Monday, April 30, 2012

There's a story behind everyone.

In becoming better acquainted with my neighbors, I may be learning too much. Things I might not want to know. Marriage break-ups. Serious illnesses. Alcohol abusers. Some generally very unhappy people. Yes, my neighbors probably are typical of society. A blend of good and bad stuff. Happy people. Unhappy people. Maybe I was better off wearing blinders. Paying little heed to what's going on. Not really knowing my neighbors. But hey, I'm on a mission. To get a better feel for the neighborhood. And for the people in it. Not that I can do anything about it. Those leading troubled lives have to find their own routes to happiness, or to a better life. I'm one of the fortunate. I really don't have serious problems. At least, not at the moment. But I'm discovering people with serious problems. Mental. Physical. Emotional. I could write a book. About getting to know one's neighbors and one's neighborhood. In some ways, I suppose, my neighborhood is unique. But in other ways, I suppose it's much like any other neighborhood. With most people just going about their business. And really not paying much attention to each other. Because they are focused on their own problems. In their own families. Amazing what I discover. By engaging neighbors in conversation. By socializing. They volunteer lots of information. Maybe they talk because they sense I'm listening. And because I'm inquisitive. I learn a lot from people that talk about other people. More than they talk about themselves. Very informative. Very enlightening. But also entertaining. There's a story behind everyone. Yes, very personal stories. --Jim Broede

I prefer an inner circle.

I like to drag people into my world. Especially my friends. Which means, I like to share. To introduce my friends to each other. I even like to share my Italian true love. Because she has more influence on me than anyone. She motivates me. Inspires me. She's worth knowing. Yes, I live in a world. Around me. Something that is. Always was. But I've also created my own little domicile. Which I sometimes refer to as my cocoon. An inner circle. Of friends. And spirits. I invite in the closest of my friends. In a sharing manner. So they get to know each other. And know me. Otherwise, I'd be selfish. But then again, maybe I am. Selfish. Because I prefer an inner circle. Rather than an outer circle. --Jim Broede

Makes me a dreamer, doesn't it?

I'm starting to think of my neighborhood as the world. Yes, Mother Earth. The whole place. From one end to another. From top to bottom. I've been defining my immediate neighborhood as the half-mile radius around me. But that's silly. Far too restricting. Decided I wanna start thinking big. Now that I've become a world traveler, of sorts. In fact, I'm thinking about branching out. Beyond Earth. To the planets. To outer space. To the entire cosmos. Yes, to other galaxies. That's my goal. My dream. Preposterous? No. Because I suspect that once I become spirit, I'm free to navigate. To go anywhere. Merely by moving my spirit. Instantly. To any place in the cosmos. I can even move 1,000 light years away. In the snap of my spiritual fingers. No limits. Life would be a terrible shame if I didn't have access to all of creation. I suspect that's what god intended. Makes me a dreamer, doesn't it? --Jim Broede

On becoming an explorer.

Dennis is gone. And there's new owners in what was his domicile on the lake for 20 years. He's back in the Detrot area. Where he grew up. In the two decades that Dennis lived in the neighborhood, I didn't know his name. But before he left, I learned not only his name, but interesting stuff. Dennis is becoming a world traveler. Better late than never. He's been to Albania. Recently. For the wedding of his son. To an Albanian. Albania ain't that far from Italy. Where I'm living half of the year with my Italian true love. In fact, Albania is just across the Adriatic Sea. Strange, isn't it? That I decided to get to know a little about Dennis. Just before he pulled up stakes. And left. I suggested that Dennis read my blog. It's a way to stay in touch with his fond, old neighborhood. And maybe he'd even read about himself. By the way, Dennis, many of your neighbors were surprised and pleased to learn of your Albanian connection. Some of 'em wish they were world travelers. And I tell them, go, go, go. Never too late to explore the world and other cultures. --Jim Broede

Sunday, April 29, 2012

Gonna keep being neighborly.

Larry and Jane seem to be a nice couple. They live about 10 or 12 doors down from me. On another street. Wasn't until a week ago that I learned their names. Though they've lived in the neighborhood for years and years. They used to have greyhound and collie dogs. And they walked 'em daily. We passed each other. Maybe hundreds of times. Waved. Exchanged brief greetings. But never got to know each other. I never bothered to learn their names. Until I finally asked. Because I'm on a mission. To get to know the names and something about my neighbors. Yes, people living within a half-mile radius of me. Noticed Larry was walking a different dog. But turns out it's not his dog. Belongs to a neighbor. And Larry is doing the neighbor a favor. Larry's charming collie was put to sleep a while back. So Larry and Jane don't have a dog any more. Unless one counts the neighbor's dog. Maybe the neighbor is on vacation. I didn't ask. But I chatted with Larry. He and Jane spent much of the winter away. In Hawaii. And on a trip east. To visit his son. In Philadelphia, I think. I'm gonna keep learning more about my neighbors. All of 'em. Not only their names. But other interesting tidbits, too. --Jim Broede

Cruising in a spiritual paradise.

It's the most hauntingly beautiful spiritual music I've ever heard. The Don Cossack choir/chorus. Singing/chanting the liturgical music and divine requiem mass of the Russian Orthodox Church. I became acquainted with the music when I was a youngster. On the Decca label. Two phonograph records. And I listened. Hundreds of times. Mesmerized. Hypnotized. A true spiritual experience. I don't know what happened to the records. Probably wore out. And I've looked for a transcription. On CDs. And haven't found one. Though I do have the music performed by other groups. But still, it's not quite the same as the Don Cossacks. I was pleasantly reminded of the music today. When I purchased, for 50 cents, a used CD of sacred chants for soloists and male choir. Performed by the 'Orthodox Singers' choir/chorus. Featuring soloist Irina Arkhipova, a mezzo-soprano. Listened on my battery-operated CD player while riding my bicycle. Today. Cruising in a spiritual paradise. --Jim Broede

I'm trying to deal with bugaboos.

I like to confide. That's a word that I embrace. And savor. Because it's so meaningful. To me. In terms of the way I deal with life. And people. I confide. A whole lot. In people that I like. But even in strangers. My desktop dictionary defines 'confide' this way: 'To have confidence. To trust. To show confidence by imparting secrets. To tell confidentially.' But then, I don't have secrets. Or at least not many. Not intentional secrets. Only things that I forget. Unintentionally. Anyway, I like to go naked into the world. To hide nothing. Maybe that's an impossibility. Because there's so much to hide. A huge collection of experiences. Can't possibly keep tract of 'em all. Maybe that's the bugaboo of life. Yes, that's another word that catches my fancy. Bugaboo. So many, many bugaboos. Here's the definition: 'An imaginary object of fear. A source of concern.' Maybe that's why I confide in people. In virtually everyone I meet. Because I'm trying to deal with bugaboos. With misunderstandings. --Jim Broede

Saturday, April 28, 2012

In rapturous bliss. Called love.

I'm not so sure that god is masculine. Could be that he/she is a woman. And I should be addressing him/her as she. But then, maybe it really doesn't matter. And one should accept god as god. And who cares? Masculine or feminine. Or neither. It's no big deal. Gets to be confusing when one tries to define god. Maybe god can't be defined or truly understood by mere mortals. God could be beyond human comprehension. And it's silly to even try to fully grasp the concept. Maybe god is everything. Life itself. Consciousness. That could be it. If one is aware of being, of one's own existence, perhaps that makes one a piece of god. If not god, himself/herself. Anyway, I have a direct line to god only when I'm conscious. Able to think. And especially if I'm able to love. Someone. And to love the life force. I know people who get hung up over trivialities. They tell me that god deserves respect. And they accuse me of showing god utter disrespect. Because I don't capitalize the word god. But some of these same folks accept the notion that god is vengeful. And that god establishes asinine rules/edicts, and that if one disobeys god, one is condemned to hell. For eternity. Of course, to portray god that way is to show him/her as hateful. Anything but the god of love. I'm of the notion that god saves everyone. Even atheists. Even so-called evil-doers. I suspect that god is experimenting. Feeling his/her way. With creation. And that in the process, god has been overcome/overwhelmed in rapturous bliss. Called love. --Jim Broede

God's masterpiece.

I have a network of friends. Mostly women friends. Sometimes, I suspect my only true friends are women. I don't connect so easily to men. I really haven't fully analyzed it. All I know is it's easier talking to women. Even my longtime doctor is a woman. Makes me feel much more comfortable than a man. I get more empathy. More understanding from a woman. Seems to me that women are much better at capturing the true nature/essence of life. Generally, they have a softer approach. Oh, not all women. Some have become too masculine. They wanna be men. Rather than themselves. Which, I suppose, is all right. To each her own. Funny thing. Sometimes I've been accused of being a woman hater. But that's by women that don't understand me. The ones that do (understand) know fully well that the truly feminine woman is god's best creation. His masterpiece. --Jim Broede

In pursuit of our dreams.

Over the years, I've had friends that started new lives. After disappointments. Some after failed marriages or other emotional setbacks. And I admire them. For their courage. Because that's often what it takes. Courage. To forge ahead. To get on with life. To pursue happiness. Ain't always easy. But that's where the courage thing comes in. Some go into depression. Which ain't exactly the way to seek happiness. In essence, one has to get over it. Some do. Some don't. But I insist that everyone try. And sometimes I've been there to help 'em. Makes me feel good. To give a friend a boost of confidence. That's what true friends are supposed to do. Help the ones that are most in need. To help each other pursue our dreams. --Jim Broede

Friday, April 27, 2012

I'm gonna be more attentive.

