Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Forgiveness -- an overlooked word.

I wanna respect people's religions. Therefore, I wouldn't burn the likes of the Bible or the Koran. But if such burnings happened, and even if it was intentional, perpetrated by hateful bigots, I'd want Christians and Muslims to respond/react in a civilized manner. Without violence. The same way that I'd react if someone insulted me. I'd not become violent. Unless it was in self-defense. Someone wanting to kill me or physically harm me. Book-burning could be construed as a hostile act. But that's all it is. A book-burning. A non-violent exercise. Admittedly, an act of disrespect. Which ain't good. But no reason to retaliate by killing the perpetrator. I happen to be opposed to capital punishment. Even for a murderer. Yet I know many Christians and Muslims who'd favor killing people who haven't killed anyone. Wishing death for someone who merely burns a sacred text. A text that can be easily replaced. The words still exist. In millions and millions of copies of the Bible and the Koran. I've read 'em both. And seems to me, they both preach forgiveness. Yes, a very meaningful word. Often overlooked by religious zealots/fanatics. --Jim Broede

On how to treat a scumbag.

I like dialogues. Talking to people. Exchanging thoughts. But some people don't wanna talk. And listen, too. Maybe that's one of the problems we've got. Especially in the realm of politics. No more dialogue. Only one-way communication. Much of it ranting. I've almost given up trying to talk to Republicans. They don't want true give and take. Instead, they wanna take. Take, take, take everything. No room for compromise. They think of themselves as standing for high and mighty principle. They want all, or nothing. So, I say, give them nothing. Sure, I was once willing to give something. But hey, I deserve a return, too. A concession. A gift. A little personal honesty. Respect. But I don't get that from rabid Republicans. So I stick it to 'em. Just the way they'd try to stick it to me. But I'm not gonna let 'em. I've learned to treat an uncompromising scumbag like a scumbag. --Jim Broede

Give me sweet dreams, please.

Not everyone feels the pulse beat of life. They are ornery. Unhappy. Bedeviled. Angry. Yes, even hateful. Describes the Republican hopefuls for president. What a shame. If one of 'em becomes president. Scary thought, isn't it? That's what they wanna be. So that they can bitch and rail. And foist their distorted views of life on the rest of us. Make the rich richer. And the poor poorer. No empathy for anybody but the rich. Filthy, greedy capitalists. One and all. Self-annointed pious Christians. Hypocritical. That stuff flowing from their mouthes. Catch the stench. Yes, it's bull shit. If they get elected, it'll be another sign of a nation in decline. The very fact that many of us tolerate the lies and deceit. That's awful enough. Let's hope that they are only trying to take over America. Not the rest of Mother Earth. That allows us other places to go. To flee from hell. But then, I'm thinking, this is all a nightmare. I'm gonna wake up. And breathe a sigh of relief. Yes, it was a nightmare. And I can begin to dream again. Sweet dreams. --Jim Broede

Life: Silent. Soft. Soothing.

The landscape has changed. Suddenly, all is white. A 3-inch layer of heavy, wet snow. Snow that clings to the branches. Especially on the fir trees. Limbs drooped. Weighted down. The last day of February. Minnesota white. Which means the scene will be around for only a day or two. Maybe only a few hours. I like it. The cleanliness, the freshness, the magnificence of it all. And soon I will clear the driveway. And breathe the crisp, damp air. Spring. Spring. Spring is coming. New life. But I'm in no hurry. Because even in the bleak beauty of winter, there is life. Silent. Soft. Soothing. --Jim Broede

I'm living. Every moment.

I like getting up at any hour of the morning. Like today. I'm writing at 4:30 a.m. Makes me feel free. Because the clock doesn't dictate my impulses. I hardly notice the time. Also, I'm able to go to bed. Whenever I feel like it. I'm retired. Been that way since 1998. Anyway, I adjust. To my circumstances. I'm living primarily in Sardinia. A province of Italy. In the Mediterranean Sea. With my Italian true love. But at the moment, I'm residing in my longtime dwelling on a frozen lake shore in Minnesota. And next week I'll be in Arizona. Watching Chicago Cubs exhibition games. And living with my daughter. And I won't pay much attention to the clock. Other than being at the ballpark by 1 in the afternoon. And it won't matter whether the game lasts for 2 hours, or 5 hours. Or if the game gets rained out. I'll find something else to do. Maybe go for a walk. In the desert. Or maybe I'll just sit in the stands. With an umbrella. Reading the New York Times. And sooner or later, every day, I'll connect with my true love. On Skype. Or by telephone. Or by email. Could be we'll connect at any moment now. Because though it's 5 a.m. in Minnesota, it's noon in Sardinia. She'll be having lunch soon. And I haven't even had breakfast yet. I prefer to wait. Until we connect. Then I'll make an espresso and a piece of cinnamon toast. Maybe that's why I'm up. Because my true love lives in a different time zone. In a different part of the wonderful world. Doesn't matter. We still make time for each other. At almost any time. By the way, my blog is on Pacific Coast time. Makes it 3 a.m. When it's 5 a.m. in Minnesota. And noon in Sardinia. Like I say. Time doesn't matter. Because I'm living. Every moment. --Jim Broede

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Professing my love.

l like sitting down and writing a love letter every night. Just before I go to bed. It's a nice upbeat way to end the day. Puts me in a good mood. Reminds me that I am in love. I take the time to do it. When I am in Minnesota. And my Italian true love is in Sardinia. But I don't take the time to write the love letter when I'm with her in Sardinia. And I should. Of course, I could spend the time on Rosetta Stone, learning Italian. But I'd much rather be writing a love letter. Albeit, in English. Funny, isn't it? Much easier for me to write a love letter than to practice my Italian. Maybe it's that the love letter comes more naturally. Because I am genuinely in love. But don't tell me my priorities are out of whack. Love comes first. That's the way it should be. I'm fascinated and captivated by this feeling of love. Makes me feel good. And relaxed. And at peace. I wonder what makes others feel good and relaxed and at peace. Is it love, or something else? Often, when I fall asleep at night, I'm thinking of my true love. And how lucky I am to have her in my life. That makes for a restful sleep. And it's also nice to think of how I met her. And how the loving relationship has developed. Progressed. Sometimes, it almost seems unbelievable. Almost too good to be true. Maybe that's why I am at ease. Comfortable. I felt from the beginning that it was meant to be. And therefore, I am supposed to just let things happen. Naturally. One day at a time. To just go with the flow. And that's exactly what I've been doing. For 52 months now. Wow! And I feel no weakening of the love. It gets stronger all the time. Inside me. So here I am. Professing my love. My favorite way. In writing. --Jim Broede

I wanna build a snowman.

Strange thing is happening. I'm looking forward to a snowstorm. A true winter storm. Haven't been in one for two years now. Because my winters have been spent in Sardinia. In a place where we rarely get snow or freezing temperatures. But I've returned to Minnesota for a few weeks. Before taking off for Arizona next week for spring training with my beloved Chicago Cubs. Anyway, if the weather forecast holds up, we'll be hit by a bona fide snowstorm Tuesday afternoon and into Wednesday. Starting with rain and sleet and then turning to heavy snow. I've been away from a sock-a-roo of a snowstorm for so long --that I'm welcoming this one. With open arms and an open heart. For old times sake. I have my snow shovel at the ready. On my back porch. And I'm gonna do my daily 10 miles of walking this morning. Before the storm hits. And then I'll walk again during the height of the storm. Just for the hell of it. To remind myself what it's like. It's been a mild and almost snowless winter in my part of Minnesota, about 30 miles north of St. Paul/Minneapolis. Not a single snow emergency in the Twin Cities. When on-street parking restrictions go into effect so that plows can make cleans sweeps. Of course, the weather forecast could be wrong. Maybe the storm will swing north or south of us. And miss us entirely. That would make me disappointed. Imagine that. A disappointed me. I wanna build a snowman. --Jim Broede

Monday, February 27, 2012

Santorum's right to be a jack-ass.

Rick Santorum has no business running for public office. And especially president of the USA. He'd make a gawd-awful president. Just as he made a gawd-awful U.S. senator from Pennsylvania. Little wonder that he lost his reelection bid by 18 points. Because he was even worse than gawd-awful. Because he's a nincompoop. And a religious bigot. He wants to require people to think like he thinks on spiritual and religious and moral and political matters. Which makes him a jack-ass. It's all right for Rick to be a jack-ass. If that's what he wants to be. Go for it, Rick. But don't expect the rest of us to follow in your hoof-prints. Just find yourself a little corral and prance around. Like a jack-ass. That's your right and privilege. But to expect the rest of us to be jack-asses -- well, that's asking too much. You tell us that you want to do away with public education. And to put the emphasis on home schooling. Which is what you did with your children. Again, that's all right. For you and your children. Guess you have the right to bring them up as jack-asses. Though I question whether that's the right and moral thing to do. But don't stop the rest of us from taking advantage of public education. Rick also tells us that Barack Obama has a 'false theology,' that he isn't the right kind of Christian, and maybe not even a Christian at all. But that ain't your business, Rick. Leave Obama be Obama. He probably prefers that over being a jack-ass. I'm sure that Obama respects your right to be a jack-ass. Show him the same courtesy. The right to be a good and decent president. --Jim Broede

Paradise. It's a state of mind.

I'm always in Paradise. Doesn't matter where I am, geographically speaking. It automatically becomes Paradise. I recently returned to Minnesota after spending the autumn and winter with my Italian true love in Sardinia. She'll join me in Minnesota/Paradise this summer. And I'll return to Sardinia/Paradise in September. Ahhh, wonderful Paradise. My whole world is Paradise. It's a state of mind. --Jim Broede

Why god created Eternity.

I know. I know. I know. There are all kinds of Christians. All kinds of Muslims, too. Zealots. Fanatics. And sensible sounding ones, too. At least, they sound sensible to me. The zealots and fanatics don't. But that's just me. Same goes for politicians. Obama sounds far more sensible than do the conservative Republicans. They sound more like zealots and fanatics. Of course, conservative Republicans and conservative Christians think I'm bound for hell. And maybe I am. But I'll take that chance. Years and years ago I decided to abandon the Christian faith. To abandon organized religion, for that matter. Because I'm uncomfortable with it. With the bull shit. Because that's what it is. Mostly bull shit. Same goes for Republican politics. Pure bull shit. I reject it. Almost totally. Instead, I'm a socialist and communist sympathizer. And when it comes to spiritual matters, I'm a free-thinker. A freelance monotheist. I decide what I'm gonna believe. I don't leave it to theologians or the pope or some guru. I think for myself. And I believe what I wanna believe. Often, without any absolute proof. Though I'm perfectly capable of making a logical and reasoned case in defense of my opinions. Oh, another thing. I'm not worried about going to hell. Because I don't believe in hell. That's just more bull shit spewing from conservative Christians. They ain't gonna scare me. Because my god is a loving god. Doesn't believe in hell. And is too kind and understanding to even consider creating such a place. My god saves everyone. My god is amazingly tolerant. A really good guy. He believes that in the end, everyone sees the light. And gets it right. Just takes time. That's why he created Eternity. Because that's how long it's gonna take. Forever. Thank god. --Jim Broede

The way I look at life.

