding love. Everywhere.

It helps being a romantic idealist. Maybe the best move I ever made. Didn’t start life as a romantic. I evolved.  By becoming more soulful than mindful. Going more with my emotions. Instinctively. No longer afraid to become a fool. Maybe that’s what it takes to be genuinely in love with life. Taking risks. Going off the deep end.  Pursuing one’s dreams. Even if they  seem impossible. One has to truly believe in love. In fate. Destiny. And then go for it. Believing in what I want to believe. Because I have to. There’s no other way.   At least for me. Have to do what I have to do.  Go to all ends of Mother Earth. And beyond. Which means cultivating the spirit. Seeing the romantic in everything.  Finding love. Everywhere.  –Jim Broede  

Loving imperfection. I can do it.

I like the notion of an imperfect creator/god. Certainly, that’s better than a perfect one. The Italian writer Franco Ferrucci talks of a god that’s a brother and a friend.  An equal. A god that makes mistakes. Just like the rest of us. I have no problem buying into that.  But that’s not the god of most religions. God is supreme. All-knowing. Perfect. Oh, how much better it would be to have an imperfect god. We’d be able to better understand each other. Ferrucci portrays god as having bouts of insanity. And even having made attempts at suicide. God is frustrated because he can’t die.  Imagine that.  If we humans wanted to die, but couldn’t. Being saddled with eternal life.  Actually, I’d like to give it a try. Even if god wants to die.  Let me stick around. I’ll find the mental wherewithal  to make a go of it.  Might mean learning to love imperfection. I can do it. –Jim Broede

Letting life happen. Naturally.

Allowing days to unfold naturally. Going with the flow. Not knowing in advance what to do next. Just letting life happen. That’s my style. My Italian true love and I are on a leisurely late Sunday afternoon stroll along a sandy Mediterranean Sea beach. At Portoscuso. On the island of Sardinia.  No place I’d rather be.  My true love gets a cell phone call. A friend Patrizia, a teaching colleague. She’s sighted us from a distance. We are to head for a rocky ledge. To  join Patrizia and husband Francesco and young son Pier. For socializing. I like the idea.  Listening to Italian chit-chat I don’t fully understand.  But that’s all right.  I like to watch my true love interact with friends.  I catch the gist of some conversations.  I ask occasional questions. In English. For clarification. It’s a way to learn another language. Ever so slowly. That’s the best way.  Methodically. In no hurry. One shouldn’t rush through life.  Instead, savoring, savoring, savoring each moment.   Make the best of every situation.  Often as observer. Onlooker. Relying on my true love.  For translations.  Maybe I’m coming off as Silent Jim.  Indeed, a funny concept. Back home in Minnesota.  Or in the family where I grew up. With the nickname Big Mouth. Because I never shut up. Now I’ve become an avid listener.  I’m comfortable with that. Gives me more balance. More understanding. Anyway, the five of us walk slowly south. Along the beach. To an old stone fortress. And past a promenade of homes. Villas. Facing the sea. For rich people. From all over Italy.  They probably own second and third and fourth homes.  It’s another world. And I like it all. Because I’m with friends. With my true love. That’s the important thing.  Being alive and blessed.  I look up a cobblestone street. Two cats. One scampers away. But the black cat remains. To greet little Pier. He knows the cat’s name. Briciola. Pier kneels.  Briciola circles. Around and around. Brushing up against the boy. It’s as if the two are purring. Together. In a rhythmic perfect harmony. A song of love and affection.  I am on bended knee, too.  Participating in the unexpected love feast. By letting life happen. Naturally. –Jim Broede

Monday, November 26, 2012

Long live the liberals!

Italy’s center-left coalition  went to the polls yesterday to pick their leader.  From five candidates.  And the favorite of my Italian true love came in a distant third. He’s Nichi Vendola, governor of the  Puglia region.  If I could have voted, I’d probably have supported Vendola,  too. I trust my true love in these sorts of matters. Especially when decisions apply to Italy. We both are undisputed liberals.  But I may be more liberal than she.  I wasn’t disappointed that Pierluigo Bersani, secretary of Italy’s Communist Party,  finished  first.  With 44 percent of the almost 4 million votes. Next Sunday, there’ll be a run-off between Bersani and the second place finisher, Matteo Renzi, the mayor of Florence. He’s 37. And says it’s time for a younger generation to lead Italy. Bersani is 61. Renzi says he wants to defeat Bersani fair and square. But that if he loses, he’ll support Bersani.   Meanwhile, I can’t imagine a communist pulling off an election victory in America. Impossible. Because liberal Americans aren’t nearly as liberal as liberal Italians.   In Carbonia, where I live, communists sit on the city council. And the beautiful palm-tree-lined  main drag I walk daily is named after a communist hero of the 1930s, Antonio Gramsci.  Anyway, seems a good chance that the center-left coalition might  win the Italian election next spring. I certainly hope so. That would be a breath of fresh air. Fortunately, Italians dumped conservative billionaire and buffoon Silvio Berlusconi as prime minister two years ago. In favor of a technocrat, Mario Monti. But for leftists, that ain't good enough. The swing has to continue. To full-fledged socialism. To a narrowing of the gap between the rich and the poor. That’s my battle cry in America. And it’s my credo living in Italy, too.  Long live the liberals! All over the world. –Jim Broede

Making friends with an Italian cat.