I'm really getting to know what's going on in my neighborhood. Maybe more than I want to know. Even about personal rifts between certain neighbors. Some neighbors won't even talk to each other. Because of disagreements. Animosities. I may have an occasional rift with a neighbor. But we always patch up our differences. And find ways to get along and be nice to each other. It's called mutual respect. I don't give anyone the silent treatment. I try to get along with everyone. Even wacky Republicans. And there are scores of 'em. By the way, I define my neighborhood as the half-mile radius around me. Goes well beyond next door. I walk or bicycle through the neighborhood virtually every day. And I listen for scuttlebut. Not gossip. But morsels of information. Curious tidbits. I'm gonna write about some neighborhood personalities and happenings. Which is something new. Because I've pretty much ignored the neighbors these past 40 years. Decided that ain't good. I'm gonna be more attentive. --Jim Broede

The good crazy and the bad crazy.

I'm crazy. To some degree. Can't help it. That's who I am. Crazy Jim. And I'm attracted to other crazy people. To a particular kind of crazy. Good crazy. Not bad crazy. A conservative Republican, for instance, is bad crazy. Needs to be in a mental institution. Needs therapy. Treatment. Unfortunately, he/she usually doesn't get it. Roams freely on Earth. And speaks gibberish. And seeks power. And thinks negatively. Tends to be selfish. Always opposes the common good. Abhors socialists. And generally thinks of anyone who ain't a Republican to be a socialist and atheist. Then there's the good crazy. Someone like me. A romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover and a dreamer. Known to go off the deep end. Tends to be a poet. And an optimist, too. Spends his life in the pursuit of happiness. And in love. With someone. But mostly with life. --Jim Broede

In intimate ways.

I talk to all sorts of people. Right here in my blog. It's a nice way to connect. I'm sure that people read different things into what I have to say. Because virtually everything has multiple meanings. After all, the proper way to read is to put one's self into the piece. Yes, to relate. From one's personal experience. A little like reading a poem. I'm not afraid to take a different slant than the one intended by the poet. Which is all right. Because I'm opening up a dialogue with the poet. Even dead poets. And in the process, I often become a poet. Therefore, it becomes two poets. Communicating with each other. Enlightening each other. In intimate ways. --Jim Broede

A divine experience. For everyone.

Some people don't want to be figured out. Don't want to be understood. They don't wanna even be understood by themselves. Let alone by me. That's how I turn off some people. I ask too many questions. I probe. And ultimately, I alienate. Not everyone, of course. But many, many people. I expect it. Doesn't surprise me. Because I understand the nature of people. Or so I assume. No doubt, I could be wrong about my personal assessments. My analysis. But it's up to others to set me straight. That is, if I'm wrong. And usually I'm right. Yes, right on target. I'm a good listener. That's why I'm on target. But some people don't listen. Even to themselves. Or they lie. Not only to me. But to themselves. It's a sad state of affairs. But occasionally, I see people wake up. They face the truth. And that becomes a divine experience. For everyone. --Jim Broede

Thursday, April 26, 2012

I have nothing to hide.

I never hide behind a pseudonym. Because I'm proud of my name. And proud to be me. I post on the Internet. On message boards and other forums. And I always use my real name. But most folks don't do that. Hardly anyone does. That's a shame. Especially when people express opinions. Or criticism. They should have enough guts to identify themselves. I'm very opinionated. And I'm not afraid to stand up for my beliefs. In person. With my real name. Really, I have nothing to hide. Meanwhile, I never cease to be amazed by the huge numbers of gutless people. The ones that stay anonymous. --Jim Broede

Helps me find right.

It's one of my favorite pastimes. Trying to figure out what makes people tick. Thing is, they don't know themselves. So I ask questions. Maybe a single question. What makes you happy? A surprising number of my acquaintances don't know. So, I ask, what makes you sad? And they have ready answers. They've thought about the things that have gone wrong in their lives. But not about what went right. Maybe that's the nature of depression. Or it could merely be negative thinking of natural born pessimists. Then there are the people that don't answer questions. Thinking it's an invasion of their privacy. They clam up. Which I generally find funny. Because there's so much to talk about. So many opportunities to get to know each other. To probe beneath the surface. After all, isn't that the purpose of life? I didn't start living until I learned to ask questions. When I became truly curious. Not only about myself. But about others. But for that to happen, there has to be give and take. Two-way communication. Some degree of nakedness. Honesty. Maybe that's what I'm really looking for. Honest people. Truth-seekers. People that aren't afraid to make mistakes. Because that's how one learns. From mistakes. I don't mind being wrong. Helps me find right. --Jim Broede

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Slow. Slow. And slower.

When I'm with my Italian true love, I tend to live life in slow, slow motion. Because I wanna make everything last. I'm savoring. Enjoying. Everything. I'm in no hurry to get on to the next moment. I want the existing moment to last. As if time has stopped. For instance, when I'm living with my true love in Sardinia (for six months a year), it typically takes 90 minutes for me to eat supper. When I'm alone, back here in Minnesota, I may finish in an hour. Unless I imagine my true love sitting next to me. Then it takes an hour and a half again. By the way, I'm connected to my true love daily. By Skype. An audio/video hook-up on the Internet. Usually for at least two or three hours a day. And I drag it out. To slow, slow time. Used to be that in my younger days, I lived life as if I was in a hurry. Sad, isn't it? It's a shame to rush through life. But I don't do that any more. I've learned to live the right way. Slow. Slow. And slower. --Jim Broede

The sad fate of a too honest man.

Politics. It's an art. The art of lying. Makes me a cynic, I suppose. But think about it. Can you identify a successful politician who isn't a liar? Maybe the politician with average success makes lying a craft. But the best of 'em, the elite, have turned lying into an art form. They can tell bold-faced lies and get away with it. Their specialty is to tell lies about their opponents. Negative campaigning. It works when done by the best of the liars. The true artists. They become president and senators and congressmen. The lesser liars settle for state, county and local office. Only the most astute liars make it to the top. Maybe that's the way it should be. Success should be based on merit. I don't want a two-bit liar as my leader. I want the best. A Silvio Berlusconi in Italy and a George Bush in the USA. They've never lived a day without telling a lie. And they're fully capable of telling hundreds of lies in a single day. You gotta admire their lying skills. They've built their lives on a solid foundation of lies. One begins to wonder if they ever told the truth. Maybe the word 'honesty' isn't even in their vocabulary. They wear blinders. They're totally focused. On lying. And look at all those Republicans seeking the privilege of running against Barack Obama this fall. The biggest congregation of skilled liars ever assembled. They lie about each other. Practicing. Practicing. Practicing. For the bigger challege. A deluge of lies about Obama -- a mere amateur liar. Not really good at it. He's in over his head. The Republicans are much more accomplished/adept liars. They easily out-lie Obama at every turn. Could be that Obama won't be able to lie his way to a second term. Yes, the sad fate of a too honest man. --Jim Broede

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Romney, the bamboozler.

I don't like politicians. Never did. Because they are too biased. Too closed-minded. Merely my personal opinion. I'm biased and closed-minded, too. No way that I could ever like a Republican. Especially the ultra conservatives. And then there's Mitt Romney. What is he? He'll say anything. Take a vague position. And change his mind the next minute. Really doesn't have a mind of his own. Could be a puppet. Manipulated by advisers/powerbrokers. Prides himself in being a businessman. Out to make a fast buck/obscene profit. Aims to bend the rules in favor of capitalist profiteers. Caters to the very rich. No empathy for the poor and the middle class. Maybe I'm misjudging him. Can't help it. Instinctively, can't trust the guy. Can't trust any Republican. I'd like to think that Romney can't get elected. But I know better. The worst politicians usually find ways to power. They lie, bamboozle and cheat their way. --Jim Broede

Makes me feel truly alive.

Every time I have a thought, I become a creator. Of that thought. And now I've found a way to record my thoughts. Into my collection. With the written word. Oh, maybe not written any more. Used to be with a pencil. Or a pen. Then a typewriter. Now on a computer. In a blog. Sometimes, I link into a thought from years ago. I would have totally forgotten the thought. But now I retrieve it. And it leads to another thought. I have become a being of endless and retrievable thoughts. I like that. Gives me a sense of accomplishing something thoughtful. Meaningful. I'm able to spend the whole day. Thinking. Maybe that's become my favorite pastime. My finest thoughts. What are they? Yes, thoughts of love. Love turns me on. I love to be a lover. Especially of life. That, more than anything, makes me happy. Makes me feel truly alive. --Jim Broede

Love, the ultimate invention.

Maybe life is imaginary. Totally imaginary. The imagination of god. If so, that would make me a piece of god. God has created me. In a dream. He's created all of existence. And maybe he's given me the ability to have my own dream. Inside his dream. I'm even allowed to dream of ever-lasting dreams. Endless dreams. A wide array of dreams. Hop-scotching from one dream to another. I'm even allowed to usurp god. To declare my independence. Because there's no limit on my dreams. On my fertile imagination. Maybe it is I that invented love. Not god. Imagine that. I'd be the greatest inventor of all time. Nobody can invent anything better than that. Love, the ultimate invention. --Jim Broede

Better than to have never lived.