Funny. In that it's a constant battle for some people. To stop worrying. Seems to me they are natural born worriers. They worry about making ends meet, financially. They worry about someone breaking into their home. They worry about losing their job. They worry about the sky falling. Of course, I'm being funny, too. Maybe I'm exaggerating their proclivity to worry. Because I see humor in it all. They must forgive me if I laugh. Here I am. Seeing many of the worriers as blessed individuals. With good lives. With friends. With decent health. Good looks. A brain. A reasonable amount of security. Living in nice environs. I know. I know. I know. Their lives could be better. As could everyone's life. But their lives ain't bad. Far from it. I think of many of 'em as unique. And blessed. And still, they worry. Needlessly. About calamities that will never occur. There's a cure for all this worrying. Make the most of today. Start living a day at a time. Don't get too far ahead of one's self. Because if they do that, they stumble across reasons to worry. They'll worry themselves sick. So let's stick with today. Monday. Everything is gonna be okay. No need to worry. At least until tomorrow. That's the way I look at life. --Jim Broede

'My gawd, I've created something.'

I take good advantage of situations. For instance, when I'm separated from my Italian true love. When she's in Sardinia. And I'm in Minnesota. Which is the case at the moment. Some days, we tend to talk to each other more when there's geographic separation. Because we connect daily. On Skype, by audio/video. On our computers. We are face to face. And we talk. We take the time. Maybe more than we'd talk if we were physically together. Isn't that strange? I was just thinking about that tonight. And here I am sitting at the computer. Writing a love letter. I think of things to talk about. And I can write about 'em. Without interruption. And in the morning, my true love can ponder the words. Or go back to them later. When she has the time. And the desire. Nice. Nice. Nice. Often, it seems to me, she's more receptive to the written word than to the spoken word. Easier to listen to and grasp. One can read it over and over again. Catch the true meaning. Harder to do that with the spoken word. Because one doesn't see the words. Only hears 'em. The words are more elusive. Or there's an interruption. A distraction. Yes, the spoken word has advantages, too. Easier to catch the inflection of the voice. But still, I'm an advocate of the written word. Like it better than the spoken word. I've always been in love with the written word. I use it. Every day. And I tell myself, 'My gawd, I've created something.' --Jim Broede

Sunday, February 26, 2012

The pursuit of happiness -- in hell.

Come to think of it, I probably could learn to live reasonably happy in any place. Even in hell. Even in a decadent America. By more or less ignoring what I don't like. I could even live in hell. If I could create an air-conditioned comfort. And if I was there with my Italian true love. One has to learn to compensate. To focus on the good things. Hell ain't necessarily 100 percent bad. Of course, this is all theoretical. I haven't yet been to hell. Albeit, I'm living in a decadent America. But still, I'm able to go for a walk in the woods and along a beautiful lake shore. And I eat well. And I'm in daily contact with my Italian true love. On Skype, a reliable audio/visual connection. So life ain't totally bad, even in a decadent America. Even with signs that the political and economic and social climate may worsen. I can still make a go of it. Goes to show that I'm a positive thinker. I have a good attitude. I get a bit down when I listen to the debates between Republican hopefuls for president. But still, I'm able to laugh. Over the stupidity of it all. Yes, there is humor in decadence. Black, dark humor. But humor nevertheless. And I'm still an alive and conscious being. Fully capable of pursuing a reasonable degree of happiness. Even in hell. Even in a decadent America. --Jim Broede

I learned to fall in love. Twice now.

I reach out to people. People I like. And respect. Doesn't necessarily mean that they reach back. Which is all right. Because not everyone is curious. I'm really looking for curious people. People who want to know more about me. And about life, in general. I wanna know more about them. That's why I reach out. To test their curiosity. I know a few people who are very curious about me. But not so curious about others. I find that a little bit strange. I'm curious about just about everybody. When I see a stranger, my curiosity quotient clicks in. Automatically. I begin to imagine things. Who is he/she? And when I get to know someone, I ask, 'What makes him/her tick?' I've discovered that virtually everyone is unique. In one way or another. And I'm constantly searching for that uniqueness. My Italian true love. She's very, very unique. In so many ways. No need to elaborate here. Because she likes her privacy. And I respect it. Maybe I talk about her too much. More than she'd like. But I can't help it. Because she has more positive influence on me than any other being. That certainly makes her unique. I wasn't always interested in people. I used to ignore strangers. Didn't even talk to 'em if I sat next to 'em on a plane or a bus or a train. That was in my younger days. Before I got lit up. Early on, I probably wasn't even capable of falling in love. I hadn't yet decided who or what I am. Takes a while. A feeling out process. I was born into a strange world. Inhabited by strange people. Or so it seemed. Gradually, I became brave and courageous. I reached out. That made a big difference. Because I learned to fall in love. Twice now. --Jim Broede

Easier than living in America.

Allow me to quote from Maureen Dowd's column in Sunday's New York Times:

''Santorum, whose name aptly comes from the same Latin root as sanctimonious, went on Glenn Beck’s Web-based show with his family and offered this lunacy: 'I understand why Barack Obama wants to send every kid to college,' because colleges are 'indoctrination mills' that 'harm' the country. He evidently wants home university schooling, which will cut down on keggers.

His wife, Karen, suggested that her husband’s success is 'God’s will' and that he wants 'to make the culture a better culture, more pleasing to God.'"

That's right, folks. The far, far right has taken over the Republican Party. All of the GOP's presidential hopefuls are trying to prove that they are more conservative than the next guy. It's insanity. They have flipped out. They have become religious zealots. They can't see the world beyond their noses. And they think they can win this way. That they can take over America. And run the show. If that happens, I'll be out of here. Gone. Gone. Gone for good. Never to come back. I don't wanna live in an insane asylum. I want to be free. And not let the inmates run the asylum. Just because they hold the majority. I don't wanna be part of an insane nation. Gone berserk. I have neighbors. Crazy neighbors. Willing to vote for the likes of Rick Santorum. My own congressional district in Minnesota has already elected Michele Bachmann. Not once. But twice. And lord knows, it'll be a third time if she runs again. I pride myself in being a liberal. And I've often boasted that I live in Minnesota because we're liberal. More liberal than the rest of the nation. We even elected liberal Paul Wellstone to the U.S. Senate. But that was long ago. In the past. Before Wellstone was killed in a plane crash. Now I'm forced to put up with the stench of Michele Bachmann. Sad. Sad. Sad. And with the stench of devout conservative Catholics and Protestant Evangelicals that adore Bachmann. And Santorum, too. It's too much for my delicate nostrils. Give me the fresh air of Paradise. In Sardinia. In the Mediterranean Sea. Home of my Italian true love. Ah, yes, there's a world outside of America. I may have to learn to speak Italian. Which won't be easy at my ripe old age. But it'll be easier than living in an America that's capable of electing a Rick Santorum or a Michele Bachmann or a Newt Gingrich or a Mitt Romney or a Ron Paul or a Sarah Palin or a Rick Perry or almost any Republican. --Jim Broede

Saturday, February 25, 2012

I'd rather be me.

People tell me that my way of living won't work. For them. Maybe so. But still, that doesn't stop me from touting my way. It works. It works. It works. For me. And all I'm saying is, 'Hey, folks, find a way. Your way. A way that works. For you.' And if you have been searching and searching and searching, and still haven't found a way -- well, then try my way. You haven't got anything to lose. I live as a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a liberal, a lover, a dreamer. I like those roles. Allows me to thrive. Maybe you'll thrive in the opposite pursuits. Maybe as a conservative and a realist that never dreams. If that's what it takes to turn you on, go for it. Some people thrive as idiots and Republicans. That's their thing. Their calling. And I respect them for it. For being themselves. For being idiots and Republicans. Some of 'em have become rich bankers and frequently elected politicians. Even millionaires and billionaires. Successful in their own minds. Who am I to say that they aren't superior? But such a life for me would be crappy. I'd feel like a failure. I much prefer being a lover. More so than being a millionaire. Yes, I'd rather be me. --Jim Broede

Faraway from Rick Santorum.

Comedian and political commentator Bill Maher puts it this way: 'Watching the Republican field and the 20 debates they've had and the bubble of insanity they live in. Half the country is nuts, and Obama could very well lose. He may not have been the best president in his first term, but given the alternative, I feel there's a clear choice.' Maher is warning his liberal friends to not take for granted that Obama will win a second term. Even if the Republicans put up a loony against him. Because half of Americans are nuts. Crazy. And I agree with that assessment. I talk to everyday Americans daily. And they are crazy. Devout conservatives. People who have lost their minds. It's scary. I live in a congressional district here in normally liberal Minnesota that has twice elected Michele Bachmann. Shameful. Shameful. Shameful. So don't tell me that Obama can't lose. He could easily lose. Because America is going insane. Imagine a Rick Santorum or a Mitt Romney as president. An inmate running the asylum. I live in a neighborhood where I'm overwhelmingly outnumbered by the inmates. Bachmann supporters. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. If my worst nightmare becomes real, I'll leave the U.S. for good. Give me Sardinia. An island in the Mediterranean Sea. A haven for liberals. Paradise. Faraway from the likes of Rick Santorum. --Jim Broede

They earn their keep.

My Italian true love won't like me writing about it. But hey, still it's worth mentioning. Because it's a bit out of the ordinary. Rats have invaded the school where she teaches. In Sardinia. So the school has been closed for three days this week. While the exterminators move in. The nicest thing about it. She gets three days off. Unexpectedly. And I tell her, take advantage of it. Enjoy those three days. Like it's a gift. Meanwhile, I'm curious. How will they get rid of the rats? Apparently, poison. My true love has never personally seen a rat in the school. So they must lurk behind the walls. Maybe in the ceilings. Personally, I don't like the thought of rats. Though I know people who keep rats as pets. But they are little cuddly white rats. Guess there are all kinds of rats. I don't even like the thought of a mouse. Especially in my house. Occasionally, a mouse ventures in. But not for long. My cats Loverboy and Chenuska. Well, they're natural born mouse exterminators. They earn their keep. --Jim Broede

Dear god, it's a joke. Isn't it?

Hard for me to understand why anyone would vote for any of the Republican candidates for president. Especially when they have an alternative. Barack Obama. A guy with a brain. With intellect. With a relatively liberal point of view. Guess that shows I'm closed-minded. I look at the Republicans as idiots. Not imbeciles or morons. But idiots. Their roles in life should be as street sweepers or court jesters or inmates in insane asylums. Not president. I can hardly believe that they are for real. That maybe god created them as a last-minute joke. On the eighth day. Just after Sunday. The day of rest. I'm not sure how to take it. Maybe the creation of Republicans is the ultimate act of a vengeful god. But I'm gonna give god the benefit of the doubt. Dear god, it's a joke. Isn't it? --Jim Broede

Sometimes I have nothing to say.