My Italian true love’s teen-age niece Giorgia and sister-in-law Giuliana live in a small village. Portoscuso. Near us.  In  a nice high-rise building. A 10-minute walk from the Mediterranean Sea. One more example of the paradise I’ve found on the island of Sardinia.  Anyway, they have a nice view of everything, including spacious villas and orange-tiled roofs, from their fourth-floor abode.  But what I like most is the wide winding spiral marble stairwell leading to their entry door.  It has an art deco design, including man-sized oval windows that allow in ample light. My true love likens the walk up and down the stairs to being in a Guggenheim Art Museum.  Though the only art I saw were several prints, including a Kucha,  hanging on the walls inside the apartment. Also plenty of full book cases. All in all, a very pleasant setting.  Italian-style. Give me more of it. And still another endearing feature. A fluffy blackish brown cat named Micia.  I was cautioned beware of cat.  But I wasn’t buying that stuff. I love cats. And I want ‘em to love me. So I got down on my knees and slowly crawled toward Micia.  Whispering soft, soothing English words.   It took me a good 15 minutes to forge close enough to reach out a sacrificial nimble finger. Micia hissed and bared her fangs and made a sweep with her clawed paw. But missed. And I tried peace offerings again and again. Bravely inching within a hair-breath’s distance  of her snout. Finally, she touched me. With a gentle sniff. But I was warned. Don’t press my luck. Wait until the next visit to give a loving caress or a loving two-finger squeeze to the scruff of her neck. Indeed, that will be my mission. Making bosom friends with a spitfire temperamental  Italian cat. –Jim Broede  

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Settling for survival in spirit.

Hate it when I see dead cats on my walks. Too many of ‘em. Usually, the result of crossing roads.  Accidents. But I suspect that some people are mean-spirited. Towards cats. And maybe towards almost anything.  And they run over cats. Just for the hell of it. The dead cats I see in Sardinia are usually on the curbside. Maybe picked up by motorists or pedestrians. Or maybe the cat I spotted several days ago made it wounded to the curb and  then  died. With blood oozing from the mouth.  The dead cat is still there. And may stay for a while.  Though there are street sweepers. And maybe he’ll be picked up. Given a proper burial. Or incinerated.  He’s a big, burly black cat. Looks like he was in good health.  Back maybe 30 years ago, I let my cats roam. In and out. But one of ‘em was hit by a car. There was great remorse in the family. And after that, all our cats became indoor cats. To this day. Occasionally, I let them take to the yard.  In the summertime. Under close supervision. Gives them a little more sense of what it’s like to be free. But they are under strict rules. No going after birds or chipmunks or anything that’s living. Seems to me that Loverboy and Chenuska have adjusted well to the indoor life. They get lots of attention. And don’t have to go hunting for food. Just like humans. Though some of us do hunt. But not me. I don’t wanna kill anything. Wish we all could live forever. Especially our loved ones.  I’d settle for survival in a spirit world. –Jim Broede  

God must be dead to be alive.

I’m up at 3 in the morning. On Sunday. In Italy. And pretending momentarily that I’m back in Minnesota. Where it’s 8 in the evening. On Saturday. It’s a game I like to play. Going back and forth in time. Imaginatively.  Now I’m gonna try something new. Projecting  myself beyond time. Outside of time. And that’s difficult. If not impossible. That is, unless I die. Maybe that’s the trick. Time stops. With death. It’s a different sort of existence.  Or maybe it’s nothing. I came from nothing. And I return to nothing. That raises the question. Is nothing something? It’s just that I can’t be nothing when I’m a living human being. Possibly I become a spirit. Because my sense of it is that spirit is a physical nothing. But that doesn’t rule out the existence of spirit. A spirit could hover in the nothing. And be aware of something.   Such as the physical world. Without being in it. Maybe that elevates one to the same level/plateau as the creator. Which means that god has to be dead in order to be truly alive. Outside of time. –Jim Broede

Saturday, November 24, 2012

On wanting to feel truly Italian.

A few words in Italian is all it takes to win over Italians. In the marketplace today. There I was. Standing in line. To buy pastries. With my severely limited knowledge of Italian. But I was able to say the Italian for two. And four. And I even called one of the Italian pastries by the Italian name.  The clerk recognized me from last year. And I called her by name.  Angela.  The other customers standing around, noticed me. They soon learned I was Americano.  And when I told everyone in Italian that I was very lucky to be in Italy, they smiled and greeted me. I even got pats on the back. Yes, a warm welcome. This inspires me to learn a few more phrases of Italian. Post haste.  I owe it to myself. But mostly to my fellow Italians. I want to start feeling truly Italian.  –Jim Broede

The full and true story.

I know him as the man with the bandaged hand. Heavily bandaged. But with four fingers exposed. The thumb is bandaged. If I were walking the streets in America, I’d ask the man about his hand. Did he hurt it in an accident? Instead, I’m walking in Italy. I suppose the man is Italian and speaks only Italian. And I don’t. Other than a few words. So I let him go. And start to guess. Maybe he was in a fight. And punched a guy out.  He looks a little like a boxer. A middleweight. He’s older. But seems to be in good shape. Even walks faster than me. And I customarily put in 14-minute miles. I see the guy most every day. Sometimes, coming towards me. But other times, we are moving in the same direction.  Must walk quite a distance. Because I see him at different ends of town. Miles apart. That arouses my curiosity. We have something in common. Walkers.  It’d be nice if my Italian true love were with me.  And we encountered the man. I’d stop him. Without asking my true love. And ask the man in English. ‘How did you hurt your hand?’ Maybe he would demonstrate. And hit me in the nose. More likely, my true love would converse with him. In Italian. And I’d get the full and true story. –Jim Broede

About eternity.