Ultimately, I will be no more. The same goes for you. Everybody on Mother Earth at the present moment will be gone. Replaced by other living beings. A totally different set. Maybe the only traces of us will be in history. In a book. And scientists/astronomers tell us that eventually our sun will die. Explode. Obliterating everything. Yes, no more history. Everything gone. Fortunately, I don't dwell on that. Because I've learned not to get ahead of myself. No desire to live in the future. Or the past, for that matter. Instead, I choose to embrace the moment. Now. And I happen to be in love. With someone. And with life. With every precious moment. That's all I have. And it's more than sufficient. I've learned to savor life. Everything. Even the bad things that I'd rather not savor. By shoving that stuff aside. Ignoring it. Focusing on beautiful and bountiful life. Yes, I've been blessed. With life. And even if it's only momentary, temporary, it's still a blessing. Better than to have never lived. --Jim Broede

Monday, April 23, 2012

Truly living the happy role.

I have friends and acquaintances who are routinely bothered by events in their lives. Because they take stuff too seriously. Therefore, they get upset. And angry. It's as if they've lost control. They over-react. Often, I encourage them to lighten up. To see the funny side. To learn to laugh. I set the example. By laughing at them. Which sometimes they find annoying. But I look at their stern faces. And I can't help but laugh. Anyway, I spend much of the day. Laughing. Smiling. Because I'm happy. So it's hard for me to understand why some people never seem happy. And it roils them when I'm happy. They occasionally accuse me of being a Pollyanna. Which I'm not. I merely prefer being happy. Beats all the other alternatives. Sometimes I suggest they fake happiness -- if that's what it takes to be happy. If nothing else, they learn to become actors. Playing a role. And maybe eventually they'll start to truly live the happy role. --Jim Broede

A sign that I'm a believer.

Why are bad people bad? I see people being judged all the time. As bad. As good. That makes me curious. Usually, one can figure out why good people are good. But seems to me many of us don't even ask why bad people are bad. Instead, we just write them off. We don't inquire. We don't make it our business. I wonder why. Maybe it's too difficult to figure it out. Or maybe it's fear -- that we'd start to understand and might have to show some empathy. Another thing. Just what is 'bad'? Maybe we've formed a preconceived notion of 'bad' and decided it ain't 'good.' Therefore, it has to be 'bad.' I tell my friends and acquaintances that I don't think anyone is totally bad. Not even Hitler. Everyone has a saving grace or two. Of course, I could be wrong. But that would be a horrid thought. I begin to wonder if god would have created someone that's totally, completely, 100 percent bad. Beyond redemption. Seems inconceivable. Especially if it's the god of love. But then, if there isn't a god, maybe there could be totally 'bad' people. But since my position is that nobody is totally bad, that must be a good sign -- that I believe in god. --Jim Broede

Unconditional acceptance.

I like some people very much. Enough to call them friends. All kinds of people. Men. Women. Young. Old. Middle-aged. From many walks of life. I even like strangers that I haven't come to fully know. Matter of fact, I probably don't fully know anyone. Not even myself. One thing I like to do is intermingle my friends. With each other. I like to break down the walls of exclusivity. That's how we get to know each other. I treat my friends as individuals. Recognizing that each is unique. But that shouldn't stop them from blending. From getting to know each other. There's an old saying that one can tell a lot about someone by his/her friends. All of my friends are worth keeping. Of intermingling. Otherwise, they wouldn't be my friends. Seems to me that true friends are forever. Even if they do something wrong. In that sense, I love my friends. I accept them unconditionally. --Jim Broede

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Thank gawd for the differences.

My Italian true love and I are different. From each other. In many ways. We are also similar. In many ways. But it's the differences that bring us together in the best ways, it seems to me. Because we balance each other. Make each other more whole. Because of our differences. Such as she being Italian. And I, American. She's a woman. I'm a man. She's younger. I'm older. It's almost as if we are of two different generations. Anyway, we find each other fascinating. Little wonder that we savor each other. We've connected. Unexpectedly. And we're evolving. Together. The most pleasurable experience of my life. I had no idea this was coming. After my wife Jeanne died of Alzheimer's five years ago, I assumed I'd just be marking time for the rest of my life. That I'd never fall in love again. But life has never been better. Because I've learned to allow life to just happen. One day at a time. I don't get ahead of myself. Or behind. I merely live life the way it was meant to be lived. In the moment. Now. So does my true love. In that respect, we are similar. --Jim Broede

Please, don't give me my clone.

If I had twins, they'd be encouraged to go their separate ways. To not be too close. Because I want them to be independent beings. Not to rely on each other. Rather to rely on themselves. Maybe I'm biased. Because the last person I'd want to live with is my clone. We'd be too much alike. In my opinion, that ain't good. Twins and clones might be having an endless debate. With each other. Fortifying each other. Thinking too much alike. Instead of presenting diverse points of view. I'd see to it that my twins went to separate elementary schools, separate high schools, separate colleges. I'd even like to see them choose separate kinds of careers. Separate lives. Separate friends and acquaintances. Presumably, for their own sake, their own good. Seems to me that twins have the potential to stifle each other. To become too close. I'm aware of particular teen-age twin boys. Seems they do harm to each other. By supporting each other in deviant ways. They don't challenge each other. Because they think too much alike. Granted, they may follow similar/same paths even if separated at birth. But still, they would have a better chance at independence if separated to some reasonable degree. I'd rather see them grow up as if they weren't twins. But merely brothers. Going on to significantly different life experiences. Believe me, I could live without a duplicate copy of myself. What about you? --Jim Broede

I believe in the unbelievable.

I listen to accounts of other people's lives. And they sound like soap operas. Only thing is, one wouldn't believe some of the real lives. Because they are fantastic. Totally unbelievable. One couldn't make it up. Maybe that's one reason why I'm in love with life. It's so fantastic. My life is fantastic, too. It's as if I'm living in a fabricated story. But I know better. It's for real. The unbelievable has become believable. --Jim Broede

I'm an optimist. She's a pessimist.

An acquaintance found a looped piece of string on her door knob. And she jumped to an odd conclusion. Because it looked a little bit like a noose. She wondered if that was an omen. If someone might be sending her an evil message. That maybe someone wanted her dead. I laughed. But she wasn't laughing. Indeed, she was worried. Taking it seriously. Maybe even lost a little sleep over it. But I suggested it was an over-reaction. Because the acquaintance happened to be in a gloomy mood. Later, she discovered that the string came from a bouquet of flowers. A neighbor had inadvertently hung the string on the doorknob. An innocent thing. She could just as easily have surmised it was a good omen. That's what I would have done. I'm an optimist. She's a pessimist. --Jim Broede

The quest for fact and meaning.

I don't like to memorize facts. Or poetry. Or stuff. I'd rather know where to find the facts. And as for poetry, I wanna be able to understand the meaning. In my own words. Rather than the poet's. That's the important thing. How the poem or short story or novel affects me. Directly. Used to be in high school English class, I was required to recite a poem from memory. Just words. That's not good enough for me. It's a waste of time. Unless I truly understand what I'm spouting. The poet's words aren't enough. I wanna be able to give my take. My meaning. It may be different than what the poet intended. Which is all right. Because I'm putting myself into someone else's written thought. Another thing. About facts. Facts are often elusive. And open to interpretation. The same set of facts may have very different meanings for different people. Because they come at the facts from different perspectives, different experiences. --Jim Broede

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Better to become detached.

I'm able to detach myself from events that occur around me. Thank gawd. Because if I didn't, I'd be driven crazy. I'd fret. And anguish. Yes, I've learned to put life in perspective. Recognizing that I can't control some things. Some events. I have to accept the fact that shit happens. I don't like it. For instance, it could be that an ultra conservative Republican becomes president some day. Or that there's a devastating earthquake. Or that a terrorist sets off a bomb. Or that a friend commits a despicable act. Thing is, there's nothing I can do about it. It's happened. And I've gotta live with it. Maybe wish it never happened. But I can't change it. Or pretend it never happened. But I'm able to detach myself. And get on with the rest of my life. Maybe without losing any sleep. That doesn't mean I'm indifferent. Only that I'm not gonna allow myself to get bent out of shape over it. I mention this because I have a friend. Losing sleep. And lamenting. Over a happenstance. An incident. Over which she had no control. My advice, of course, is to let it go. Better to become detached. --Jim Broede

I'm turned on by lively discussion.

I'd make a good teacher. Or so I believe. I tell my Italian true love that. She's a teacher. Don't know if she believes me. I'd be unorthodox. She thinks that might be a turn off for people who hire teachers. But I'd hope not. Because that's precisely what's needed. Better teaching methods. Unorthodox ones. No more lectures. In fact, that's what I'm starting to hear some so-called experts advocate. They wanna steer clear of the 90-minute lecture. Because it's usually boring. And hard to grasp everything. Because it's poured out so quickly. Instead, it's better to involve students. In a discussion. Back and forth. With lots of questions. From the teacher. From the students. That's a more effective way to absorb the subject, isn't it? I was almost always bored by lectures. But when everybody in class participated. In a lively discussion. I was turned on. --Jim Broede

Maybe I'm not so cheap after all.