I'm sometimes slow in extending sympathy to my friends and acquaintances. Because I'm uncomfortable. In knowing exactly how to do it. In finding the right words. I notice that others are quick with their responses. They use the cliches. And it all sounds the same. I don't wanna sound like everybody else. I wanna mull over the words. To think about how to say it. Meaningfully. Maybe for days, or even weeks. Maybe never. Because I don't find the right words. And if that's the case, it's better to remain silent. That doesn't mean that I lack sympathy or empathy. Just means I don't know how to say it. I'm at a loss for words. So I leave the condolences to others. Rather than go through the motions. I guess that's me. I'm being me. And I try to not let it bother my conscience, my psyche, my being, my soul. On the other hand, when I have something to say, I often say it. It's hard to shut me up. --Jim Broede

I like my story.

Things don't always go the way I want 'em to go. Leaving me disappointed. But I try to not get too emotional over it. Because usually I had no control over the outcome. So if it affects me in some inconvenient or negative way, I have to learn to live with it. And to make adjustments. In my life. The same goes for others. For my friends and acquaintances. Their lives don't always unfold perfectly. And when something goes awry, they too often get highly upset. Causing a great amount of anxiety. I try to be a calming influence. By reminding everyone that most everything that happens in life falls short of life and death situations. Things can be fixed. No need to overreact. Most situations could have been far worse. And in the grand scheme of life, it ain't gonna matter much. Because one still has the opportunity to cope. In positive fashion. And to get on with life. And to live reasonably happy ever after. Just like in a fairy tale. The Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Anderson couldn't have written it any better. Take me, for instance. I'm living sort of a fairy tale existence. I like my story. I look forward to the unfolding of life. --Jim Broede

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Life is a two-way street.

I like certain people. Drawn to them naturally. On first meeting. I don't always know what it is. Maybe the vibes. That pull us together. And instantly, know I'm supposed to know this being. We were supposed to meet. It was ordained. On my way back to the U.S. a couple weeks ago, it was the bus driver in Beauvais in France. Elisabeth. But it's far more than Elisabeth. Scores of people. And they effect my life in different ways. But significant and meaningful ways. Some have become good friends. Rosie. Cherie. Veralise. Others are more or less casual acquaintances. Like the clerk/cashier in the grocery store that I frequent. Her name is Darla. But whenever she's on duty, I go to her line. Even if I have to wait for an extra long time. Because I like her. More than any of the other clerks. We joke. We kid. There's a feeling of camaraderie. I haven't bothered to learn the names of other clerks. But I know Darla. Why Darla? Because I sense that it's important to know Darla. Yes, it was meant to be. Very similar to the way I found my Italian true love. It was supposed to happen. Fated. Our paths were supposed to cross. For a purpose. Meaningful and significant. One became my true love. Others became friends. Or acquaintances. There's a difference, of course. There's only one true love. But friends are special, too. In very nice ways. Acquaintances, too. But less special than friends. Maybe it's that I'm a romantic idealist. I believe in destiny. That much of life is pre-ordained. Not everything. I still have free will. I'm able to pick and choose my course. To cultivate certain people. To ignore others. The ultimate decision is left to me. Albeit, my true love, my friends, my acquaintances play a role, too. They've gotta contribute. Life is a two-way street. --Jim Broede

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

A reason to live forever.

I'm gonna spend 17 days in Arizona. In March. More or less taking spring training with the Chicago Cubs. Watching exhibition games. Nine in Mesa. And four in other suburbs of Phoenix. Yes, I'm indulging myself. Making the most out of life. Doing what I wanna do. Such as spending this past autumn and much of winter in Sardinia. With my Italian true love. Once upon a time, living like this was a pipe dream. Or not a dream at all. Because it was stuff I didn't even imagine doing. Instead, I've learned to take life as it comes. And by making the best of it. By pursuing love. And happiness. Cultivating strangers. And friends. I'm a writer. Used to write for newspapers. I suppose that makes me a journalist. I retired in 1998. But maybe I didn't. Because I still write. Whatever I want to write. This blog, for instance. I write more now than before I retired. And I don't take orders or direction from an editor. I'm my own boss now. I do and live and write as I please. Seems to me that I earned this freedom. By living long enough to retire. That's my good fortune. Seems that the older I get, the more I enjoy and appreciate and savor life. Makes me wanna live forever. If god can live forever, why not me? I have no desire to usurp god. I just want the opportunity to live as long as god. Seems like a fair thing. That way I'm pretty sure that I'll see the day when the Chicago Cubs win the World Series. --Jim Broede

'Christianity has become a joke.'

Christians. They are getting sillier. All of the time. At least the ones I know. Thank gawd. I'm not a Christian. I was brought up as a Christian. Went to Sunday school. Was confirmed. Went to a church-related college. I was even a deacon in a Christian church. And I still audit courses occasionally at a local seminary. But I've seen the light. I don't call myself a Christian any more. I'm spiritual. But not religious. A free-thinker. Or a freelance monotheist. I'm independent. I have a direct line to god. My god. I don't allow others to define me. Or to define my god. I'm certain that if Jesus were walking on Earth today, he'd want nothing to do with modern-day Christianity. It ain't his kind of worship. Seems to me that Jesus would be a free-thinker. He'd tell conservative Christians to get lost. That they've got it all wrong. That they're a bunch of selfish jerks. Judgmental idiots. No better than self-serving politicians. Jesus would preach the Sermon on the Mount. He'd have us scrap capitalism. He'd have us demolish the churches. And think of Mother Earth and the cosmos as one vast open-air church. We'd have to learn to love our neighbors. And to love life. To become true lovers. He'd be aghast at the hate-filled, nonsensical world that we've created. But Jesus probably would take it all in a humorous vein. If he came to America, he'd recognize the clowns, the court jesters. Yes, the Republicans running for president. Making off as if they're Christians. "My gawd,' he'd declare. 'Christianity has become a joke.' --Jim Broede

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Brings me closer to my true love.

I'm wearing two wrist watches. The one on my right wrist indicates the correct time in Sardinia, where my Italian true love lives. And the watch on my left wrist shows the time in Minnesota. Where I am headed at the moment (Feb. 9). Minnesota is seven hours behind Sardinia. I've become very conscious of the difference. Because when I'm away from Sardinia, I contact my true love. Daily. And I'm not about to rouse her at 3 in the morning. She won't appreciate it. Anyway, when she's getting up in the morning, I'm going to bed. A perfect time to dial in Skype, our audio/video connection. Also, I usually connect at 4 p.m. Minnesota time. Because that's her bedtime -- 11 p.m. in Sardinia. Skype qualifies as one of the wonders of the world. It's free. Except for the initial computer software. I also connect to my true love's land phone via Skype -- for less than 2 cents a minute. Books I read as a youngster listed the seven wonders of the world. Now there are hundreds. Maybe thousands. Wrought by amazing technology. And many more to come. Not sure that I like 'em all. But hey, anything that brings me closer to my Italian true love is a plus. --Jim Broede

He'd never catch me.

I'm sleepy. Sitting in the waiting area of the airport just outside Cagliari in Sardinia. On Feb. 9. Waiting to board a plane to Paris. It's time well spent. Feeling sleepy. Closing my eyes. Visually blanking out the activity around me. Garbled speech. Italian. Which I don't understand. So I can't eavesdrop. Just as well. The monotony of it all helps me doze. Blanking out most everything. A way to relax. Feel hypnotized. But not everything sounds good. A guy three seats over from me is blowing his nose. Vociferously. Happy he's not sitting next to me. But maybe even this is too close. Trying to avoid germs on my trip back to the USA. Which may be impossible. Because we are packed in like sardines. I've been fortunate this winter. Avoiding crowds. Washing my hands. Being careful what I touch. Maybe that's not good. Avoiding human contact. But still, it has practical health benefits. Meanwhile, the guy with the cold just got up and walked across the room. To a line that's boarding. So he won't be on my flight. Good. Interesting that I am observing the health of people around me. Very few are overweight. Most Italians are slim and trim. Speaks well for them. But a heavyweight guy just walked by. Shaped like a wrestler or a football lineman. He has a crew cut. Might be an athlete taking advantage of his behemoth size. I'd not pick a fight with him. If we tangled I could outrun him, out-distance him. Easily. He'd never catch me. --Jim Broede

Little wonder that I'm a socialist.

Money. Money. Money. One needs money in order to survive. Or to live decently. Some amount of money. Maybe some people do it with small amounts. My son, for instance. He sort of lives hand to mouth. Doesn't save much. Might even be broke at times. From his perspective, maybe he does live decently. Because he enjoys nature. Being outdoors. And he can still be reasonably happy in relative squalor. By taking advantage of things that are more or less free. I'd not want to live totally his way. But I suppose I could. If I had to. It's all relative. I live in the same neighborhood has multi-millionaires. Rich people. Very rich. They may look at me as I look at my son. Living in relative squalor. But I'm happy. Very happy. Because I live the way I wanna live. Half the year in Sardinia. With my Italian true love. And I have a decent home here in Minnesota. On a lake. With a nice view. Especially of the sunsets. In the evening. Because I'm looking west out of my window. Directly across the lake. Covered by ice and snow now. But in the summer, beautiful sunsets not only color the sky, but reflect off the still water. Makes me feel blessed. And lucky. Especially since I have good health. That's another important thing. I'd rather have good health than lots of money. If I felt miserable physically and mentally, the money wouldn't do much good. That's why I'm for affordable health care. For everyone. Rich and poor alike. My son tells me he recently had a knee replacement. Yes, an artificial knee. I wonder how he could afford it. But apparently he qualified for some kind of assistance. Welfare, I suppose. And I like that. Makes me think a little better of the American health care system. Maybe a practical benefit of so-called Obamacare. In my world, everybody that needs a knee replacement should get it. Yes, socialized medicine. They also should get a good education. Socialized education. And when they retire, they should have social security. Yes, a socialized retirement. Little wonder that I'm a socialist. And proud of it. --Jim Broede

Monday, February 20, 2012

Wonder if Sisyphus felt this good.

We're getting snow tonight. A nice white blanket. Lights up the night. The white carpet. Suppose to have 3 inches on the ground in the morning. Which is great for me. Gives me the opportunity to shovel. To exercise my upper body. I'm looking at this positively. I was born to work out. Physically. Feels, oh, so good. Walked 12 miles today. I'm addicted to exercise. Really. And such a wonderful addiction. Makes me wonder if Sisyphus felt this good. Pushing that rock up the hill. --Jim Broede

I'll pass on being a Catholic GOPer.