A  nice feeling today. That I’ve lived before. Many times. And that I’m gonna live again. Many times. Not sure if that means reincarnation. Because I may be born with a different soul each time. That I may have virtually the same DNA.  Always. But a different sort of consciousness. Because a whole lot depends on my environs. And my experience in the new life. Chances are, I have virtual clones living today. In terms of DNA. We may even look physically alike. But still, we are different beings.  And we may be living on different Earth-like planets in different solar systems in an infinite cosmos. I’m fascinated by such a thought. Gives me a truly nice feeling. About eternity. –Jim Broede

Indeed, I am fearful.

I’m fearful. That America as I have known it all my life, won’t survive. That my country will be taken over by conservative Republicans. White elitist ideologues. Maybe someday evolving into something even worse than Nazi Germany.  They abhor liberal politics. And socialism. They abhor minorities. Blacks. Hispanics. Asians. Anyone who isn’t pure white. And they want everyone to be a Christian. Muslims are to be despised. So are atheists. Anyway, the white elitists are fast becoming the new minority in America. Which I consider a good thing. Even though I’m a white man. But I don’t buy into the white elitist politics. Any more than I would have bought into Hitler. The white elitists are sick. Dreadfully so. Many of ‘em intend to stay in power. At any cost. Already, they are openly seeking to suppress the vote in America.  Many openly advocate secession. They’d like to leave the United States of America. And form their own red-neck confederacy.  Even if that takes another full-fledged Civil War.  Maybe some of this is my imagination. Going on a wild bent. But I don’t think so. Indeed, I am fearful. –Jim Broede

Friday, November 23, 2012

Yes, learning is Fun-ny.

I am extremely lucky. That’s what I’m trying to tell Italians. In their language. Lucky, of course, because I am in Italy. In Sardinia. Living with my Italian true love.  Here’s the Italian for I am extremely lucky:  Mi sento fortunatissimo. Sounds beautiful. The phonetic English equivalent is mee sen-to for-too-na-tee-see-mo.  But how do I remember these words?  I do it by thinking of an editor I used to work for. His surname was Cento. I pretend I’m him. Saying ‘Me, Cento.’ Then I think of four fish. I say, ‘Four tuna.’  And I add the pleasant ending refrain of tee-see-mo.  I neatly rattle off the whole thing. Sounding like a learned Italian.  That may sound a bit complicated. But it works. When I picture in my mind Bill Cento and four tuna. Reminds me. When I was in grade school and a teacher taught me to spell geography by remembering the sentence ‘George Evans Old Grandfather Rode A Pig Home Yesterday.’ Yes, learning is Fun-ny. –Jim Broede  

I have to learn by heart.

My early education. In school. Was misguided. Made me into a slow and ineffective learner. Initially. Fortunately, I recovered. Mostly when I became an adult. And improvised. On my own. Even taught myself how to write. Naturally. My way. I write the way I think. In spurts.  Anyway, I abhorred the assignments in school. Such as having to memorize poems.  It was required to get up in class. And recite the poem. Didn’t matter if one failed to  understand the words. I’d not teach that way. My students would have to get up and read the poem aloud. Preferably with feeling. But they’d also be required to explain the meaning. In their own words.   So very much of my education was taught by rote. Words. Without meaning. I was required to use my mind. But not my heart.  That’s all changed now.  Because I learned to venture out on my own.  Found a personally meaningful way to learn. Seems to me, everyone needs to do that. Many, many different ways.  I have to learn by heart. So much more meaningful than by mind. –Jim Broede

A loyal and patriotic Italian.

It’s the last thing I expected to see in my adopted town in Sardinia. A kebob joint. Especially on the main drag, known as Via Gramsci.  The last time I was in Carbonia (a city of 30,000 inhabitants) the place was occupied by a pizza parlor. Maybe it’s that the town has far too many pizza restaurants. And so something different was bound to come.  Kebobs. The Middle Eastern kind.  The business is called Ali Baba’s No. 1 Kebob.  Mostly, the kebobs are intended for take-out. But one can sit at a single table outdoors.  And munch away in public. I’ve tried to persuade my Italian true love to come dine with me. On kebobs. But she’s not quite ready. Still preferring the traditional pizza. She’s a loyal and patriotic Italian. Especially when it comes to food.  –Jim Broede

As I look him straight in the eyes.

I have an idea.  For a book.  I’ll write it someday. About Italy. And Italians. Things that I learned from bilingual Italians. The ones that speak English. Fluently and less fluently. They are a fascinating lot.  I need to rely on ‘em. Because I essentially speak and understand only English. Yes, that puts me at a disadvantage. Either I learn fluent Italian. Which is unlikely at my age.  Or I take advantage of the English speakers. And I have the gall to do that. It’s the relatively easy way for a lazy American. I’m fascinated by Italians. Enough so to write a book. Which really takes substantial effort. Dedication. Drive. Makes me seem not so lazy after all, doesn’t it? I want my book to be very different. Not sure how to do that. But I’m innovative. I’ll find a way. Some of the stuff will be personal observations. Just from watching Italians. Without understanding exactly what they are saying. For instance, I’ve noticed that while ambling down streets, Italians are less likely than Americans to make eye contact with me. Makes me wonder why. I suspect Italians have a higher respect for privacy. More so than the typical American. Italians don’t want to intrude on strangers. Makes Italians seem less friendly. When really that ain’t so. Especially after one gets to know Italians. They are as friendly as can be. Maybe I catch more eye contact from strangers in America because I subconsciously send out receptive signals. We speak the same language.  Maybe the Italian senses that I don’t speak Italian. That I’m not one of them. That’s one of the questions I’ll ask an English-speaking Italian. As I look him/her straight in the eyes.  –Jim Broede  

Thursday, November 22, 2012

A glimpse of Eden.