Three years ago, I bought a used multi-geared bicycle. For $89. Maybe because I'm cheap. A new one of like-make would have cost $500. So it was a wise move. Buying used. Despite the bike being 25 years old. It really wasn't used that much. The previous owner apparently was a lazy guy. I've probably put on more miles in a few months than he did in a lifetime. And the repairs have been minimal. Despite my excessive use. But finally, a few things are wearing out. Including the crankshaft. Used to be that I didn't even know what a crankshaft was. Anyway, I took the bicycle in to the repair shop. And the estimate was $200-plus. They suggested I'd be better off buying a new bicycle. But the price scared me. Yes, because I'm a cheapskate. For instance, I drive cars until they are in danger of rusting in half. I get well over 200,000 miles on my vehicles. Right now I'm driving a vintage 1991 Mercury Cougar and a 1997 Oldsmobile Cutlass. Well, I'm not about to give up yet on my bicycle. I got a good deal. Fixed only what needed to be fixed to make the bicycle move again. For only $61. I pedaled for 30 miles last night. And I'm gonna log 50 miles today. Maybe I won't get 200,000 on the bicycle. But don't count out 100,000. Even if I eventually have to spend more for repairs than the cost of a new bicycle. So maybe I'm not so cheap after all. --Jim Broede

Returning to his roots.

My neighbor, Dennis, lived a half-mile away for 20 years. Before I got to know his name. Just a couple weeks ago. And lo and behold. He picks up and moves away. Back to Detroit, where he came from. I waved goodbye to him as he sped away in a big yellow rental moving van. Fortunately, I got to know a little bit about Dennis before he left. Better late than never. That's the way of my life. A bit late. A slow learner. Slow to do the right thing. But I get it right eventually. Just give me time. Dennis worked at the Ford plant in Dearborn, Michigan, when he got transferred to the Ford plant in St. Paul. In Minnesota. Two decades ago. And he bought a home on Forest Lake. And fell in love with the place. Especially after he retired a few years ago. One of Dennis' sons followed in dad's footsteps, and worked at the Ford plant in St. Paul. Until he was recently transferred to the revitalized Ford plant in Dearborn. So the family is making full circle. Back to where everything started. Where Dennis grew up. Dennis is following his son back to the homeland. 'I'm going to miss Minnesota,' Dennis said. 'But I want to be with family. My roots are in Michigan.' --Jim Broede

On falling in love with life.

People are too easily offended. By insults. And by idiots. Seems to me that's one of my strengths. I'm able to take insults and idiots in stride. Doesn't bother me. At least, not for long. Because I tend to put life in perspective. I recognize that the world is full of idiots. That includes me. Yes, all people are capable of being idiots. I can't go through a day without bouts of idiocy. Which I don't mind. Because it adds humor to my life. When I regain my composure, my ability to think and reason, I become an observer. Of idiots. Nothing is more entertaining than that. Anyway, I'm able to recognize my idiocy. Almost always happens when I stop thinking. When I begin living life on automatic pilot. Used to be that I didn't want to think. In my younger days. Because it was tiring. And I was lazy. But then I became invigorated. By thought. And I had no desire to shut it off. In fact, I relished thinking. Day and night. Every day. And one of my first conclusions was that I shouldn't be offended. Or disappointed. By insults. Or by idiots. Instead, I should fall in love with life. --Jim Broede

To think. And to savor it all.

I like to think. Especially when I'm alone. Because that's an ideal opportunity for me. To listen to myself. Yes, to collect my thoughts. If I'm with people, it's very important to listen. To others. Which I do. Though I also tell others what's on my mind. Because I'm opinionated. Anyway, I've taken to recording my thoughts. In this blog, for instance. But also in emails. To friends. Acquaintances. Even strangers. Sometimes, I don't know what I think. About lots of subjects. That is, until I start thinking. And start asking questions. And if I don't have immediate answers, I think some more. Maybe for a long, long time. And I begin my research. My probe. I like to seek answers to everything. Even temporary answers. Based on inconclusive information. Which, I've discovered, is the way of the world. Many people don't know what they are talking about. Republicans, for instance. The ultra conservative ones. I'm convinced they've stopped thinking. They've become zombies. The living dead. That doesn't scare me. Only disappoints me. Temporarily. I've learned to accept a world. In which zombies are trying to rule. Actually, that presents a challenge. To thinkers. Like me. Makes me aware that I am blessed. Because I'm thinking, thinking, thinking. About how to make the most of life. By living. And loving. Embracing my consciousness. My ability to think. To reason. And to savor it all. --Jim Broede

Friday, April 20, 2012

So they go their lazy way.

I could become a lazy bum. If I weren't so very curious. I'm curious about people. That makes me get off my butt. To meet people. To approach strangers. If I didn't have the curiosity instinct, I might just ignore people. And become a hermit. Oh, I still retreat to my cocoon. And isolate myself there. For daily respite. But I venture out. To see what's going on in the world. Especially in my immediate environs. But I've also become a world traveler. And I spend half of the year living with my Italian true love. In Sardinia. Fortunately, the driving force in my life is innate curiosity. I'm curious. Ever so curious. I wanna know what makes people tick. Some people are plain bored with life. I'm curious about that. Why do they insist on living boring lives? Maybe it's because they aren't curious. So they go their lazy way. --Jim

That's the way it is.

My neighbor Connie has two boxer dogs. Frisky dogs. One of 'em in particular likes me. Gives me effusive greetings. Jumps up on me. Maybe that embarrasses Connie. But she needn't be embarrassed. Because I like effusive greetings. Particularly from a dog. That's a sign that the dog is happy. And likes me. I like the dog, too. Of course, I also like docile dogs. And I like cats. Have two of 'em at home. Loverboy and Chenuska. Used to have dogs. But now I'm down to cats. I like animals. Maybe more than I like people. When one of my pets dies, I grieve. Go into full-scale mourning. I cry. But if a human friend or acquaintance dies, I'm more accepting. I may grieve. Usually, I don't shed tears over it. Maybe my grieving priorities are awry. Out of balance. Not right. But that's the way it is. --Jim Broede

Thumbing my nose at the gods.

I know people who think they are living in hell. When actually, it's paradise. Think about it. The difference between paradise and hell. Happiness and unhappiness. Seems to me we all have choices. We can pursue either course, either path. To hell. Or to paradise. When I'm savoring a moment, truly savoring, I'm in paradise. Maybe I'm fooling myself. But that's all right. Because I'm good at it. I'm a positive-thinking Sisyphus. The guy the gods condemned to hell, of sorts. He had to work. For eternity. Pushing a boulder up a hill. To the very top. Only to be frustrated just short of the goal. Seeing the rock slip away and roll down the hill. So he had to go fetch it again and again and again. Forever. But that's the very thing I have learned to savor. Sauntering at a leisurely pace down the hill again. To retrieve my rock. And then enjoying the workout as I ascend the hill again. With the rock to my shoulder. But beholding the environment, the creations of Mother Nature at the same time. I love my work, my fate. It's become play. And allows me to thumb my nose at the vengeful gods. Because I'm getting pleasure out of life. --Jim Broede

I'm in love. And living in Paradise.

I've lived in Paradise all my life. Without fully knowing it. Because I haven't been fully conscious. Merely going through life on automatic pilot. Maybe that's the way we are all born. The way we come into the world. As robots. Unthinking beings. And we have to learn what it's all about. By becoming conscious. By learning a language. By thinking. Reasoning. Evolving. Not sure yet where I am. But I suspect it's Paradise. Truly Paradise. Especially when aware that I'm in love. With virtually everything. With life itself. Occasionally, I can hardly believe that I'm an alive and conscious being. I have to remind myself. Otherwise, I forget. And go on automatic pilot once again. When I'm walking or riding my bicycle or driving my car or falling asleep or waking up, I try to become aware of my consciousness. And savor the idea that I actually exist. That I am. And that best of all, I'm in love. And living in Paradise. --Jim Broede

Thursday, April 19, 2012

In losing myself, I find myself.

I'm fascinated by the notion of love. I've written often of love. My favorite subject. Yes, I keep coming back to it. Trying to understand love. And exactly what it is. Maybe it's impossible to fully define love. Like trying to define god. To grasp the impossible. Maybe god and love are one and the same. I proclaim that I am in love. With someone. With life. Maybe love is a sense of ecstacy and bliss and peace and tranquilty and serenity. All blended together. Maybe love is being truly alive. In spirit. At one with the cosmos. With all of creation. I'm focused when in love. Not on yesterday. Nor tomorrow. But on today. On the moment. I'm immersed in this thing called love. I lose myself. And odd as it may seem, I simultaneously find myself. In love. --Jim Broede

Learning to accept the inmates.

I have friends and acquaintances that grossly underestimate the number of idiots and crazy people in the world. There are many, many, many. One runs into 'em virtually every day. Look around. Observe. They offend us. They are irresponsible. Absolutely loony. Make no sense at all. For example, look at politicians. Out of their minds. I tell my friends, recognize them as such. Accept 'em. They aren't gonna change. It does no good to get them help. It's a waste of time. They need psychotherapy. Treatment. But they won't get it. Because many of them need to be placed in mental institutions. But that would be far too costly. We'd have loony bins in every neighborhood. We live in a crazy world. Might as well get used to it. You ain't gonna change the world. Nor will I. I learned that long ago. Learned to accept the inmates in the world-wide asylum. Or I'd become an inmate myself. --Jim Broede

Sort of a widows' row.