My devout Catholic Republican neighbor is all heart. I mean that sarcastically. She'd like to convert me. To Catholicism. And Republicanism. I'd rather risk going to hell. She's of a mind that the beggars outside the Vatican in Rome are fakes. Merely people ripping off the tourists. And the other day, I talked politics with her. Told her that the American conglomerate Alcoa is closing an aluminum smelting plant in Sardinia. Laying off 500 workers. Plus the likelihood that another 500 will lose their jobs in subsidiary industries. Instead, Alcoa is opening a plant in Iceland. Because it's cheaper. Alcoa plans to hire 700 workers, mostly immigrants, at a wage of $6 an hour. Meanwhile, Alcoa is showing annual profits of about $21 billion. And my neighbor says good for Alcoa. That it's a sign that capitalism is succeeding. Making money for shareholders. Of course, by shamelessly exploiting labor. A reason why the rich keep getting richer and the poor poorer. No qualms of conscious about that with my devout Catholic Republican neighbor. She thinks I've gone awry. And that I'm going to hell. Because I'm a socialist and a free-thinker. I happen to think that Alcoa is obscene. Certainly not running business the way Jesus would. Little wonder that I don't wanna be a devout Catholic Republican. --Jim Broede

Sunday, February 19, 2012

The mentality of a Republican.

I have a neighbor. She's Catholic. Devout. And the other day, to impress her, I recounted my recent visit to the Vatican. Where I saw Pope Benedict himself. In St. Peter's Square. I wasn't impressed by him. Instead, the impression I had wasn't a good one. It was of the opulence of the Vatican. The extravagance. The elegance. The richness of the place. But just outside the Vatican, I saw beggars. Destitute. Even a crippled old lady. Asking for alms. And I thought, what a contrast. I mentioned that to my neighbor. And her reaction was that the beggars weren't really beggars. But people ripping off the tourists. Freeloaders. I momentarily thought maybe she was joking. But she wasn't. She was serious. But the neighbor isn't only Catholic. She's also a Republican. Very conservative. A Michele Bachmann Republican. And that's their mentality. Beggars are fakes. They need to go out and get a job. --Jim Broede

That's Elsie, all right.

A lovely lady lives in my neighborhood. About five doors away. Wait. No, she doesn't live there any more. She's moved into a nursing home. Just a few weeks ago. Which happens. Especially when you are 95 years old. And living alone. She's a widow. Husband died many years ago. Anyway, I gotta be sure that I go visit Elsie. That's her name. I haven't had a whole lot of contact with her over the years. But she'd occasionally write me a letter. Or a note. To tell me I'm a nice guy. For taking good care of my wife. When she had Alzheimer's. And I think she likes me. For being forthright. Honest. And I like her for the same reasons. Never afraid to express her opinions. In defense of people. Even coming to the support of people who were criticized by her own family members. Even by her husband. Elsie always was an independent woman. It's gonna be difficult for her. Adjusting to life in a nursing home. But I suspect she's gonna do all right. She's still got her mental faculties. But at 95, she can't do everything she used to do. She needs assistance. But my guess is that she'll make the most of her situation. I wonder why it is that some people are lucky to live so very long. Maybe it's the blessing of good genes. But maybe it's attitude, too. Positive thinking. And just being in love. With life. That's Elsie, all right. --Jim Broede

I'm different. And proud of it.

I live in a weird neighborhood. Here in Minnesota. On the shore of Forest Lake. A nice neighborhood. But weird. We are a collection of weird people. An interesting blend. Rich and not so rich. For one thing, there's me. Amazing that I even fit in. Because I'm a left leaning socialist. A communist sympathizer. And virtually all of my neighbors are Republicans. Radical Republicans. They vote for the likes of Michele Bachmann. And some of 'em are devout, unquestioning, obedient Catholics. Especially on social issues. In comparison, I'm a heathen. A free-thinker. But I suspect they think of me as harmless. As demented. When I know full well that they are the ones that have gone bonkers. In a sense, the neighborhood is an asylum. An insane asylum. Full of crazy people. And an unusual mix. Almost impossible to carry on an intelligent conversation. About politics and social and economic issues. We really don't understand each other. Because it's difficult to understand crazy people. Three doors down from me lives a multi-millionaire. He's attempted to sell his mansion. Had it listed for $4.5 million. And two doors down, he has a son that built a mansion, too. Not quite as extravagant as his dad's. But still, it's been for sale ever since it was built. Listed for $2.3 million. The son never occupied the place. Moved to northern Minnesota instead. Anyway, I live in sort of a shack. At least compared to the mansions. I'm considered riff-raff. Far too poor to be a Republican. But still, there are some relatively impoverished Republicans in the neighborhood. Similar to me. People who aren't even millionaires. And the weird thing is that they still vote Republican. Because it's the thing to do. Makes them feel like they fit. Makes them feel like true blue Americans. I tend to taunt them. Poke fun. When really, I shouldn't. I know. I know. I should be kind to crazy people. Even to people that cut off their noses to spite their faces. People who vote against their own best interests. They flagelate themselves. Don't know whether it's stupidity. Or masochism. But I respect their right to be weird and crazy. Takes all kinds of people to make up this world. Makes life interesting. An adventure. I've just returned from another part of the world. Very different from my neighborhood. Spent the winter with my Italian true love. In a city called Carbonia. In the southwest corner of the island of Sardinia. In the Mediterranean Sea. Really, it's Paradise. For more reason than the wonderful beaches. And winters in which there's no snow or freezing temperatures. And a main street named after a communist persecuted by Mussolini in the 1930s. I feel comfortable in Sardinia. Doesn't seem weird. I fit. I like the social and political climate. Of course, the economic climate could be better. But still, one shouldn't expect to have everything. I'd rather settle for peace and tranquility. And love. I'm in love with my Italian true love. She's even gonna come and live with me this summer. In my weird neighborhood. In Forest Lake. And I'm gonna hoist the Sardinian and Italian flags. Not sure that'll go over very big. My neighbors fly American flags. It's the Repubican thing to do. But I'm a different kind of American. And proud of it. --Jim Broede

Saturday, February 18, 2012

I like to improvise.

We are passing over the beautiful, snow-covered Alps (Feb. 9) on the flight to Beauvais near Paris. A bright, sunny day. I'm imagining skiers down there. Too high to see. I'm expecting freezing temperatures upon arrival. And catching a shuttle bus into Paris and to Charles de Gaulle Airport. Thinking about setting up camp at the airport. In the terminal. Overnight. Rather than checking into a hotel. Unless I get there plenty early. And discover a hotel within easy walking distance. If it's late, don't want to risk oversleeping and missing my flight back to the USA. Wanna make the best of my time. Maybe I can sprawl on several chairs without arms. Had armless chairs at the airport in Cagliari in Sardinia. But I was wide awake and had no need to sleep. I can sleep in an airport. Sitting up. A headband over my eyes. Or I can take to the hard marble floor. Using my backpack. As a pillow. I like to improvise. -Jim Broede

She's my reward.

I'm airborne. On a 2-hour flight (Feb. 9) to Beauvais, north of Paris. First leg on my way home to Minnesota. I'm the next to last passenger to board. No reserved seats on RyanAir, one of Europe's many economy airlines. You find your own seat. And many rush to board. To get premium choice. But I don't hurry. Doesn't matter where I sit. It's a relatively short flight. And cheap. Only 54 euros. Passengers limited to one relatively tiny carry-on bag. Maximum weight 10 kilos or about 22 pounds. That can be a problem. A purse or briefcase counts as a bag. Anyway, no need to rush. The plane is maybe 10 percent vacant. I get an aisle seat. Just over the wing. The middle seat vacant. The window seat occupied by a young woman. Maybe in her 20s. Don't know yet if I'll attempt a chit-chat. Likely she doesn't speak English. Unless she's a tourist. Might be. She's alone. And assuming that most women tourists don't travel alone. Though maybe I'm wrong about that. My Italian true love, for instance, used to travel alone. All the time. To Britain. To the Scandanavian countries. Even to Africa. Now we travel together. To Scotland. To Iceland. To Germany. To the Italian Alps. To Venice. To Trieste. To Rome. Today, I'm alone. And comfortable with it. Because in most European countries, English is a second language. Easy to get by. With English. Not so much in Italy. But certainly in Germany. I'm more comfortable in the company of my true love. She's an experienced traveler. I rely on her know-how. Oddly, when we are together, getting lost is more likely. Maybe it's that I pay more attention to where I'm going when traveling alone. I'm more careful. I too often assume my true love is paying attention. That she'll be the trusted pathfinder. The navigator. That she knows the route. Knows the routine. Everything. Often, she doesn't. So we get lost. Doesn't scare me. I like getting lost. With her. For the sake of adventure. She gets rattled. Easily. I tell her, don't worry. Be happy. Savor the experience of finding our way once again. We always do. My true love gives me courage. To travel. That's the way I get to see her. I am motivated. By my true love. In the end, she's my reward. --Jim Broede

Friday, February 17, 2012

Sounds radical to me.

I've been calling Republicans conservatives. And ultra conservatives. And now I'm realizing maybe I've been wrong. The New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman says we need a truly conservative Republican Party. Instead of a 'radical' Republican Party. Friedman is saying, in essence, that the Republicans' issues are way out of date. 'The party,' he writes, 'has let itself become the captive of conflicting ideological bases: anti-abortion advocates, anti-immigration activists, social conservatives worried about the sanctity of marriage, libertarians who want to shrink government, and anti-tax advocates who want to drown government in a bathtub.' Yes, sounds radical to me. --Jim Broede

The real Don Juan.

I feel a little like Don Juan. Only I'm not. Because I've had only two true loves. In my entire life. But I have multiple women friends. There's a difference between a friend and a true love. Makes me wonder about Don Juan. Whether he was a true blue seducer. Or if his primary goal was merely to cultivate friendships. With women. Rather than outright loves. Maybe he didn't bed all those women. Maybe that wasn't his aim. He just wanted to be a romantic gentleman. That's the way I look at Don Juan. Rather subjectively. From my own personal perspective. In my lifetime, I've hardly ever had a close male friend. Instead, I have women friends. So much easier to relate to women. Generally, they have a far more romantic impulse than men. Not all of 'em. But my kind of woman does. Women are different. No doubt about it. Mostly in nice ways. I'm comfortable with my women friends. Even those that aren't friends -- well, I like them, too. But they act too much like men. Maybe that's why they are acquaintances. Not friends. --Jim Broede

Only thing I know for certain.

Six days after returning from Sardinia, I'm still living in Sardinia. In terms of my sleep cycle. Up at 4 in the morning here in Minnesota. Because it's almost noon in Sardinia. A 7-hour difference. Wonder how long it's gonna take to fully adjust. My body keeps telling me to go to bed and to get up at weird times. Hardly ever sleep for eight straight hours. But still, I feel good. About life. And I've carried over my routine from Sardinia. By walking 10 to 12 miles. Daily. And today, I'm gonna buy a new bicycle. Because my old one went kaput. Last fall. Just before I left for Sardinia. Turns out that Minnesota had the mildest winter in a long, long time. Only three days of sub-zero temperature. And only 14 inches of snow. Yes, all winter. I could have been bicycling virtually every day. Maybe there's something to global warming. But then again, last winter was one of the snowiest and coldest on record. Maybe weather goes in cycles. Just like my sleep rhythm. Depends on where I'm living. Only thing I know for certain. I'm in paradise. All of the time.--Jim Broede

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Who are these people?