Take the best of Minnesota, Arizona and Florida. Blend it all together. And you have the Mediterranean island of Sardinia. My second home.  I live here about half the year. With my Italian true love.  I’m trying to get her and everyone to believe that Sardinia is Paradise.  I couldn’t have designed a better place. Full credit goes to the creator. He knew what he was doing. Lush green. Pine trees.   Rolling hills. Rocky shorelines resembling those on Lake Superior.  Cacti. Palm trees. Canyons, where Clint Eastwood made his spaghetti westerns.  Plus, no snow or freezing temperatures.  I venture into the crystal clear waters of the sea in January.  Yes, peace, contentment and tranquility. Though most Sardinians  want more. A better economy. More jobs.  But what a consolation Sardinians  have.  A priceless treasure.  A glimpse of Eden.  –Jim Broede

Some day, I might...

I revere bilingual people. Because they have a skill I don’t. But I’m not jealous. Because I have skills (and blessings) that others don’t. Many, many skills. For instance, I can write.  I can exercise vigorously.  Not bad for an old man. And I’m a romantic idealist. Many people aren’t. And I also have an Italian true love. We live with each other. Back and forth.  In Minnesota and Sardinia. Maybe that’s more pleasure than skill. But it happened because both of us are romantic idealists. Really, I’m an idealist in many, many ways. Makes me a dreamer. A believer in the impossible. Some day, I might even walk on water. –Jim Broede

I could be a lover. Forever.

I’m ignoring things back at home. In Minnesota. Because I’m away. That’s a fact of life. People get ignored. I can’t pay attention to everyone. I have to pick and choose. My Italian true love is the most important person in my life. Other than me. Guess I’m the most important. Which makes me seem selfish. Thing is, if I didn’t take care of myself, I wouldn’t be around to take care of others. I want to be there for my cherished loved ones. I tell the creator that’s all the more reason to allow me to live a long, long life. Maybe forever. I wouldn’t object. Then I could be a lover. Forever.  –Jim Broede    

The world's only talking cat.

 I’m trying to more or less forget about my cats, Loverboy and Chenuska, when I’m away and living in Sardinia. Because I don’t wanna miss them too much. And the best way to do that is not think about ‘em. Instead,  focus on my Italian true love and other things. Don’t know if that’s appropriate.  But it gives me peace of mind. I have a house sitter who tends to the cats. So they get attention. Though probably not near as much as I customarily give ‘em. I love the cats dearly. Not sure if they love me just as dearly. Maybe they aren’t even consciously aware that I’m gone. Which may be all right. They get fed daily. Maybe that’s the important thing in their lives. And they have each other. For company. When I’m at home, I have daily conversations with the cats. They seem to be good listeners. They understand words.  Loverboy speaks English. He talks to my true love on Skype. In sort of a high-pitched tone. My true love thinks it’s me. Acting like a ventriloquist. But I’m trying to convince her it’s really Loverboy, the world’s only talking cat. –Jim Broede    

On unconditional acceptance.

In my life, I had people who found fault in me. Which is all right. But some of ‘em are chronic fault-finders. That’s their nature.  Maybe that was my mother. To some degree.  But then, she also found fault in herself. That seems fair. Fault-finding should be applied to everyone.  Including one’s self.  The nicest thing of all is to learn to accept faults. In others. In self, too. For one thing, I don’t wanna be perfect. So I shouldn’t expect others to be perfect. Guess I came around to this sort of thinking when I first fell in love.  Truly in love. I began to learn acceptance. To accept someone unconditionally.  That’s a hard thing to do.  Fact is, maybe there’s no such thing as unconditional. It’s only an illusion. –Jim Broede  

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Love - It's so very stimulating.

I’m never bored with life. Always, something turns me on. I could be on a desert island, with nobody around, and I’d still find a way to be stimulated. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. I’d probably have to turn within. Dig deeply inside myself. Of course, it would be helpful to have pencil and paper. To record my thoughts. Nice to have books to read, too.  Survival would be important. I’d not want to forage for my food. I’d like some basic supplies. But I wouldn’t necessarily need company to keep my mind in peak form. It would help. But not be essential. My Italian true love is a teacher. Of English and English literature. She has bored students. I find that fascinating. Why students allow themselves to be bored.  Maybe it’s that they just seem bored. The stuff in the classroom isn’t turning ‘em on. But still, I’d find it hard not to gravitate to something stimulating. I’d find it necessary to get turned out. Because if I didn’t, it’d be a waste of life. Some how, some way, I’ve managed to fall in love. With life.  I want to live forever. In love. It’s so very stimulating. –Jim Broede

Maybe an occasional lethal blow.

Almost got punched in the nose today. While walking the streets in the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia/Italy. Funny. Funny. Funny. Three guys  were engaged in an animated conversation in the middle of the sidewalk.  As is typical of Italians, they  gestured with their  hands as they talked.   Suddenly, one of the gestures from a guy that didn’t see me, shot out to the right. Barely missing me. A close call. Good for a laugh. I know. I know. I should have known better. I’m aware of  gesturing Italians. Usually, I keep a safe distance. I’m assuming that the sometimes wild gestures take a high annual toll. In bloody and fractured noses, in black eyes, and broken jaws.  Maybe an occasional  lethal blow.  –Jim Broede

In Italy, it's a long wait.