My neighbor Connie waved to me yesterday. From an open window in her house. And yelled, "Hi, Jim.' Startled me while I was riding by on my bicycle. I smiled. Waved back. But didn't yet instinctively call her by name. Next time, I will. Because I know her name now. And she knows mine. Took us a few years to get on a first-name basis. Better late than never. Getting to know more about my neighbors. That's my mission. Something I've neglected for far too long. Used to think that Connie was divorced. But turns out that she's a widow. And she tells me there's a couple other widows living on the same street. Sort of a widows' row. --Jim Broede

Son of a gun. So many 'sons.'

One of my neighbors is an Anderson. He lives a short walk away. On the lake. I didn't know his surname was Anderson until a few days ago. When I saw him picking up tree branches in his yard. Decided to stop and chat. Became better acquainted. Chances are there are other Andersons living nearby. Anderson is a very common name around here. Maybe the most common. The Scandinavian influence. Lots of Swedes and Norwegians immigrated to Minnesota in the 19th century. Maybe because the terrain is similar to their homelands. The neighboring town's name is Scandia. Anyway, Andersons are so common that it's difficult not to be related to one. My granddaughter has become an Anderson. By marriage. Now that I think of it, there's another name more common than Anderson -- Johnson. My daughter has become a Johnson. Again, by marriage. Suppose she could just as easily have become a Swenson or a Peterson or a Nelson. --Jim Broede

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

My true love makes my day.

I have an addiction. To loveliness. I need a daily dose of it. Yes, to a vision of loveliness. That's what I call it. When I hook-up to my Italian true love. On Skype. An audio/video connection. On the Internet. I get to see my beautiful and lovely true love. In living color. When we are separated. I, in Minnesota. She, in Sardinia/Italy. A distance of 5,000 miles. Sometimes, we connect several times a day. But I insist on at least once a day. Though occasionally we miss. For one reason or another. And that's when I know that I'm addicted. Hooked. I really need a daily dose, a daily vision of loveliness. Yes, I need the vision even more than food. And more than my Chicago Cubs. I need to see my true love. In order to feel that I've had a fulfilling day. Of course, it's pleasure like this that helps qualify me as a romantic idealist. Yes, my true love makes my day. --Jim Broede

Mutual disrespect.

One of my longtime neighbors is moving. Dennis has sold his home on the lake. And is headed for the Detroit area. He's moving all of his stuff himself. In a big rental moving van. It's gonna take several trips. Takes him 11 to 15 hours of driving time. One way. He has a choice. Going through the upper peninsula of Northern Michigan. Or going south, through Chicago and across southern Wisconsin. He's chosen the latter course. Dennis has been my neighbor for 20 years. But I didn't even get to know his name. Until I saw him moving. Dennis says he's gonna miss Forest Lake. And the neighborhood. But he can stay in touch. By reading my blog. I started talking politics with Dennis. About the Trayvon Martin shooting in Florida. Dennis thinks the shooter, George Zimmerman, was justified in killing unarmed Trayvon. Yes, like many Americans, he's formed an opinion. Before a trial. Before knowing the facts. We're hasty to make judgments. Based on our biases. I suspect that Dennis is rather conservative. That is, when it comes to politics. I'm liberal. So Dennis and I won't see eye to eye. Or heart to heart. But still, we can like each other. Respect each other. That doesn't always happen. Especially in America. Where we are sharply divided on politics. I'm distrustful of ultra conservative Republicans. And they're distrustful of me. Often we show each other mutual disrespect. Too bad, isn't it? --Jim Broede

Bountiful, wonderful life.

The invention of the blog. And the Internet. I love it. Because it gives me a free speech outlet. I can publish my speech. My opinions. My take on life. Nobody has to read my stuff. They can ignore it. And that's fine. But I wanna be able to say what I wanna say. In a public forum. And that's what I have here. Since I started my blog a few years ago, I've made something like 4,700 postings. On all sorts of topics. Things that matter. To me. My blog has gone through phases. Many phases. It's evolved. And I'm not sure where it's going. I just let it be. Let it grow, naturally. Rarely do I miss a day of posting. Some days, I may post 10 times. I say what I wanna say. Just for the sake of saying it. Maybe what I like most is that I'm not only free to speak, but free to brood. I love to brood. It's a specialized kind of speech. Comes from within. From the soul. From the heart. Usually, brooding is perceived as melancholic. But not in my case. I often brood in positive, upbeat ways. Letting everyone know that I'm in love. Not only with my Italian true love. But with life. Bountiful, wonderful life. --Jim Broede

I'm also for free speech.

Overreaction. That's what it was when Maimi Marlins baseball team manager Ozzie Guillen was suspended for five games. Not for some baseball infraction. But for saying nice things about Fidel Castro. Guillen was being honest. Expressing his personal opinion. In an interview with a Time magazine reporter. Turns out that Guillen wasn't being politically correct. In South Florida. Because there are lots of anti-Castro nuts in Florida. Especially Miami. Which is known as Little Havana. Filled with Cubans that fled Cuba. Because they don't like Castro. Fact of the matter is that Castro hasn't been all that bad. For Cubans. The ones that stayed. Sure, he's been perceived as a dictator. A communist. But not any more dictatorial than many American politicians. And certainly he's been better for Cuba than the American-supported dictator that he ousted 50 years ago. Castro's socialist programs have resulted in a better educated Cuba, and socialized medicine. In some respects, Cubans get better medical care and better education than Americans. Guillen is Hispanic. And he knows that Castro ain't all bad. But when he says it, he's being punished. Mainly for business reasons. The owner of the Miami Marlins is out to appease anti-Castro elements. So that they keep coming to ball games. Yes, folks, we don't have true freedom of speech in the USA. Especially if it hurts rich capitalists in the pocketbook. That's why a muzzle is being put on Guillen. It's a money, money, money thing. That's the nature of capitalism. Castro is a public enemy in Florida. Because he's a socialist/communist. I sympathize/empathize with Castro and with Guillen. I'm on their side when it comes to politics. I'm also for free speech. --Jim Broede

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

And Jeanne was with me.

We're having storms tonight. And I like it. The rumble of thunder. The flashes of light in the nightime sky. I find all this soothing. I'm indoors. Warm. And comfortable. I'm able to savor just about any kind of weather. Indoors. And outdoors. Maybe not a tornado. Anyway, the forecast is for sporadic storms all night. Suits me. But I've been known to go for walks. Yes, in thunderstorms. I used to take my wife Jeanne (she died five years ago) for wheelchair rides in thunderstorms. And when people heard of it, some were aghast. Too dangerous, they said. But Jeanne, who had Alzheimer's, enjoyed the romps. She was dressed in appropriate rain gear. And she smiled as the rain dripped down the brim of her cap, onto her face. She would lick the raindrops. Maybe it gave her a sensuous feeling. A moment of pleasure. An awakening. An awareness. A lively break from her dementia. In the wintertime, she tasted snow. Because we'd venture out in a blizzard. Jeanne tucked in a thermal sleeping bag. Better that than a bed in the nursing home. Jeanne enjoyed the outdoors. The fresh air. I remember once a snow/rain mix accompanied by thunder. And Jeanne was with me. --Jim Broede

Genuinely in love. With life.

In the thread below, I wrote about so many people accepting roles as born losers. But I'm not one of 'em. I'm a winner. Because I choose to be. I find a certain richness in life. I'm a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, and a lover. That makes me rich. In a way that isn't monetary. Yes, I may be accused of being a dreamer. But I live in my dream. I actually believe that my dream is real. Because I know it. Beyond a doubt. I am genuinely in love. With life. --Jim Broede

Born losers.

Rich Republicans argue against class warfare. At the same time that they wage a class war. By stealing from the poor and middle class and giving to the rich. Just the opposite of Robinhood. They'd do away with Medicare and Social Security and other social programs in order to balance the budget. And at the same time they'd give the rich lucrative tax breaks. Yes, they'd make the rich richer by picking the pockets of the less affluent. To me, that's shameful and immoral. Yes, it's class warfare. With the goal of widening the economic, political and social gap between the rich and the poor. And we common Americans, the ones in the majority, let it happen. Not sure exactly why. But it could be that we are lazy and stupid. Figuring we are powerless to serve the common good. Because America is built on the premise that people with money call the shots and rule the roost. Happens all over. On the national, state and local levels. Even in my immediate neighborhood. Someone living in a $4.5 million mansion holds far more political sway in my domain than someone living in a $500,000 shack. I know it. You know it. But like in Medieval times, the supreme rulers live in castles that make the rest of our abodes look like shacks. Things really haven't changed that much over the Ages. Class warfare has been part of the human condition forever. So much so that many common folks don't even recognize what's happening. We've been duped. Into accepting roles as born losers. --Jim Broede

It really isn't living.

Believe me. It's an adventure. Getting to know my neighbors. Or anyone. Little by little. Bit by bit. Makes for an interesting life. Much of my life I've ignored people. Relatively speaking. Oh, I become acquainted. But I don't make friends. In truly intimate ways. Which means I don't have many friends. Because I have often stopped short of true intimacy. Don't get me wrong about the intimacy thing. I don't mean physical intimacy. Instead, true intimacy is a spiritual thing. Delving into one's soul. One's essence. That's true nakedness. One can find intimacy with words. Meaningful words. That's my favorite way. I write words. And speak words. I'm capable of uttering intimate words. Even to strangers. That's how one cultivates contact. Real communication. So much of life is lived by rote. By going through motions. Mechanically. Yes, with no passion. No intimacy. I find that shameful. It really isn't living. --Jim Broede

Monday, April 16, 2012

Worrisome accidents happen.