The couple. Strangers. They just sat down at the far end of my table. In a restaurant. In the airport terminal. At Beauvais. In France. A week ago today. I like that. In Europe. In many restaurants. We share tables. With strangers. Sometimes, we talk. Other times we ignore each other. Depends. On the mood. On the people. Sort of like picnic tables. We're all in this together. Fellow travelers. I sense camaraderie. They are speaking French. No English. So I continue writing. About what I'm seeing. Experiencing. I like to observe. Little things. An Asian couple. Sitting at the next table. Dining on beverage and food taken from their knapsacks. Cheaper than ordering from the restaurant menu. The guy at my table is wearing a black stocking cap. The kind I'd wear in Minnesota on chilly day. At the table across from me: three giggly girls. French, I think. Noticed that the guy's cap is pulled down over his forehead. To his eyebrows. I'm captivated. By the sounds. I close my eyes. To listen more acutely. Foreign tongues. Gibberish to me. Wonder if anyone suspects I'm an American. If they notice me like I notice them. Maybe they wonder what I'm scribbling. Maybe a love letter to my true love. They have no clue. That I'm writing about them. Noticing. Noticing. Noticing. When I glance up, it's to catch glimpses. Of them. At the table behind me, there's a baby. I can tell without looking. Whining. Crying. The Asian woman. A red stocking cap. With a tassle. Pulled down to her eyebrows, too. Maybe that's the French fashion. Outside the restaurant, I've spotted a fashionable woman, probably French. Walking by. High black boots. All the way to the knees. A black purse. Immense. Looks more like a saddle bag. Wearing a man's hat. A fedora. Black. With a tan ribbon. Wrapped around. Talking. On her cell phone. Maybe to her lover. I'm wondering. Who are all these people? I'd certainly like to know. --Jim Broede

Just another annoying delay.

Moving from one terminal to another. At Chicago's O'Hare Airport. Last Friday night. I'm supposed to take a tram/train. Up on the second level of the airport. I'm barely able to squeeze aboard. With one bag. I feel squashed. Like a sardine. In a can. Standing there. For 10 minutes. When we are told to evacuate the train. At the request of the Chicago fire department. And sure enough, those are real firemen. In heavy black water repellent coats and helmets. Standing erect. Some of 'em carrying wooden poles. With heavy metal hooks on the end. Battering rams. Used to fight one's way into a burning inferno. To rescue people. I'm wondering. Is it a terror alert? Maybe a report of a hidden bomb. But we stay on the platform. If it was a bomb scare, I assume we'd be ushered far away. We are milling about. Speculating weird possibilities. Some of us look worried. Not about a possible explosion. But that we've got a flight to catch out of Chicago. The sooner, the better. Fifteen minutes pass. A half hour. Forty-five minutes. I'm getting antsy. I approach someone that looks official. He might know something. Is it possible to walk to Terminal 3? No. That would be dangerous. Crossing busy highways and maneuvering around tricky underpasses and overpasses. What about a taxi? Yes, that's possible. That'll be my fallback option. Ah, I breathe a sigh. After an hour of waiting, we're able to board again. We are on our way. Turns out, someone sniffed what might be an electrical fire. And the fire department insisted on playing safe. Nothing was amiss. No bomb. No terrorists. Just another annoying delay. In the grand scheme of life. --Jim Broede

Red berets. Yes, very French.

If I were a terrorist, I'd probably dress like an armed French soldier. In Paris. At Charles de Gaulle Airport. I'd blend right in. I saw plenty of armed French soldiers, dressed in nifty camouflaged uniforms, walking in groups of three, throughout the airport. They were carrying what looked like machine guns. The weapons pointed down, thank gawd. I assume they were loaded. Made me wonder if there was a terror alert. Or if these patrols have become routine in France. Looked like the soldiers could respond. Immediately. In case of trouble. Interesting world we live in. Maybe only time before soldiers are patrolling more than airports. But streets. All over. Maybe in our restaurants. Our libraries. Our schools. We'll be an armed camp. Worldwide. I like the soldiers headwear. No helmets. But neat looking red berets. Yes, very French. --Jim Broede

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

I know that right is wrong.

Virtually all of my neighbors are Republicans. So maybe I was trying to stir 'em up. Upon my return from winter in Sardinia. I let 'em know that Sardinia is a hotbed/haven for socialists and communists. And that I found that very refreshing. That I'm very comfortable around leftists. Of course, I also try to be comfortable around Republicans. Afterall, it's important to be friendly to those on the other side of the political spectrum. I josh with them. About politics. And we look askance at each other. Anyway, Republicans generally tell me that socialism has failed. And I reply, "Are you telling me that capitalism has succeeded?' And I point to the many failures of capitalism. It's why the world is in such dire economic straits, isn't it? It's why there's an ever-widening gap between the rich and the poor. It's why the middle class is fast disappearing. Yes, I'm saying that capitalism has become obscene. Immoral. A blight on human decency. Meanwhile, it's been socialist programs that have benefited society and helped masses of people. Social security. Public education. Socialized medicine. Our salvation in troubled times, particularly, have been socialist-devised programs. I don't deny that capitalism has helped people get richer. Helped them become millionaires and billionaires. Helped big companies post record big profits, even during a recession. Yes, they do it at the same time that they pay workers record-low wages. Often moving from the USA in order exploit workers. But this doesn't sway my Republican neighbors. They've been turned into robots. They follow the party line. They march in lockstep to the polls. And vote Republican. Because it's the American, capitalist thing to do. Unquestioned. They are of the notion that the right wing is the right (correct) wing. I know better. I know that right is wrong. --Jim Broede

Makes me a survivor.

The world isn't what it used to be. It has changed. Dramatically. And it continues to change. And I don't know how to fully cope. Maybe I have to learn to adapt. Or is it possible that we earthlings find ways to change our political, economic and social systems? To fit the new world. I don't know. I don't have the answers. Maybe nobody does. We're all feeling our way. Maybe I'm in the best position of all. Because I'm retired. I'm 76. Nearing the end of my life. I'm sort of able to tread water. Stay afloat. Watching. Observing. Still able to live a life as a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a writer, a philosopher, a psychoanalyst, a lover, a dreamer. All these things. Yes, I still have an imagination. I can create my own world. My cocoon. I am more or less taking life one day at a time. In a sense, I'm forced to. Because I don't know about tomorrow. The world is changing so fast that I can't rely on there being a solid tomorrow. One that I can predict. Therefore, I pursue my happiness now. Today. In this moment. I have an Italian true love. I just recently returned from Sardinia. Where I spent the winter. With my true love, of course. Because she's the major source of my happiness. Makes me feel like a lover. Which is what I want to be. Right up to the end. I'm assuming that's why I was put on Mother Earth. To love life. No matter what. I decided years ago that I can't change the world. Maybe I can only change me. In certain ways. No doubt about it. I've changed over the years. I'm a little bit different. Every day. Because life ain't static. It's ever-changing. And I'm learning to like the change. Because I have to. In order to be reasonably happy. If I began to hate the change and to hate the world, I might as well be dead. Better to make the best of it. By setting my priorities. First and foremost, I'm a lover. And next, I'm a dreamer. Makes me a survivor. --Jim Broede

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Worth staying up. To savor it all.

If I'm ever homeless on a cold winter night in Paris, you'll find me in the heated passageways between terminals at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Ain't gonna be like a cushy bed in a four-star hotel. Nevertheless, it'll be tolerable. Better than the street. The heating ducts at the bottom of the tall glass walls are narrow. But one can improvise. With a sheet of cardboard. Laid atop the duct. Voila! It becomes a heated mattress. Good enough for scores of homeless men when I wandered through the airport late last Thurday night and early Friday morning. Didn't see any women. Aren't there any homeless women in Paris? Some travelers snuggled in sleeping bags. On the hard marble floors. I was waiting for a Friday afternoon flight. Back to the USA. And instead of checking into a hotel, I wandered. And found cushy comfort on a sofa-like lounge chair in a closed restaurant in the midst of a remodeling project. It was the equivalent to sleeping in an outdoor cafe. Inside the terminal, of course. Just as well that I didn't go to the connecting Sheraton Ritz Hotel. Saved me about 100 euros. But better yet, it was a lesson in the night life at Charles de Gaulle. Very interesting. Seeing how the homeless improvise and make something halfway decent out of a potentially bad situation. Maybe this shows that I'm penny-pinching cheap. But instead, I looked at the experience as an adventure. Tasting life without going to bed. Though I did doze. Closed my eyes for a while. Then opened them again to gaze out the glass panel windows. Watching the streams of lighted traffic sweep by. Ah, seeing the hustle-bustle nightlife of Paris. A very much alive city. I reflected. My gawd, I'm in Paris. Real Paris. And just a few hours ago I was in Sardinia. From one paradise to another. From idyllic and passive and quiet. To one of the most unique life-thumping cities in the world. All in one day. Worth staying up. To savor it all. --Jim Broede

Elisabeth enters my life.

Fascinating. Yes, that describes Elisabeth. She's captured my attention. My imagination, too. A stranger. But someone I need to know. To connect with. Not as a true love. No nothing like that. But as a friend. Because I already have an Italian true love. I know women. Other women. Nice women. Fascinating women, in fact. I have only one true love. But a fair number of female friends and acquaintances. Anyway, Elisabeth is a middle-aged French woman. And she's unusual. Extraordinary, it seems to me. Maybe because she drives a bus. A very long, long bus. Fifteen meters long. She's been a bus driver for 24 years. Maybe half of her life. I met Elisabeth in the parking lot at the airport in Beauvais, 40 miles north of Paris. I had to find my way to Charles deGaulle Airport in Paris. To catch another flight. The next day. I had missed Elisabeth's bus earlier. Just by a few minutes. Maybe that was a godsend. Because that bus had 13 passengers. Elisabeth would have been spread thin. Not enough time to converse with me other than in a perfunctory way. But four hours later, there was Elisabeth and the bus once again. This time only three passengers. I was able to corner Elisabeth. And chat. Because the bus wasn't gonna leave for another hour. She didn't speak much English. But enough for me to understand. And so did Elisabeth. Reasonably well. As long as I spoke slowly. And I know a little French. More than I thought. From 50 years ago. When I took two years of French in college. I surprised myself. With some word recall. Anyway, Elisabeth and I got to know each other. In significant, meaningful ways. We're no longer total strangers. And we'll converse again. I'm sure of it. We're friends. Just friends. Better than being strangers. Never did I expect to see a woman driving a mammoth bus. The longest bus I've ever seen. But Elisabeth does it all smoothly. At nighttime. Racing down country roads. And onto busy, congested French streets. She got me all the way to deGaulle. Right up to the door of Terminal 2. Just where I was supposed to be. Where I bid adieu to Elisabeth. For now. But not forever. We'll correspond, I'm sure. As I do with other friends. With Rosie. With Cherie. With Veralise. All wonderful women. Wonderful friends. I stay in touch. And keep learning more about 'em all. Because I want to. They are fascinating. Each and everyone. They used to be strangers. But no more. I expect them to remain in my life. For the rest of my time on Mother Earth. Gives me a feeling of peace and joy. And fulfillment. --Jim Broede

Monday, February 13, 2012

I'm banking on Fabio's generation.