The woman has breast cancer. Just diagnosed. Now she must wait until March to see a specialist. That’s the earliest she can get an appointment under the Italian socialized health care system. If it were my Italian true love, I’d be livid. I wouldn’t stand for it. But many Italians do. Because they can’t afford to go to a private practicing doctor. Indeed, that’s a sad state of affairs. I’m a strong advocate of socialized medicine. But the kind that gives prompt response, prompt treatment, prompt care. Whatever it takes to get the job done. Effectively. For the patient. Meanwhile, the woman I talk of is raising enough cash, with the help of friends,  so she can get immediate consultation over what to do next. I wish her luck. That’s what every Italian needs in navigating the health care system. Doesn’t matter whether it’s private or public. They all have their shortcomings. No perfect system. Some are better than others. It’s a constant battle getting adequate health care. No matter where one lives. Obamacare is a step in the right direction. But it is not the panacea. It doesn’t go far enough.  I’m living in Italy now.  I’ll do what little I can to make things better. By calling attention to the problems. The same as I would do in the USA. I complain. Endlessly. I’m supportive of the Affordable Health Care Act, also known as Obamacare. It’ll bring health insurance to many of the 50 million Americans  without health care. Imagine that. So many uninsured.  That’s worse than in Italy. Italians may have  to wait in line for health care. But they’ll get it. Eventually.  If they manage to live long enough. Because they are insured. –Jim Broede

In order to protect one's privacy.

My Italian true love has an image. That she’s built. Over the long, long history of living in her hometown. It began when she was a little girl. And it’s been added to. Piece by piece.  I don’t think it’s an accurate image. Because my true love has evolved. In ways that the hometown folks haven’t seen. Haven’t perceived. Instead, the image is based on old and outdated impressions.  Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, I don’t know. But it’s inaccurate. Because I know my true love. Close up. Intimately. Accurately. My true love doesn’t necessarily want the record  set straight. Which is all right. Fact of the matter: Sometimes it’s best for longtime acquaintances to not know too much. In order to protect one’s privacy. –Jim Broede

A lone laundromat.

Hard to believe it. But there’s only one laundromat in the town I’m living in. In Sardinia/Italy. Yes, the city of Carbonia has 30,000 inhabitants.  And a single laundromat. Which opened not long ago. With four coin-operated washing machines and three dryers. My Italian true love and I went to the laudromat the other day. To take care of a 16 kilogram load of wash. Our washing machine at home is out of service.  For about a month. Because our ‘laundry room’ on the east balcony has been temporarily closed off  while the building’s façade gets a remake. Of course, we could have  taken our laundry to a nearby stream. And washed it all by hand. On the rocks.  But that seemed a little too 18th-century-like. The laundromat tucked away in a tiny back alley proved to be the better alternative.  We found one empty washing machine waiting for us. Which cost  5 euros to operate.  But we had to wait a while to use a dryer. Which required another stipend. Anyway, it was well-worth the investment. Gave us clean sheets and clean towels.  I liked the atmosphere.  The patrons were all cordial. Though they spoke in Italian. Which I didn’t understand.  Until they said ‘arrividerci’ upon departure.  I suspect there’s a business opportunity. For anyone interested in opening more laundromats. But can’t be sure about that. Most Italians appear to have their own washing machines. But one doesn’t see many dryers. Instead, Italians generally hang out their clothes to dry. Often from clotheslines extended from balconies or windows. Makes for colorful displays. –Jim Broede    

Yes, I participate in life.

I like intrigues. Goings-on behind the scenes. I learn of plots every day. No matter where I am. In the USA. In Sardinia/Italy. It’s part of life. My Italian true love is a teacher.  And the school system is rife with politics. With power plays. Between factions. And individuals. I experienced it when I was employed. As a writer for newspapers.  At my  own place of employment.  But out and about, too. All over. In private business. In public  business.  Makes for an interesting life. I could write 10 stories a day about the plots and intrigues. Mostly, I’m amused.  It’s entertaining.  But there are sad repercussions, too. There’s unfairness. Mistreatment.  One tries to see that the right things are done. But it doesn’t always happen that way. Wrongs are perpetrated.  When possible, I dilly-dally. Enter a fray.  Work for the good. For the right. But who’s to say what’s right or wrong? Good or bad?  Often, I form judgments. And choose up sides. Yes, I participate in life. –Jim Broede  

The way out of a fiscal mess.

I want Obama to stick it to the Republicans. By taking his thinking to the people. To the nation. Trying to directly sway Republicans in Congress is a waste of time. They are too obstinate.  Too entrenched. Too close-minded.  So unwilling to compromise. They are the ones that have stuck it to Obama and the liberal Democrats.  Republicans merely want to take, and not give.  They claim to stand on principle. When really, they stand on arrogance.  Might be that Obama and the Democrats will have to allow the nation to go off the ‘fiscal cliff’ in order to get anything close to a compromise on the budget.  But so be it. If that’s what it takes to get something done.  Fact of the matter is that America needs tax increases. On everyone. But mostly on the wealthy.  We all have to pitch in. Based on what each of us can afford. Millionaires and billionaires can afford the lion’s share.  But I emphasize, everyone has to make a sacrifice.  Just as we did in World War II. It comes down to a matter of survival. Unfortunately, the Republicans only concern is the survival of the wealthy. And to hell with the poor and the middle class. Enough. Enough. Enough.  Let’s go Obama. Let’s go Democrats.  Let’s stick it to the Republicans. Let’s make the rich pay their fair share. And we’ll get out of our fiscal mess.  –Jim Broede

Made me a bettter lover.