I have a friend with a 'worry' button/switch on the right side of her head. When the button is pushed down, it's off. When it's up, it's on. She has to be extra careful. For instance, when she brushes her hair. She may move the brush in an upward direction. It could easily touch the switch. And bingo. She starts to worry. Needlessly. Turns out that she was born with 'worry' genes. Don't know if they came from her mother or father. Maybe both. And that would be reason enough for god to install the 'on' and 'off' switch. But it's up to her to operate the switch. Anyway, it's a sign of a merciful god. God could just as easily given her no switch. No option. And she'd have to worry all the time. If I were her, I'd buy some strong adhesive tape and tape the switch in the 'off' position so that it doesn't get turned on accidentally. She has a tendency to be careless. And so, worrisome accidents happen. --Jim Broede

For something far better.

I hate seeing a political party vote as a monolithic bloc. But that happens. All too often in Congress. The Republicans stand together. Rock solid. When really, Republicans aren't rock solid. In their souls. Deep down. But still, some of 'em are willing to sell their souls. To the party. Because if they don't, they'll be excommunicated. Thrown out of the party. Looked upon with disdain from within the party's hierarchial structure. Everyone is required to go along. Oh, Democrats may not be quite so rock solid. There's a little room for dissent. But still, it ain't much. Makes me wanna scrap the two-party system. I'd much rather have a third and fourth and fifth and sixth party. If socialists get 6 percent of the vote, they should have 6 percent of the represenation in congress/parliament. I want all sorts of splinter parties. With everybody having a say. I want political coalitions. I want cooperation. A kind of government where everybody gets consideration. Yes, I want to scrap the two-party system. For something far better. --Jim Broede

A wonder, isn't it?

Of course, I know there's disagreement over what constitutes the common good. Liberals like me and ultra conservatives don't think the same way about it. We differ. Immensely, it seems. And so we hold fast to our positions. Don't compromise. Don't reach accord. We try to stymie each other. And become nasty about it. We even lie to each other. That's the situation we are in. Today. In America. Used to be that Democrats and Republicans worked with each other. Across the aisle. But now it's more like a continuation of the civil war. Red states. Blue states. The Union. The Confederacy. The rich versus the poor. Blacks versus whites. That's the nature of modern day politics. A Great Divide. We have entrenched opinions. No or little movement at solving problems. We want each other to fail. Rather than succeed. It's a sad state of affairs. Hate and hostility prevails. At almost all levels of government. And in the media, too. We can find slanted and biased presentations. That support our own positions. Rather than fair and objective reporting. Maybe as a liberal I've become just as biased as an ultra conservative. I'm as far on the left as he's on the right. We have no respect for each other. Yes, it's a bad situation. Makes me wonder if America and the world will ever get fixed. But still, I'm in love. With life. A wonder, isn't it? --Jim Broede

Maybe that tells me something.

Let me tell you one thing about Sherman. He's basically a happy man. Despite the pitfalls of life. I find that with many black people. They're resilient. Maybe more resilient than white people. That's just an impression. I may be wrong about that. Maybe Sherman isn't as happy as I surmise. Maybe deep down, he's sad. But when I converse with Sherman, he seems happy. And honest. Maybe that's what makes the difference. He's an honest man. And he also knows how to love life. To find something to savor. Such as his pet cocker spaniel, Zoe. And the fact that he's alive. At age 53. Despite having had a stroke. Which hampers his movement on the right side. Sherman still knows that his mind is functioning. Good. He's alert. Perceptive. Able to grasp the intimacies of life. I'm sure that Sherman has been denied many opportunities. Just because he's black. Just because he can't afford the best of medical care. So very many Americans don't have health insurance. Something like 50 million. Some get it. But on a hit-and-miss basis. No such thing as universal health care in the USA. Some of 'em will come much closer to getting decent health care under so-called Obamacare. But hey, we've got a conservative Supreme Court. Which may be about to declare Obamacare unconstitutional. For political reasons. That's the nature of life. Politics play a big role. In how people are treated. In America, money buys better treatment. Buys power. Buys influence. Being white, helps, too. Being black makes it more difficult to survive. But hey, Sherman is a survivor. A happy one. Because one way or another, he finds a way. He's resilient. Maybe that tells me something. Not only about Sherman. But about black people. --Jim Broede

Sunday, April 15, 2012

We all need rejuvenation.

I've taken life for granted in my immediate neighborhood here in Forest Lake, Minnesota. I haven't been as observant and as curious as I should be. I came to this realization when I spent autumn and winter in Italy, where I closely observed just about everything. The people. The environment. I focused on little things. On details. And I found meaning in so many things. Often merely by asking questions. Especially questions of my dear sweet Italian true love. But I don't always do that in the neighborhood where I live. Back home. I hadn't gotten to know my neighbors the way I should know them. Like I began to know Italians. But now I'm on a mission. A mission of discovery. I'm beginning to look at life in my neighborhood the same curious way I look at life when I'm in a foreign land. I'm becoming more inquisitive. I'm asking questions. I'm learning. And writing about it. In my blog. And I'm becoming involved with the neighbors. I have such great opportunities. Because I speak the language. English. I am under no restrictions. I can ask questions any time I feel like it. I can probe. I can get my neighbors to talk. To reveal themselves. There are no barriers here. And I'm very much aware of it. And I am taking advantage of the situation. I am not only becoming more alive. But I am also making some of my neighbors more alive. More responsive. It's a wonderful feeling. I have renewed energy. I'm looking at my old stomping grounds with a fresh and tantalizing perspective. The same thing could happen to almost anyone, I suppose. By just getting away for a while. When one returns, one may find he/she has a wonderful fresh outlook on life. Just what we all need. Rejuvenation. --Jim Broede

Eternal happiness.

I'm finding that the best way to be happy is by taking life one day at a time. In other words, to not get ahead of myself. To take advantage of now. By focusing on today. On the moment at hand. To immerse myself. To feel full of life. To make the best of the immediate situation. And to learn to deal with tomorrow, tomorrow. To not worry about what might go wrong. Instead, I have faith and confidence that everything will be all right. And that if something goes wrong, it can be easily fixed/corrected. I know that. Beyond a doubt. From experience. Another thing. I refuse to go to bed unhappy. Generally, that can be achieved by talking to my Italian true love. Directly, when I'm living with her. And in a nightly love letter, when we are separated. I can't remember the last time I went to bed unhappy. It's been so very long ago. Maybe I'm on the road to achieving eternal happiness. --Jim Broede

I get on with living. Happily.

The secret for being happy with life is to savor the good things. And to ignore or write off the bad stuff. For instance, my Chicago Cubs have won only three of 10 games so far. So I've focused on the three victories. And how they came about. I rehash the games in my mind. Yes, I savor 'em. I cultivate a good feeling. As for the Cubs' seven losses, some that came about in heartbreaking fashion -- well, I try to forget 'em. No sense in mulling over something that's bad or depressing. I'm learning to not lament or grieve over a loss for more than a fleeting minute or two. Because I can't change the outcome. I might just as well let it go. Rather than become unhappy. My primary goal in life is the pursuit of happiness. It's nonsense and self-destructive for anyone to grieve and grieve over a setback in life. Better to just get on with living. Happily. --Jim Broede

And listen. Really good.

Nice to have a black man living in my neighborhood. He's a token. A one and only. I really paid him no attention these past five years. Moreorless thought of it as no big deal. But I'm coming to realize it's a big deal. A step in the right direction. We need a more integrated neighborhood. More blacks. That would make us more liberal. Politically speaking. Less conservative. I chatted with Sherman yesterday. About what it's been like for a black man. Not only living in the neighborhood. But in America. For his 53 years. His life started in Missouri. And he remembers discrimination in many ways. He became cognizant of racist ways in the 5th grade. He knows it's difficult for a black man getting a job. Unemployment rates are twice as high for blacks than for whites. Yes, blacks still aren't treated as equals. Any more than women are. Maybe discrimination is more subtle in modern America. But it's still there. It's still discrimination. It's still racism. Yes, America is still a racist society. Despite Obama being president. And I'm sure there are racists living in my neighborhood. And Sherman knows it, too. One can't grow up black without knowing it. But some of us whites ignore it. Easy for us to do. But I know that if I were the same guy I am now, but with a different skin color, my life would have been dramatically different. I would have been denied some of my jobs. Just because I was black. No other reason. That ain't fair. And Sherman knows he's been denied jobs and certain places to live and other opportunities. Only because he's black. He's talked to me about it. He ain't bitter. He knows things are getting better. But still, there's a long way to go. America is still a racist country. Being black is a far different experience than being white. Even in my neighborhood. Anyway, Sherman and I are becoming friends. Rather than just mere acquaintances. We talk. About what it's been like. For a black to have lived in Missouri and Carbondale in Illinois and Biloxi in Mississippi and in St. Paul and now in Forest Lake in Minnesota. Indeed, it's been quite an experience. I wonder how many of my neighbors know the intimate details. Really know what it means to be black in America. I'd recommend that they talk to Sherman. And listen. Really good. --Jim Broede

Saturday, April 14, 2012

I'm a goodwill ambassador.