Fabio Desogus is a member of the city council in Carbonia. The Sardinian city where I lived this winter. With my Italian true love. She served as translator when I interviewed Fabio. To learn, among other things, how the city of 30,000 inhabitants is run. Yes, administered. Unlike many American cities, Carbonia is administered entirely by elected officials. The top official is the elected mayor. And just below him are eight elected 'assessors,' what one might call division or department bosses. These are the nine people that have the authority to make all of the key decisions. The city council has an additional 40 elected members. But they only have the authority to make proposals. Submitted to the mayor and the assessors, which include Fabio. He's head of the department of theater/arts and sports/recreation. He a heady, cultured fella. Only 34. And what I like most about him -- he's a leftist. A liberal. A member of the communist party. My kind of politician. Actually, Carbonia has a history of being a haven for socialists and communists. They're respected by the local population. Carbonia's main street is Via Gramsci, named after Antonia Gramsci, a communist persecuted by Mussolini in the 1930s. I'm very comfortable with Carbonia's political and social climate. Chances are it's gonna be Fabio's generation that decides the future of Italy in the next 20 years or so. And I sense they'll do a reasonably good job of it. Maybe because of their socialist leanings. Fabio is disenchanted with politics in Italy. And with the multiple political parties. The national government is run by a coalition. Parties banding together. In precarious relationships/alliances. Fabio said many young people would like to see the formation of a new political party. One that might muster broad support. The nucleus for such a party might be young people. The ones that see a need to shape a future with hope. With new ideals. Hope is something almost totally lacking among Italy's poor and middle class. Much like in America, Italy's national politics have been run by big corporations and rich people. By greedy capitalists. Fabio's generation doesn't like it. And my guess is they'll do something about it. Something dramatic. Maybe even a revolution. Hope I'm around to see it. --Jim Broede

A compliment or a slur?

Don't know why. But it's required that I submit my passport to be checked by a Ryan Airlines flunky at least two hours before my flight from Sardinia to Beauvais in France. All she does is give a quick, two-second glance. Then stamps my boarding pass. Which I acquired on the Internet a week earlier. Maybe it's a precaution. To see if I look like an Arab. Or an alien bent on terror. Maybe I look harmless. Or maybe the passport check was merely to give the flunky something to do. Haven't gone through security yet. So I'll be checked again. Maybe more diligently. Or maybe not. Seems to me, it'd be easy to fake a passport. Make it look real. That is, if I really were a terrorist. Or maybe I'd be singled out for special attention if I looked like a handsome Arab. Instead of a handsome Slavic. A friend likened my looks to a handsome Boris Yeltsin. Don't think she's kidding. Other than for the handsome part. Gives me incentive to travel to Moscow some day. To amble down the streets near the Kremlin. To see if Russians do a double-take. And ask for my autograph. If so, I'll be obliging and sign, 'Your hero, Boris.' Might as well allow them to be fooled. But didn't Boris die a few years ago? Maybe the Russians didn't hear. Anyway, several decades ago, my associates at work posted a picture of the king of Sweden on the bulletin board, and scribbled that it was me. Incognito. Good gawd. Means I've gravitated. Aged. From looking like a handsome Swede monarch. To looking like a handsome dead Russian. Makes me wonder. Is that a compliment or a slur? --Jim Broede

Sunday, February 12, 2012

And thinking, what a fabulous life.

It's Feb. 9. And I'm killing time. Which is all right. That's what I want to be doing. At the airport just outside Cagliari, the capital city of Sardinia. Around 9 in the morning. And my flight to Beauvais, north of Paris, won't take off until 1 in the afternoon. Four hours to kill. I like that. Time to relax. To not be in a hurry. Time to sip caffe machiato and eat a croissant filled with apricot marmalade. And I have the opportunity to observe all sorts of people. Fellow travelers. Some in a hurry. But not me, thank gawd. Because I allow myself time to slow down and savor. Everything. Each moment. I'm trying to be funny when I declare that I'm killing time. Instead, I'm observing. The goings-on. Around me. In this tiny, out-of-the-way part of the world. It's a bright, sunny day. A couple just sat down at a table a few feet from me. They have croissant rolls, too. And caffe machiato. A special coffee I had never tasted. Until I arrived in Sardinia for the first time two years ago. Used to be that I lived without coffee. Almost all of my life. Now I imbibe. Sort of regularly. Several times a week. It's the Italian thing to do. I'm experimenting. Trying to act a little like a true blue Italian. Means drinking espresso almost daily when in Sardinia. I haven't fully achieved 'daily' without fail. Yet. And maybe never will. But I have learned to appreciate coffee. To make it part of my living ritual. Took 70-some years to reach this point. Goes to show that one is never too old to learn. New ways. New tricks. New beverage. And to fully appreciate it all. No faking. That's an advantage of having an Italian true love. She introduces me to so very much. To Italian ways. Amazing. The doors that love tends to open. Never dreamed I'd be living half of the year on an island in the Mediterranean Sea. Or sitting at an airport in Sardinia. Enjoying life. In a new dimension. Sipping caffe machiato. Munching on a croissant. And thinking, what a fabulous life. --Jim Broede

Saturday, February 11, 2012

My heart rate is back to normal.

On the last leg of my return trip to Minnesota from Sardinia, my heart was thumping at a rate well over 100 beats a minute. Unusually fast, for me. Because my heart normally ticks at 60 beats. And my hands were shaking. I wasn’t my usual calm self. Yes, it had something to do with the fact that I hadn’t been to bed for 2½ days. And I was tired from all of the steady, prolonged traveling and hopping from one airport to another. Still, everything seemed to be going all right. Until the plane was almost ready to land in Chicago. Except, we didn’t land in Chicago. Because of a harrowing rerouting. Chicago had snow. Not much. An inch and a half. But made the runways at O’Hare Airport slippery. And the runways had to be cleared of snow. So instead of landing, we circled for an hour or so above Lake Michigan. I was getting a little nervous by then. I had a connecting flight to catch to Minneapolis. And I wanted to get home in the worst way. Finally, we ran low on fuel. And the captain sounded like Nervous Ned over the plane’s PA system. Tells us the bad news. That O’Hare was still closed. And we had to find an alternative place to land. Pronto. So we could refuel. And it wasn’t gonna be Chicago. Or any other big, nearby airport. Instead, it was gonna be the airport at Rockford, Illinois. And I thought, my gawd, we’re gonna land this big Boeing 707 passenger jet at a tiny airport in a relatively rural hick village. Sounds like a crazy idea to me. Enough for me to hold my breath. Anyway, I tried to not let everyone know I was nervous. That I was just faking it. Though, as I mentioned, the captain sounded nervous. And so maybe I caught the contagion bug from him. Well, we start to descend over the Illinois countryside. Almost immediately. And it looks mighty bleak and snowy. Coming close to sunset. Maybe the sunset of my wonderful life. And I'm beginning to wonder if I’m ever gonna again see my beautiful and intelligent Italian true love, who I left behind in Sardinia. Just as well. Because she gets nervous far more easily than I. As we’re coming down, I’m wondering if the captain's ever been to Rockford before. It’s only an hour’s drive from Chicago. And I’m remembering that I was in Rockford. Many, many years ago. For what, I don't remember. And to the best of my knowledge I never developed a fondness for the place. Never a burning desire to return. As you know my now, we landed safely. Or I wouldn’t be here writing about the experience. I saw Rockford's finest emergency vehicles and fire trucks with flashing lights along the runway. We spent a couple hours on the ground. Being refueled. For another take off. This time, landing at O’Hare. Too late to catch my connecting flight. But I was rescheduled for a much later flight. And landed safely in Minneapolis. Early the next day. Thankful I was still alive and breathing. With a normal heart rate. And knowing that I won't ever forget my second visit to Rockford, Illinois. –Jim Broede

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

I'm in for a rude awakening.

I'm up and at 'em at 4 in the morning. On Thursday. My Italian true love thinks I'm crazy. That I shouldn't get up until 6. But I am preparing to catch a flight today to Paris. From Sardinia. And I like to do everything slowly. No rush. I want more than enough time. So I can do everything in slow motion. Reduces the stress of traveling. I'd rather have time to wait around. And to observe the goings-on around me. I have almost a full day layover in Paris. Before I hop a flight back to the states. To Chicago. Then to Minneapolis. Not sure how I'm gonna get around in Paris. Whether it be by bus or subway or taxi. I'll play it by ear. Knowing I have lots of time. Maybe I'll check into a hotel. Maybe not. If it were summertime, I could spend the night on a park bench. But it's winter. And cold. Below freezing in Paris. I'm dressed for winter. With a sweater and a winter coat. I've been spoiled by the relatively balmy wintertime temperatures in Sardinia. Now I'm in for a rude awakening. Minnesota. The frozen tundra. --Jim Broede

The pursuit of happiness.

I'll take life anyway I can get it. Which is usually a nice way. Even in bad times, it's still possible to be happy and grateful. Even when my dear Jeanne had Alzheimer's. It was rough going for a while. But I learned to enjoy my role as care-giver. After I started getting daily respite. I made care-giving an 8-10-hour-a-day act of love. And that was gratifying. Rewarding. Made for a nice life, really. By making my dear, sweet love a little bit more comfortable. Maybe even happy. That's what life is all about. The pursuit of happiness. Jeanne and I pursued happiness for 38 years. Together. Jeanne has been gone for five years. But I'm still happy. And living a grand and glorious life. Half of the year with my Italian true love in Sardinia. The other half in Minnesota, where my true love also comes to stay in the summer. Yes, life is good. That is, if one learns how to pursue happiness. Even under trying conditions. --Jim Broede

Time to take off long underwear.

Wish I could snap my fingers and be back home in Minnesota. In an instant. Instead of having to travel. Having to make plane connections. And risk weather delays. But hey, maybe that's a nice thing about life. Making it a little bit of an adventure. I'm leaving Sardinia. For a while. Gotta catch a flight to Beauvais in France on Thursday. And then find my way to Paris, to Charles deGaulle Airport for a flight Friday to Chicago. And then another flight to Minneapolis. If all goes as planned, I'll be home Friday night Minnesota time. It'll be 1 or 2 a.m. Saturday in Sardinia. Imagine I'll experience jet lag for a few days. But I'll recover in time to go to Arizona March 4 for about three weeks. To take spring training with my beloved and interesting Chicago Cubs. Then back to Minnesota. A nice life, isn't it? That's the advantage of being retired. And having an Italian true love that lives in Sardinia. And a daugther living in Arizona. I've been in Sardinia since Oct. 1. It's gonna be nice getting back to Minnesota. Because I've been gone for a relatively long time. And hey, I owe myself several weeks of true winter. In Sardinia, when temperatures get down into the 30s fahrenheit, people begin to shiver and lament. In Minnesota, we call it a heat wave. Time to rejoice and take off the long underwear. --Jim Broede

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Ain't gonna get any warmer.