I keep saying it. Life is like living in a novel. One’s life unfolds. Chapter by chapter.  So very many nice chapters. Full of happiness. Some sad ones, too. But overall, it’s a good life.  La dolce vita. That’s what I tell my caregiver friends on the Alzheimer’s message boards. Goodness always comes. If one gives it time. I’m going through good phases. Which I deserve. After 13 years  as caregiver to my dear sweet  Jeanne. Fortunately, I learned to be a devoted and loving caregiver.  On-the-job. Care-giving became a pleasure.  Didn’t start out that way. It was scary for a while.  But now it’s evolved into one of the better chapters of life. Learned so much. About myself. Care-giving keeps paying dividends. I’m far better off for having gone through it. Made me a better lover. –Jim Broede

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Everything is possible.

Being away from America. It’s a blessing. Can’t say that I miss my homeland terribly much. Oh, it’ll be nice to return. In April. No hurry to go back. Because I like living in Sardinia/Italy. With my Italian true love. In her hometown. So nice to see and experience her environs. Where she grew up.  I meet her friends and acquaintances and work colleagues.  Not sure that I would have wanted to stick around my hometown. I’ve rarely returned for a visit. Left when I was 18. Can’t say that I miss the place. Moving away always seemed like a new start. Didn’t stay in one place – Minnesota - for a long time until I was 29. Never had been to Minnesota before. Now it’s been almost 50 years of familiarity. Met and married my first true love there. We lived together for 38 years. Until she died. Now I’m on my second true love. Yes, true love. The best blessing of my life.  Blissful happiness. Twice now. Makes me feel like I’ve truly lived. Makes me feel like a citizen of the world, too. Not merely the USA.  Some day, I want to broaden my horizons. And become a true citizen of the cosmos.  Maybe only after death. After I become a true spirit. My imagination has no limits. Everything is possible. –Jim Broede

On getting to know a priest.

Trying to schedule an interview. With an Italian priest. In the town where I’m living. In Sardinia/Italy. A local parish has five priests. There must be at least one that speaks English.  I want to pick his brain/mind.  We could have a philosophic dialogue. About life. About ourselves. The way we think. And maybe learn what we have in common.  I’ll ask about who and what he is. And I’ll volunteer personal stuff, too.  We can ask each other questions. No limits. I’ll seek an hour of his time. And I’ll write about it. In my blog.  That’s the way I get to know a priest. –Jim Broede

The friendly Italians.

It rained today. While I was walking in my little town in Sardinia. And I didn’t bring an umbrella. So I took to a shelter at a bus stop. And waited out the drizzle. Meanwhile, an old man got off a bus. And we shared the same shelter for a while. He spoke to me. But I didn’t fully understand. Told him in Italian that I don’t speak Italian. That I’m an Americano. But since I spoke a few words of Italian, he apparently assumed that I understood Italian.  And  kept speaking. So I kept replying with the word, ‘si.’ Which means yes.  Maybe that made me seem agreeable.  Anyway, we  hit it off.  Eventually, the man lifted his hand to the sky. Looked up.  Think he said the rain was letting up.  He placed a paper towel  on top of his bald head. And strolled away. Happily. Something to like about most Italians. They’re friendly. Even to strangers that don’t speak their language.  –Jim Broede

On being a stranger in Paradise.

As an American, I like living in different parts of the world. Because it’s different. And it makes me feel different, too.  And that gives me a good feeling.  Being different. And mixing with different people.  Sameness can be boring. And stifling. Too often in America, I find people who want everyone to think alike. To be clones of each other.  For instance, there’s even a movement afoot to require all Americans to speak English. Or to pledge undying allegiance to country. Hard to imagine anything more stupid than that. I want diversity of people and opinions. I’m in Sardinia/Italy now. Living with my Italian true love. And I’m learning Italian ways and customs.  Not speaking much Italian. Never will come close to mastering Italian.  But that’s all right. I make do. Especially because my true love speaks English. In fact, she teaches English and English literature. She’s trying to teach me Italian. But it’s a very slow process. Actually, I have to teach myself. That’s the best way.  I’m trying to teach my Italian true love something, too. That she lives in Paradise. She doesn’t yet fully recognize it.  Because she’s been a lifelong resident of Paradise. And therefore has taken life here more matter-of-factly. Rather than in appropriately special ways. I do. Because I came to Paradise as a stranger.  That’s another thing I’ve learned. Strangers often see more perceptively than the natives. –Jim Broede

Bad news for diehard capitalists.

Call me a socialist sympathizer.  If not an outright, card-carrying socialist. I like socialism. But stop short of joining a political party, or almost anything.  I’m not a joiner. I protect and revere my independence. I dislike capitalism. Maybe abhor is a better word. Especially when applied to greedy American-style capitalism.  Money-making shouldn’t be a preoccupation of life. There are better ways to pursue happiness. I want to live in a world in which money is downplayed. Even looked at as sort of an evil.  Oh, I don’t mind people getting monetarily rich. If that makes them happy. But  hey, I want ‘em heavily taxed. At a higher rate than less affluent members of society.  I want  taxes on the rich used to pay for socialist programs. For public education, for social security, for health care. I want a government and a society that serves the common good. Not necessarily the good of the rich.  I want a narrowing of the gap between the rich and the poor. Yes, a more equalitarian society.  And I’m encouraged by public opinion polls that show more and more Americans are looking favorably on socialism.  The Pew Research Group discovered that 49 percent of American young people are supportive of the concept of socialism.  And that 59 percent of liberal Democrats and 55 percent of black Americans  are potential socialists. That may be bad news for diehard capitalists.  But so be it. –Jim Broede

A lesson from a 12-year-old.

The Italian kid knows how to speak an international language. He came up to me on his low-slung bicycle. And spoke Italian. Being an ignoramus, I didn’t understand. I asked if he spoke English.  Apparently not. So he pointed to his wrist.  He wanted the time. So I pulled up my sleeve and showed him my watch. It was five minutes to three. Time for a lesson in international language. From a 12-year-old.    –Jim Broede  

A little like making love.