I'm a two-way goodwill ambassador. I represent America when I spend half a year in Sardinia/Italy. And I represent Sardinia/Italy when I'm in America. Nice to wear two hats. I like it. Very much. At my home in Forest Lake, in Minnesota, I'm gonna start flying the Italian and the Sardinian flags. And I'm promoting Sardinia and Italy as tourist meccas. I also write about my wonderfui experiences in Italy and Europe. Where I adore the political climate. Yes, I'm not exactly a devotee of the political, economic and social climate in the USA. But I certainly tell the Italians some of the good things about America. Not the least being that we have some liberals out to serve the common good. And that we have a black and progressive president in Barack Obama. I portray Republicans and ultra conservatives as a national shame. But I always hold out hope for America. That in the long run, the liberals/progressives will carry the day. Reason enough for me to stay in America for half of the year. Especially considering that I have the option at any time to escape to my haven, my niche, my abode, my little cocoon. Where I can shut out the bad stuff. And I always know that I will ultimately find relief in Paradise (Sardinia), where I cavort with my Italian true love. All this allows me to savor life. No matter where I am. --Jim Broede

Yes, life ain't too bad.

Another thing I've gotta do. Learn the names of the youngsters that I see in the neighborhood. Especially the athletic prone. The guys that play basketball in the middle of the street on North Shore Circle. I like it. They're mostly teen-agers. One is particularly lanky. Wouldn't surprise me if he plays on the local high school basketball team. He's out there virtually every day. Practicing his shots. Even at dusk. Even on windy, frigid days. There are two moveable backboards. Mostly standing at the side of the street. But hauled to the middle for two-on-two games. Usually, they pause when I bicycle by on the circle. And drivers of cars and pick-up trucks are obliging. They're able to weave by on the edge of the makeshift basketball court. Pedestrians, drivers, basketball players. We all tolerate and accommodate each other. I know the name of one kid in particular. But he rarely plays basketball. He's more a baseball player. And a wrestler. We call each other by name. Joe and Jim. Yes, a good, friendly kid. With a crewcut. There's also Glenn. My next door neighbor's kid. Short. But still growing. And seems like a good ball handler. Maybe he'll make a decent point guard. Glenn and some of his buddies used to wander through the neighborhood. With pellet guns. Shooting at birds. That stirred my protests. I complained to Glenn's dad about it. And acted huffy. Suggesting I didn't like armed kids. Turned out that they shot pellets through two of my windows. Accidentally, I'm sure. And Glenn's father personally replaced the glass. At his expense, of course. Anyway, there's a basketball hoop in Glenn's driveway. On Hayward Avenue. But mostly, he saunters down to North Shore Circle. Where he mixes with other teenagers. For basketball practice. I haven't seen the guns for a while. But hey, guns are part of the American way. Except that I don't have one. And I'm anti-gun. It's sad. I'd rather see youngsters carry basketballs, footballs, baseballs. And books. But too many parents also provide 'em with guns. And wouldn't surprise me if some of my neighbors carry concealed weapons. I have deer that come into my yard. Two young fawns last year. But I haven't seen them this spring. Maybe they got shot last November. With a concealed weapon. A Glock. With a laser beam. Or maybe an AK-47. During the hunting season. In early October, I hear the bang, bang, bang of shotguns. Hunters shooting at the ducks and geese. Occasionally, pellets from a nearby duck blind land with a pitter-patter on my roof. At daybreak. Annoys me. But I don't complain. I try to go back to sleep. And accept life. As it is. Anyway, I take off for Italy. In the fall. To live with my Italian true love. Yes, life ain't too bad. --Jim Broede

Friday, April 13, 2012

I'm the unholy devil.

I'm good at alienating some of my neighbors. Which I don't mind doing. Especially if they are Republicans. The ultra conservative ones. Makes me feel good. If they get pissed off. I shouldn't do it. But I tend to be naughty. Guess that's the nature of politics. Politicians are inherently naughty. Don't think of myself as a politician. Instead, I just like to chide people. About their politics. When there's an election, my neighborhood turns into a sea of lawn signs. Virtually all of 'em swearing allegiance to Republicans. Over and over again. I see the name 'Michele Bachmann.' It's nauseating. I even get phone calls. Directly from Michele Bachmann. She invites me to participate in a public forum. Where I can listen to her rant and rave. Used to think of it as comic relief. But when I started puking, I had to give it up. I have neighbors in love with Michele. They literally worship her. They bow down and kiss her feet. Her fat ass, too. Pay all sorts of homage. It's as if she's a goddess. If that's what she is, classify me as an atheist. I'm a devotee of Barack Obama. He's my hero. Means that I'm considered an unholy devil in my neighborhood. --Jim Broede

I've come a long, circular way.

Funny thing. I'm going through a phase. Of writing about my neighborhood. A whole lot. Maybe more than any other topic. It's just temporary. I'll eventually switch to other subjects. Anyway, guess I became aware that I really didn't know my neighbors and my neighborhood as well as I should. Or wanted to. So I'm focusing. Learning. That's a good thing. Never too late to learn. To become acquainted. Maybe I was more attentive about my neighborhood when I was a youth. In the 6th and 7th grades. Must have been 12 years old. And I started a neighborhood newspaper. In Watertown. In Wisconsin. Where I grew up. It was called the Riverlawn Gazette. The family lived on Riverlawn Avenue. And the intersecting streets were Duffy Street and Ruth Street. I wrote about the goings-on in the neighborhood. Much of it satirical stuff. Though I didn't quite yet fully consciously grasp the true and full nature of satire. Came sort of naturally. By osmosis. The Gazette was well-read. And I sold it. Door to door. For a token penny. Though I'd get tipped sometimes. Maybe a quarter. Which was big money in those days. Back in the late 1940s. Technology wasn't as good as today. I printed the newspaper on a gelatin called a hektograph. Later, my printing press was a mimeograph. Of course, I went on to write for more legitimate newspapers. That became my profession. Writing. My livelihood. My craft. My art. And now I'm publishing. On the Internet. A blog. Called Broede's Broodings. I've come a long, circular way, haven't I? --Jim Broede

The one exception.

I'm acquainted with a liar. Not because he lies to me or other people. But because he lies to himself. That's the worst kind of liar. People that don't recognize their true selves. They lead a life of self-deceptions. They never grasp their essence. Maybe because it's too difficult to accept. They don't wanna be themselves. Maybe because it hurts. Or it's shameful. So they build lives on a series of lies. They don't dig deep enough into their souls and hearts. Because the truth hurts. But it doesn't have to. If only one learns to face the truth. To deal with life. Forthrightly. Honestly. To do the right thing. Which is to always face up to one's personal truth. To be one's true self. Which means that truth is an individual thing. There is no one way that applies to everyone. Except that it's not right to lie to one's self. --Jim Broede

Just go and do it.

A friend in North Carolina sent me a note. An email. The most interesting sentence that she wrote is, 'I wish you had not.' That I had not written about her personal dilemma. To get over it. To stop grieving. That's the story of life, I wrote back. Wishing. Wishing. Wishing. Rather than accepting life as it is. And making the best of it. We keep wishing what others would do. To make our lives better. When really we can make our lives better on our own. We always have the opportunity to pursue happiness. And when I say that, folks, so many of you wish I'd shut up. People all around me wish I'd shut up. And generally, I don't. I let you know what's on my mind. Like it or not. And that's what I encourage others to do. Give me pieces of their minds. Don't shut up. Do what you have to do. To truly live. Embrace life. Pursue happiness. True happiness. Don't stagnate. Yes, too many of us have a tendency to stagnate. What a shame. Because we don't have to. Because deep down, we all have an ability. To be happy. To get on with life. And believe me, I ain't gonna shut up. People are worth saving. But it's the individual that has to save himself/herself. Not god. Not me. But the likes of you. Enough wishing. Just go and do it. --Jim Broede

Thursday, April 12, 2012

So be it.

I'm opinionated. My neighbors are learning that. Because I'm encouraging them to read my blog. I don't hesitate saying what's on my mind. I decided to write about the neighborhood when I had a run-in with my next door neighbor the other day. Wasn't a big deal. But I wanted to be sure that he understood me. And that he did something I didn't like. That's all there was to it. As far as I know, we're friends again. Meanwhile, I think it's wise that I start writing about the neighborhood. And the people. My neighbors. For the most part, I like 'em. And we get along. But there's an occasional spat. Or disagreement. Which is to be expected. Because I'm different. And very opinionated. As are some of my neighbors. My next door neighbor is a patriot. Again, that's fine. He flies the American flag every day. I'm about to fly a flag, too. In fact, two flags. The Italian flag. And the Sardinian flag. I brought them back with me from Italy. Where I spent almost half of the year living with my Italian true love. I feel sort of Italian/Sardinian. And I like the looks of their flags better than the Stars and Stripes. Of course, this may alienate some of my ultra conservative Republican neighbors. But so be it. --Jim Broede

Welcome to our domain, Sherman.

Don't know when I first noticed Sherman's arrival in the neighborhood. Certainly wasn't five years ago, when he first arrived. Guess it's because I'm aloof. I walk through the neighborhood daily. My mind occupied with thoughts. And I don't particularly notice people. But I suspect my neighbors do. Especially when it comes to Sherman. Because he's black. But I'm colorblind. To me, everybody is pretty much the same color. As far as I know, Sherman is the only black in the neighborhood. Which makes him sort of different. I wish there were more blacks. Because they make me feel comfortable. They tend to be liberal. Like me. I'm sure that Sherman voted for Obama. So did I. There weren't many votes in the neighborhood for Obama. Perhaps because he's black. My neighborhood is dominated by ultra conservative Republicans. Which is all right. They have a right to be whatever they wanna be. Just as I do. Anyway, I told Sherman the other day that I'm welcoming him to the neighborhood. Better late than never. That also goes for Sherman's wife, Pam, and his tan cocker spaniel, Zoe. --Jim Broede

Off the far right edge of Earth.