I may have experienced my first freezing temperature in Sardinia. And it took the better part of two winters here for that to happen. Last night. When I was out walking. Down Via Gramsci, the palm-tree-lined main drag in Carbonia. A digital thermomenter showed a reading of zero degrees celsius. The equivalent of 32 degrees fahrenheit. But up the road a ways, another digital thermometer showed 4 degrees. Which am I to believe? Anyway, it felt like the coldest night I ever spent in Sardinia. And we don't have central heating in the house. So it was nice to sleep under a down-filled comforter. And I'm wearing a jacket while I write this the next day. Knowing full well that on Friday I'm returning to Minnesota. And it ain't gonna get any warmer. --Jim Broede

Life is full of surprises.

My biggest regret is that I didn't learn more of the Italian language during my autumn/winter in Sardinia. And it's my fault. I should have put forth more effort. Such as spending at least an hour a day practicing Italian. But my intentions are good. Upon returning to the U.S. on Friday, I'm gonna spend an hour daily on Rosetta Stone, a practical way of learning Italian. So that when I return in September, I'll be better at Italian. I'll never be fluent. But hey, I can do better. It's a nice language. I like the rhythm. Though some of the pronunciations leave me tongue-twisted. Seems to me that it's a passionate language. One reason for all the arm and hand gestures. One gets carried away speaking Italian. My Italian true love speaks good English. And I owe it to her to speak more Italian. Just wish I had started sooner. Like when I was 5 years old. But I didn't know until four years ago that I was gonna have an Italian true love. And that I'd be living in Sardinia for half of the year. Shows that life is full of surprises. --Jim Broede

Fascinating, isn't it?

I'm fascinated by the search for intelligent life. Anywhere in the cosmos. The assumption is that we have intelligent life on planet Earth. Of course, that may prove to be a wrong assumption. We ain't intelligent, after all. At least compared to other forms of intelligence. Could be that we earthlings are so stupid that we couldn't recognize intelligent life if we saw it. Maybe intelligent life forms are trying to communicate with us now. But we are too dumb/stupid to know it. Think about it. What if we humans tried to communicate intelligently with an ant? Or maybe even a Republican. An impossibility? Could well be. We have big radio telecopes/antennas around the world. Aimed at catching signals from so-called intelligent life on other earth-like planets in outer space. But maybe we should be looking at non-earth-like planets. Capable of harboring life forms far more advanced than humans or glorified apes. Maybe they have taken spiritual forms. Rather than physical forms. Allowing them to live and thrive on such planets as Jupiter and Neptune. But we lack the senses and the intelligence to see 'em. They could even be visiting us at the moment. Right here on Earth. One of 'em could be sitting right next to me, trying to stimulate my brain/mind. And getting me to write what I'm writing now. Fascinating, isn't it? --Jim Broede

Monday, February 6, 2012

Alcoa does the indecent thing.

Alcoa, the giant American conglomerate, is a business I could hate. I try not to hate anything. But Alcoa puts me to the test. It's everything I despise in capitalism. Heartless, unmitigated greed. Profit at any cost. Even if it means exploiting labor. Ruthless. Immoral. Alcoa has decided to shut down it's big aluminum smelter in Sardinia, where I've been living this winter. That means 500 workers are losing their jobs at Alcoa. And there's likelihood that another 500 will be laid off in subsidiary industries. Sardinia's economy is already in a shambles because of the worldwide recession. And this ain't gonna help. But despite the recession, Alcoa has shown profits of $18 billion in 2009 and $21 billion in 2010 -- the latest years for which figures are available. Meanwhile, Alcoa is opening a new plant in Iceland, where it's cheaper to operate because of lower electricity costs. And because Alcoa is hiring 700 workers, mostly immigrants, for wages of $6 an hour. If that ain't exploitation, please tell me what is. Believe me, Alcoa could afford to trim annual profits by a billion dollars or so, and still come out way ahead of the game. And I suggest that the billion dollars be routed into higher wages for Alcoa workers. In Iceland, in Italy, all over the world. It would be the decent thing for Alcoa to do. But like so many private, capitalist-motivated corporations, Alcoa will continue to do the indecent thing. --Jim Broede

Sunday, February 5, 2012

Far better than a dream.

I've spent something like 20 Sundays in a row in Sardinia. Living with my Italian true love. And this is the last Sunday before returning to Minnesota. For a while. I expect to be back to Sardinia again and again and again. Anyway, I'm counting down the days. It's already been the last Friday and the last Saturday. I'm savoring each of the remaining days. But then, I'm not sure that any one Sunday is better than another. Because they are all special. Especially when I'm with my true love. By the way, we connect every day. Whether I'm in Sardinia or not. In living color. On Skype. By audio/video. And she'll be with me. This summer. In Minnesota. Never dreamed I'd be living half a year in Minnesota and half in Italy. But this is far better than a dream. It's real. --Jim Broede

I'll let the hurriers wait.

As usual, I was in no hurry today. But I felt hurried. Twice. Which is twice too often. Because I don't like to be hurried. And I'm a little bit annoyed at myself. For allowing myself to be hurried. I've resolved not to let it happen next time. Which might well be later today. People around me often are in a hurry. And so they want me to be in a hurry, too. Enough is enough. I'm going slow. Whether people like it or not. My Italian true love and I were at a beach early this afternoon. A somewhat nippy day. Cool in the shade. And a little windy. But I found a grassy knoll. In the sun and protected from the wind. I lapsed into a pleasant, idyllic mood. Sun-bathing. I could have stayed there for an hour. Maybe two. But my true love wanted to hurry on. To whatever it was we were supposed to do next. I was in no hurry to leave. I really wanted to savor the moment. But I gave in. And hurried on. Like a good, obedient boy. Later in the afternoon we were at a restaurant. Dining. And it was getting to be closing time. My true love noticed that the waitress was giving us the eagle eye. A message, I guess, that we were supposed to hurry rather than dilly-dally. So my true love encouraged me to eat faster. I did speed up a little bit. Though that's against my nature. Next time, I'll follow nature. And maybe even eat slower. To spite everyone. But mostly to satisfy myself. I'll set my own pace. And let the hurriers wait. They need to slow down. Rather than expect me to speed up. --Jim Broede

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Tornadoes banned in paradise.

Never have I seen more dark foreboding clouds more frequently than in Sardinia. Amazing, I used to get prepared for stormy deluges. But it rarely happens. Those clouds are mostly bluff. Meant to scare visitors. The natives know better. They've been fooled all of their lives. They've caught on. One can still venture out without an umbrella. Because far more often than not, the clouds dissipate. Pass by. I suppose the locals have learned to read the clouds. As I am. Slowly. Back in Minnesota if I sighted such clouds, I'd prepare for a big blow. Maybe even a tornado. Not here. Never a tornado. Some high, fierce winds. But no tornado. Yes, the weather gods have banned tornadoes in paradise. --Jim Broede

Something else. Something alien.

The poor will always be with us. That I grant. But seems to me that as a collective society, we can do more to make living poor a little easier. One can still live a good life being poor. That is, if one is guaranteed the basics. The opportunity to work. To lift one's self. And have a shelter, a roof over one's head. And adequate medical care. And a decent education. Chances are that most people with such basics won't stay poor for long. Of course, confirmed capitalists tell us that everyone has the opportunity to pull himself/herself up by their bootstraps. But I'd like to see the opportunities enhanced. Made easier. By a collective society with a heart. Yes, that means redistributing the wealth. Taking from the relatively rich. And spreading it out over our collective society. Seems to me there are religious overtones to such a policy. The decent and right and moral thing to do. I'm not a Christian. Or a member of any organized religion. Seems that's what that fella Jesus would have us do. But many Christians are more loyal to the credos of the Republican Party than to their own religious faith. That puzzles me. They profess a belief in the teachings and preachings of Jesus. But they must be lying. Because they practice something else. Something alien. --Jim Broede

Little wonder. I distrust the rich.

I distrust people with lots of money. Yes, rich people. Admittedly, that makes me somewhat close-minded. But I'm of a mind that money tends to corrupt. Because money is power. And power corrupts, doesn't it? Of course, not all rich and powerful people are necessarily corrupt. Still, I'm inclined to assume guilt until proven innocent. If for no other reason than the nature of money. And the nature of people. People who get money, generally want more and more of it. That's my biased impression. They fall in love with money, and what it can buy. Even unnecessary things. And often, they lose track of what it's like to be poor. Most of 'em probably never were poor. They were raised with silver spoons in their mouths. Many of 'em are Republicans. And rank with the richest 1 percent in America. And many of 'em are in Congress. Making decisions that affect poor people and the middle class. I'd much rather see more ordinary Americans deciding our political and economic and social fates. More likely to serve the common good. Rather than the good of big business and the most affluent. But these days, we are compelled to consider corporations as individuals. Not the same as you and I. Because we are relatively impoverished. We are poor and middle class. The corporations are the ruling elite. They have the cash to back up their bark. The bark is loud and clear. Little wonder. I distrust the rich. --Jim Broede

Friday, February 3, 2012

Not as hurtful as sticks & stones.

Verbal abuse doesn't really bother me. Maybe it used to. Years and years ago. But I have learned to put mere words into perspective. Words are just that. Words. Yes, they can be meaningful. But when they come from an angry mouth or from an idiot -- well, they can be funny. Just depends on how one chooses to take the words. And one must consider the source. Could be that the words emanate from the mentally disturbed. Or from someone with a limited vocabulary. I can forgive verbal abuse. Relatively easy. Especially if aimed at me, and not at others. I draw the line with physical abuse. Don't get physical with me. Won't stand for it. No empathy or sympathy for physically violent people, period. Not likely to turn my cheek even once -- that is, when it comes to physical violence. As for the verbal stuff, I may turn the cheek a time or two or three. Because I love language. And the varied uses it's put to. I'm the curious sort. Wondering why people choose the words they choose. As kids, we used to chant 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can't hurt me.' That isn't totally true. Words can and do hurt. If one allows them to. They might hurt if the taunt comes from a loved or respected one. But if from someone lacking my respect, they're often stupid words. Not as hurtful as sticks and stones. --Jim Broede

Makes me happy. Makes me me.