My Italian true love helps to slow me down. Because she’s sort of  a speed demon. She tends to do too many things, too fast.  So I try to apply the brakes.  Go slow, slow and slower, I advise.  But the best way for me to be effective is to set an example. By living slowly myself.  That’s better than preaching the slow way of life. Just live it. Others may observe.  And see that’s the best way to savor the good things of life. Make them last. For instance, my true love will consume her supper in 15 minutes, or less.  That’s barely a start for me.  I’ll take an hour, or maybe even 90 minutes.  Leisurely. Slowly. I don’t eat any more than my true love.  But I make it last.  A little like making love. –Jim Broede

Monday, November 19, 2012

Reason to lament.

I’m lamenting. The loss of pine trees. Along a street near where I’m living. In the city of Carbonia. On the island of Sardinia. When I left last February, the stately trees, know as Italian pines or stone pines or umbrella pines, were there. But upon my return, I was shocked. The trees are gone.  Removed.  Because the tree roots were playing havoc with the paved bituminous pedestrian walkway. Causing heaves  and cracks. Making for what some locals  deemed a perilous walk. I never had difficulty navigating. And I’m an old fart. I walked as if I were in a heavenly cloud. Because of the aesthetics. The pleasing, soothing 60-foot tall pines.  Thick red bark trunks. Topped by umbrella-like branches with rich green pine needles. And huge pine cones. Far bigger than any I’ve ever seen in Minnesota.  Oh, what a shame. I would have protested the felling of those trees. Chained myself to a tree. And gone to jail. But it’s over and done with.  I can’t change the outcome.  The wavy bituminous surface is gone. And now there’s a wide swath of smooth grayish concrete. No more shade.  No more old Italian beauty.  Instead,  we’ve moved into a more sterile modern times. Reason  to lament. –Jim Broede  

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Indeed, a marvelous feat.

I like getting up at 4:15 a.m. Monday in Sardinia. Because it gives me the opportunity to project back 7 hours. To where I came from a week ago. Minnesota. Where it’s still 9:15 p.m. Sunday. It gives me a sense of going back in time. Becoming a spirit. Another thing. When I’m physically in Minnesota, I can project into the future. To get a feel for what life is like a day ahead (or at least 7 hours) for my Italian true love. I can write her a spiritual love letter on Sunday night from Minnesota -- a letter that she'll read in my physical presence upon rising Monday. Actually, I’m in two places at once. Sort of. Indeed, a somewhat complicated and marvelous feat, isn't it? –Jim Broede

A sweet life in Paradise.

I feel conspicuous when going for a walk in my town in Sardinia. Because I’m the only one in short sleeves. Everybody else has long sleeves, and sweaters, and coats. The mid-November  temperatures are nudging 70 degrees. But that’s considered chilly.  By the natives. Here I am. A transplant from Minnesota. And it seems like mid-summer.  Maybe by January or February I won’t feel the same way. But on past visits in January, I’ve waded into the Mediterranean Sea. Without hesitation. Many of the locals won’t do it. But hey, I have yet to experience a freezing temperature or snow. And that makes for a mild winter.  And a sweet life in Paradise. –Jim Broede   

On seeing shades of gray.

Usually, I become acquainted with the passenger seated next to me.  And I momentarily thought that would be the case with the pretty woman.  On my flight from Philadelphia to Rome. She had the window seat. I had the aisle.  But turns out I couldn’t miss the opportunity to move into the center row of seats across the aisle. They were vacant.  So 10 minutes into the flight,  there I was. All by myself.  Able to sprawl over several seats.  I would have liked to know  more about the woman. I was gonna ask her what she was reading.  She seemed absorbed in her book. Anyway, I didn’t inquire. But I should have. It would have triggered an interesting conversation, I suspect. I finally caught a glimpse of the title on the way off the plane in Rome. It was ‘Fifty Shades of Gray.’ The popular erotic novel. –Jim Broede

Of pottery and the Gebauers.

TR Pottery. I would never have  known of its existence. Or the people that run it. Tony and Renee Gebauer. If not for my trip to Italy. I met the Gebauers on my flight. The first leg. From Minneapolis to Philadelphia. They sat next to me. We chatted. Tony was crocheting. A colorful quilt. Seemed an  unusual pastime. For a man. So I inquired. What are you up to? Turns out that the Gebauers are potters. They handcraft their own pots.   In beautiful Door County. On a peninsula. In northeast Wisconsin. They are located in a small town. Called Fish Creek. Maybe I was there many years ago. I’ll go back. Some day. Because I’m curious about the Gebauers. And I like them. Based on first impressions. They’re a nice couple. And I’ll buy some pots.  Anyway, Door County is a nice place. They have a cherry festival  every year. And I buy ‘Door County’ cherry cobbler at my grocery store in Minnesota.  Very tasty. Especially when heated in my oven. On a cold winter night.  Gebauer is a German name. Lots of descendants of Germans in Wisconsin. But Renee is of Italian heritage. Her mother’s maiden name was Foli. My Italian true love tells me that’s a common name in the Puglia region. I’m always looking for Italian connections.  Because I’m starting to feel more and more Italian. Despite my German roots. But then, I like to connect with people. With strangers.  Of virtually any kind. That’s my modus operendi .  The world has become my fascinating domain. –Jim Broede   

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Go to the Miramare.

It’s  a promise. I’m gonna take my Italian true love for a overnight stay in Cagliari, the capitol city of Sardinia. And we’ll stay at the Miramare Hotel on Via Roma. Never been to the Miramare. But I know the manager. Met him when I was flying from Rome to Cagliari the other day. Initially, I didn’t know he spoke English. He looks very English. But he’s Italian. He mastered English. While living in London. He could easily pass for an Englishman. Merely by opening his mouth. He speaks almost perfect English English. Sat next to him on the plane. We had to kill time. The plane had mechanical problems. We sat on the runway for two hours before take-off. He was a blessing. Because I’m trying to meet English speaking Italians. All the more reason to spend a night at his hotel. To learn more about him and his Italian ways. My impression. He’s a nice and interesting and cordial guy. The kind of Italian I’d like to know.  Told him I’d give his hotel a plug. In my blog.  Which I’m doing. Sight unseen.  Though one can learn more by going to www.hotelmiramarecagliari.it  It’s gotta be a top-notch hotel. Because he’s a top-notch guy. If you end up in Cagliari some day, go to the Miramare. Tell the manager that Jim Broede recommended it. –Jim Broede

Call me Naked Jim.

I’m not embarrassed by going naked into the world.  Being me. The naked me. I have nothing to hide.  And even if I did, it doesn’t matter. Of course, I don’t want lies told about me. But I can even take the lies. Because I have a thick skin. I’ll take the truth about me.  Unconditionally. Even if it’s harsh truth. Yes, I like to face the realities of life. I’ve given considerable thought to nakedness  after reading about General Petreas. A guy that seemed incorruptible. A guy with a solid, stellar reputation. Trustworthy.  A model  modern general. Appointed 14 months ago to head the American CIA. Now his career of public service  apparently over. Why? Because he had an extramarital affair. Amazing, isn’t it? Petreas caught naked. Exposed. Because  his privacy was taken away. By the FBI.  Yes, it’s a new way of life in the modern age. Especially in America. Ever since 911 and the Patriot Act. Everybody gets investigated. For every little thing. Even General l Petreas. All it takes now is a single blemish. And poof!!! There goes a career. One mistake.  Maybe not even a mistake.  But an indiscretion. Everybody’s life is becoming an open book. But I’m not afraid. Because I live life nakedly. Nothing to hide. Call me Naked Jim.  –Jim Broede  

On facing the hard truth.

An Italian gentleman.  I  was hoping to  be mistaken for one.  At the airport in Rome. But I was in for a rude awakening.  There I was. Seated.  Munching  on an ice cream bar. In a gentlemanly manner, I thought.  Self-satisfied.  Maybe a little arrogant.  As I strolled away.  When suddenly I heard a man yell in American English, ‘Hey, where did you get that ice cream bar?’  Of course, I told him. Pointing to a nearby restorante called Ciao. Then I muttered woefully, ‘Do I look like an American?’  Yes, he said.  Because of the ice cream bar.  Italians are more likely to spoon gelato from a cup.  Especially if you are a gentleman.  But there’s probably more to it. I simply look American. Even from a distance. To my chagrin.  I tell my Italian true love that maybe I should go in for a nose job. For a Romanesque nose. Or maybe it’s that I ain’t properly dressed. I have Italian shoes and an Italian sweater and an Italian belt. And I occasionally sip an espresso. Anyway, the guy that spotted me was an American. A gentleman from Iowa.  Seated next to his wife.  Maybe he took me for a Minnesota gentleman. I didn’t ask. Maybe it’s that I don’t like facing the hard truth.    –Jim Broede

The essence of the good life.

Silvio Berlusconi represents everything vile and reprehensible about Italy. Therefore, many Italians were jubilant to see Berlusconi go after too many corrupt years as the country’s prime minister. But they aren’t  all that happy with his successor, Mario Monti.   No telling what’s gonna happen next.  I’ll  be watching. With great interest. While living in Italy. With my Italian true love. She would like to see a swing to the left. As would I. And so would a majority of Italians. Or so I suspect. Especially young Italians. The new, upcoming generation. Maybe that’s so all over the world. Young people have had their fill of greedy capitalism. Meanwhile, I’m feeling younger than ever.  Despite my 77 years. Maybe that’s what the Italian environment does for me.  Makes me more youthful.  A sense of living in Paradise. And in love. That’s the difference-maker. Makes it possible to focus on the grandeur of life. Good health. The pursuit of non-monetary happiness. And politic based on the common good. Not on the selfishness at the core of capitalism.  The new generation is fast-learning that less is more.  That sharing is better than  hoarding.  That love is the essence of the good life. –Jim Broede

Friday, November 16, 2012

I'll settle for being me.

I wonder. What it must have been like when god first discovered that he was god. Suppose it was similar to when I discovered I was I. Kind of scary. Not knowing what to make of it. Must have been overwhelming for god to comprehend being god. Makes me wonder, too, if god really ever got to know himself. That might pose some serious psychological problems. The same sorts of problems I have. Psychoanalyzing myself. For god, it’s gotta be done on a far more profound scale. Certainly, god is more complex than a simpleton like me.  I’ve been thinking a lot about god in the past week. Because I’m reading a book, by the Italian, Franco Ferrucci, titled ‘The Life of God, as told my himself.’ It’s labeled as fiction. But I see much truth in it. Ferrucci has keen insights. Into the psyche of god. He even suggests that god once seriously contemplated suicide. Even made an attempt at it. But was unable to kill himself. Don’t know if that’s a dreadful thought or not. Because I personally wouldn’t mind living forever.  Maybe my preference won’t always be that way. But at the moment, I’m in love. With my Italian true love. Living in Paradise. On the island of Sardinia. In the Mediterranean Sea.  Contemplating what it must be like to be god. For now, I’ll settle for being me. –Jim Broede