I don't want anyone to be like me. Otherwise, I wouldn't be unique. I want to be one of a kind. So it's unnecessary to follow me. To do as I do. Be different. Be your own self. That's what I tell people. Even if that means I might not like you. Fact is, I don't like everybody. Never will. Some I like. Some I don't. Call me indifferent about most people. Because I don't know 'em. And never will. It's impossible to know everyone. Even though I cultivate strangers. I'm curious. Can't help it. I come up to strangers. And start a conversation. Or at least try to. That turns off some strangers. But turns on others. My kind of people. People know almost right away -- that I'm different. That's good. Because it's what I want them to know. A sign of good communication. Something that the world lacks. Good communication. Maybe we are too shy or too scared to open up. Especially to strangers. But I manage to overcome my inherent shyness. And I'm seldom afraid of anybody. It's against my nature to be scared. Because I'm in love. With life. Makes me happy. And trusting. Makes me me. --Jim Broede

That works for me.

I never tell people they have to do things my way. They just think I do. Instead, I merely tell them what works for me. Take it or leave it. I may suggest that they try this or that. But that's all. A suggestion. It's up to them to decide. I have enough difficulty deciding what I should do. So I'll refrain from telling or commanding others. It only seems like I'm telling Republicans, for instance, to stop acting like asses. In the end, it's their decision. They have every right to be assholes. In order to provide the nation with comic relief. And if an idiot wants to vote for a Republican, who am I to stop him/her? Idiots can do as they please. And continue to act like idiots. Being themselves. Completely. Fully. I'm a live-and-let-live sort of guy. If I choose to be smarter and more savvy than a Republican, sobeit. That's my business. Of course, I rub some people the wrong way. That is, in their mind. In their opinion. On the other hand, as far as I'm concerned, they are being rubbed in the right way. Because that makes 'em annoyed. That works for me. --Jim Broede

It doesn't have to be sobeit.

Excuses. Excuses. Excuses. I hear so many excuses why unhappy people don't change their lives. So that they become reasonably happy. They don't have to become ecstatically happy. Just enough to get out of the doldrums. Instead, they are bogged down in their unhappiness. It takes too much gumption, I guess, to climb out. Too much mental and emotional and physical effort. Or maybe it's because they have insufficent chemical/hormonal make-up. The wrong genes. Always, there are excuses. Maybe some of 'em valid. Others not. All I'm saying is that many unhappy people don't have to stay unhappy. They have choices. They can become happy again. With a little bit of effort. Or maybe a whole lot of effort. But it can be done. Where there's a will, there's a way. Of course, I concede there may not be a will. Some people prefer to stay unhappy. Rather than extend the effort. Sobeit. But it doesn't have to be sobeit. --Jim Broede

I like the total package.

It's difficult pigeon-holing people. Deciding what and who they really are. Not certain that I want to. Because invariably, many of 'em are a whole lot of things. Full of contradictions. Which is all right. Most of us probably are that way. Inconsistent. For instance, some of my close personal friends are mavericks and comformists. All at the same time. They go their own way in many matters. But still, in other ways, they like to blend in. Not be noticed. And they do this by acting like everybody else. My Italian true love is something like that. She can stand up for principle. And take a moral stand, for instance, that gets her in trouble and noticed. Maybe even shunned by some of her associates. But to me, that's an admirable trait. On the other hand, she's a comformist. On what seems to me very silly matters. Maybe even to the point of hiding her true self. Just to avoid being noticed. People draw all sorts of lines. I do. Possibly for no valid reason. Other than, I just feel like it. I'm far more likely to stir up trouble/turbulence than my true love. But she's a perfectly capable troublemaker. When she wants to be. I find her attractive. In so many ways. Both as a maverick and a comformist. I like the total package. --Jim Broede

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Wished I had taken the ride.

I was offered a ride yesterday. And didn't immediately know it. Because when I'm walking, and someone stops his vehicle, and starts talking to me, I automatically assume he wants directions. And I start my spiel. That I don't speak Italian. That I'm an Americano. Well, this guy was persistent. He kept talking to me. In Italian. And I thought he was asking directions to a grocery store a mile or so down the road. And I started pointing. Go straight. Then take a left. When suddenly, I recognized the guy. He's a clerk at the grocery store. And he recognized me and thought I needed a lift. He hand-patted the empty seat next to him. And motioned me to get in. He'd take me as far as the store. Instead, I started jogging in place. To indicate that I'm out for exercise. And that I wanted to walk. And he got the message. But I was thinking. How nice. For him to stop. And offer me a ride. Almost felt like I should take the ride. And wished I had. So that I could thank him. More profusely. --Jim Broede

It's embarrassing.

My second winter in Sardinia. And seems this one is colder than the last. But still, not cold by my standards. After decades of living in Minnesota. I have yet to experience a freezing temperature or snow in Sardinia. Though I'm told it occurs in the mountains. Oddly, many Sardinians dress like Minnesotans in the winter. Stocking caps. Mufflers. Gloves. Heavy, padded coats. Makes me laugh. They look over-dressed. I wear a light jacket. A sweater. But I'm feeling a bit colder. Maybe my blood has thinned. Because I haven't experienced a Minnesota winter for a while. I have become a sissy. A Sardo, the masculine word for a native of Sardinia. My true love is a Sarda. The feminine. She's a sissy, too. Wears a heavy, bulky coat. Like an Eskimo. It's embarrassing. --Jim Broede

Only good spirits. I love 'em all.

A loving relationship. Maybe nothing better than that. Not two, three, four loving relationships. But one. That's all I can handle. One at a time. I've had two truly loving relationships in my lifetime. One lasted for 38 years. Until my dear wife Jeanne died of Alzheimer-related stuff. Now I'm into my second one. For about four years now. Guess that's what keeps me going. Love. I'm a romantic idealist. Didn't know it until I fell in love. Though 'falling' may not be the right word. Love is far more than 'falling.' It's a continual floating or drifting. A continual nurturing. Never static. Always in motion. Something new. Every moment. Every day. Brings a vitality to life. I can't fully define love. Any more than I can define god. In some ways, love is elusive. Hard to pin down. I know it. I feel it. Deeply embedded in my spirit. That's another thing hard to define. I know. I have spirit. Ain't physical. That's wonderful. Because that brings me to awareness. Of another dimension. Far beyond my physical being. Another sense of existence. And consciousness. Come to think of it. It's all right to love more than one spirit at a time. I love all of the good spirits ever encountered. Makes me wonder if there's such a thing as a bad spirit. I think not. Only good spirits. I love 'em all. --Jim Broede

Cats, cats, cats in life and death.

Thank gawd. The dead cat I've watched gradually decompose on a sidewalk in Carbonia in Sardinia, where I'm staying this winter, is gone. Somebody picked up the remains. Maybe the city street sweepers. Maybe a kind-hearted citizen thinking the cat needed a proper burial. Anyway, the cat is gone. And so is the stench from rotting flesh. For a month or so the gray cat was there. Prone. On it's side. I'm moved by the untimely death of an animal. On the roadside. Anywhere. Maybe even moved moreso than by the untimely death of real people. Maybe that doesn't say much for me. But there's something special about an animal, especially a cat or a dog, that draws me in. I want to believe that these animals have souls. That everything living has a soul. Something that survives after physical death. A spirit. Therefore, a carcass or corpse on the sidewalk shouldn't bother me. It's an abandoned, empty vessel. That once contained a soul/spirit. But still it does affect me. When it's an animal. I cry when one of my pets dies. I grieve. For a few days. Maybe a few weeks. I'm sad even when I see a dead cat on the sidewalk. Now there's another one. Down the road a half-mile. Near the gypsy camp. On the sidewalk. Where I walk. Daily. For three days now. A tan cat. Looks a little like a teddy bear. Soft, bushy fur. A very solid, muscular cat. In the prime of life. When it must have been thumped by a passing vehicle. Made it's way to the sidewalk. To die. Looks so peaceful. So tranquil. Maybe the spirit/soul is in a better place. Valhalla. Nirvana. Whatever the idyllic place is called. Maybe it'll take a month for the body to disappear. I won't know. Because I'm leaving in a week. Returning to the U.S. Where I'll be greeted by my two loving cats. Loverboy and Chenuska. It's been a while. I last saw them last September. They're household cats. Never go outdoors. Unless accompanied by me. I don't want them near the perilous road. --Jim Broede

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

I don't bore myself.

I know how to kill time. By putting time to good use. Instead of wasting time. When I return to the U.S. next week, it's gonna take the better part of two days. Because I'm gonna have relatively long layovers. But I'll manage my time well. Reading. Walking. Maybe even jogging. Catching naps while I'm sitting up. And not least, talking to strangers. Satisfying my curiosity. I'll eat well, too. Sampling the local ethnic foods. I won't allow myself to be bored. I'll make something of the experince. And I'll even write about it in my blog. When I get home. It's all part of traveling. Some people tell me I might be bored. But they should know better. That is, if they truly know me. I may bore people. But I don't bore myself. --Jim Broede

Thankful that I still have hair.

I'm gonna get another Sardinian haircut before I return to the states next week. Which means, it'll be very trim. Short. Making me look clean-cut. My barber speaks only Italian. And so I make my wishes known largely with sign language. Hand and arm gestures. The kind that Italians use frequently and with considerable animation. Yes, that's the language I've learned. Demonstrative Italian sign language. I could speak to the deaf. And make myself known. That's the advantage of living in Italy. No need to speak with one's mouth. My barber is an older fella. Maybe not as old as me. But nevertheless, old. Probably old enough to retire. But my guess is that many, many Italians can't afford to retire. They keep going on and on and on. That's my good fortune when it comes to haircuts. There's another barbar in the same shop. Younger. But I prefer the older guy. I walk by the shop almost daily. And when I see that he hasn't got a customer, I'll stroll in. And point to my head. And make scissor-like motions. And off we go. Very thankful that I still have abundant hair (albeit white) that needs to be cut. --Jim Broede

Wonderful. At least in my mind.

I may have to kill 15 hours in Paris next week when I'm returning to the U.S. And my Italian true love wants me to check into a hotel. With an advance reservation. To get a good night's sleep. But I'm adverse to that idea. I'd rarther stay up. Even if that means sitting around and strolling at Charles DeGaulle Airport. My time could be well spent. Just looking at fellow travelers. Maybe even conversing with one or two. Catching an occasional nap while sitting up. And testing French cuisine at the airport. That's my style. Thing is that my plane back to the states doesn't leave until noon on Friday. And I'm catching a cheap flight the day before to near Paris. The plane goes to Beauvais, a small town 40 miles north of Paris. Of course, that means I have to find my way into Paris and to DeGaulle Airport. Not sure about the connections. And how long it'll take. But presumably I'll play it safe and get to DeGaulle well ahead of time. Again, that's my way. To not cut it too close. And to heck with the convenience of a hotel bed. My true love and I once had a layover of eight or nine hours in Fredrickshafen in Germany. And she wanted to catch some sleep in a hotel. But I thought that was too risky. We might oversleep. And miss our connection. So I was for waiting it out on a bench that circled a mighty old tree in a beautiful park. To her annoyance. But on reflection, it was a nice way to spend spare time in Fredrickshafen. And I have only fond memories of that bench and the park and my true love. From that wonderful experience. And believe me, it was wonderful. At least in my mind. If not hers. --Jim Broede