I was born and raised in the USA. I'm a U.S. citizen. But I've taken to living in Italy. For almost half of the year. Because my Italian true love happens to live in Sardinia. Anyway, I've been overcome by a strange feeling. That the USA, that my longtime neighborhood on the shore of Forest Lake in Minnesota, is beginning to feel like the foreign country. Maybe it's that my neighborhood is full of ultra conservative Republicans that routinely elect Michele Bachman as our congresswoman. She's not only a Republican. But loony as loony can be. So very ultra conservative. As are so very many of my neighbors. And here I am. A liberal. A socialst at heart. And a communist sympathizer. I feel far more comfortable in Sardinia. Because I'm in daily touch with sane socialists and sane communists. So-called left-wingers. The city where I spend my autumns and winters has a palm-tree-lined main street called Via Gramsci. Yes, named after Antonio Gramsci, a communist persecuted by Mussolini in the 1930s. My favorite member of the Carbonia City Council, where I happen to live, is a young, energetic idealist. A communist. I love it. I love it. I love it. But don't get me wrong. I haven't written off my neighborhood in America. Because I have come to like living half of the year in a foreign land. America has become foreign. To me. That's where I am at the moment. And when I return to Italy this fall, I'll have come home again. To my new-found, comfortable paradise. Where I best fit. With my fellow liberals and socialists and communists and free-thinkers and romantic idealists. And I'll tell them, come visit me in America in the spring and summer. I'll show you a typical American neighborhood. Full of a mix of people. Including political, social and economic conservatives that seem to have fallen off the far right edge of Mother Earth. --Jim Broede

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Only with people. Certain People.

I'm aloof. Relatively speaking. Because I often choose to shut myself off from people. To withdraw. Into my cocoon. And even when I come out, I'm able to ignore people. Because my mind is occupied with other things. Other thoughts. Makes me oblivious of others. It's not necessarily an intentional thing. It just is. But I'm trying to be less aloof. To pay more attention. Particularly to people. Which can be a good idea. Because most people can be a source of pleasure. And intrigue. Gives me opportunities. To learn about what makes them tick. Even if I'd rather not know. Because people often disappoint me. But still, that's all right. Because I'm also capable of being pleased. The thing is that I'm not disappointed in life. Only with people. Certain people. --Jim Broede

I need time. To Learn.

I'm a slow learner. Always have been. Takes a while for things to percolate in my mind. But I like that. Because I'm in no hurry. I don't want to speed through life. Please, give me forever. So that I can savor it all. And learn ever so slowly. I'll let other people do the hurrying. I'm learning something every day. How to live better. And wiser. I'm slow because I need time to grasp it all. The slower I get, the better I feel. Little wonder that I prefer a marathon. Over a sprint. And if I run a marathon, I'll do it at a walking pace. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. To make it last. I want my enjoyment and exhileration to last forever. I am looking for ways to stop time. So that I can step back. Onto the sidelines. And observe it all. Gives me the time I need. To learn. --Jim Broede

A picture. In a scrapbook.

I did a double-take the other day. Rubbed my eyes. Because one of the oldest houses in the neighborhood was gone. And it was there yesterday. I'm sure of it. And now, less than 24 hours later, the house is gone. Completely. Totally. No trace of it. It was known as the Loren place. I remember Mrs. Loren. She must have died 30 or 40 years ago. In her 90s. And until the day she died, she was out in her yard. Gardening. Her son, Vern, kept the homestead for a long time. But he didn't always take good care of the place. Or of himself. Maybe drank a little too much. And fell into ill health. A heart condition. But lo and behold, when he was in his 60s, Vern had a heart transplant. And survived. For another 10 years or so. Then the house became a rental property. And not so long ago, it was damaged by fire. And left vacant. Now it's gone. Demolished and hauled away. In eight hours. And a brand new home will go up this summer. Won't look anything like the old Loren house. Now just a memory. A picture. In a scrapbook. --Jim Broede

I'm on a voyage of discovery.

That guy walking toward me is no longer a stranger. His name is Craig. And he's a retired teacher. Taught in elementary schools. In the Stillwater School District. In the same county where I live. And he's resided in Forest Lake since 1974. My town. He lives less than a half-mile away from me. I've seen him hundreds of times. In passing. But we never took a few minutes to start an acquaintanceship. Or maybe a friendship. Until yesterday. When I took the time to converse with Craig. As he retrieved mail from his mailbox. 'My gawd,' I told myself, 'I should have done this long ago. Made significant human contact.' I routinely cultivate relationships with strangers when I travel abroad. But I don't do it so much at home. Where I've lived most of my life. Because I think of foreigners as more interesting. But hey, I'm learning that my neighbors may be the most interesting people in the world. In Minnesota, I live in a place just as intriguing and different as Sardinia, where I spent most of the past autumn and winter. With my Italian true love. But I've taken my home base more matter-of-factly. Not always recognizing the fine detail. The little things that make a big difference. The uniqueness. I talked to Craig. About Joe, the guy that walks his purebred dogs through the neighborhood. Craig knows Joe. Because Joe is his doctor. Yes, a family physician. I didn't know that. And Joe's wife, Erin. She's a physician, too. They're in the same practice together. Until now, I had no clue about the livelihoods of Joe and Erin. Or Craig. I'm on a voyage of discovery. In my own neighborhood. --Jim Broede

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

I wanna feel more neighborly.

I made progress yesterday. And made acquaintances in the process. His name is Joe. And his wife is Erin. They walk their two purebred dogs through the neighborhood. Have been. At least for a year or two or three. But I never bothered to become acquainted. Just passed 'em by. And waved. And nodded. And maybe said 'hello.' Didn't bother to engage them in conversation. Didn't even know their names. Now I can call them Joe and Erin. And before long, I'll know their surname. And what Joe does for a living. And how long they've been married. And where they're from, originally. Won't be long, too, before I know lots of personal stuff. I've ignored my neighbors and neighborhood for too long. Maybe because it's too familiar. I've lived here a long time. And during that period, the neighborhood has changed. Dramatically in some ways. New faces. Oh, I suppose I know the old faces. Maybe 20 percent of the people living in a half-mile radius. But others are strangers. To the point that I don't even know their names. That's a shame. I'm starting to feel bad about it. So I'm gonna make changes. So that I feel good. Yes, I wanna feel more neighborly. --Jim Broede

The loony conservatives.

I guess my way is to promote my way. Doesn't mean that others have to follow my way. They can choose their own routes. I'm occasionally taken to task. For allegedly foisting my way on others. But that's not true. I merely advertise my way as an option. Strictly voluntary. Interesting. The conclusions that people jump to. Maybe it's because I try to present convincing arguments for my way. But I concede that my way may work only for me. Because people are different. But the fact is that we also have similarities. Anyway, that's why I write this blog. To promote my way of thinking. To let people know where I stand. Thing is, I don't really know. I'm merely feeling my way through life. I'm on the move. Constantly. By the time I've pinpointed my position, I'm at another location. That's the nature of a liberal. Never having to know exactly where he is. A conservative has to know. Or he'd go nuts. Come to think of it, conservatives are loony. --Jim Broede

The making of true friends.

When I venture from my cocoon, I enter a strange but fascinating world. But still, I always return to the cocoon. Because it's the only place where I feel totally safe. I only allow a select few into my cocoon. A handful of dear and trusted friends. It's my inner sanctum. I shut out the rest of the world. Even though I'm always well aware of what's out there. And I love it. But I need to retreat. For sustenance and spiritual renewal. Makes no difference where I am in the world. I can always beat a hasty path to my cocoon. Makes me wonder if other people have cocoons. Places they keep secret. My dearest friends do. I know that for sure. Because they let me in. Maybe that's what makes them true friends. --Jim Broede

To love. Despite everything.

I don't mind stirring up trouble. By letting my friends and acquaintances know what's on my mind. Even if it rubs them the wrong way. I'll take issue with them. Over virtually anything. Especially politics. In my neighborhood, I have little respect for the political inclinations of many. It's bad enough to be a Republican. But many of 'em are the worst kind of Republican. Ultra conservative. They vote for the likes of Michelle Bachmann. And they look with disdain on Barack Obama. Maybe because he's black. Maybe some of 'em think he's a secret Muslim. Or that he wasn't even born in the USA. Some of 'em are holier-than-thou Christians who think I'm headed for hell. Because I'm a free-thinker. I personally frown on organized religion. I accept the notion of a god. But nothing like the vengeful god that would create hell. My god saves everyone. Even atheists. My god is open-minded. And flexible. And has a good sense of humor. My god is truly a god of love. And he's very accesible. And reasonable. I can have a conversation with him. At any time. And he tells me to be a lover. To love my neighbors. Despite everything. --Jim Broede

Monday, April 9, 2012

The pursuit of happiness.

I like my Italian experience. Being able to live in Italy. For half of the year. And maybe, if I so choose, making Italy my permanent home. Could be. If ultra conservative Republicans gain control of America. The only drawback is not being able to speak fluent Italian. At my age, I may never master Italian. But still, I'm able to savor Italy and the Italians. I like 'em. Plus, I live in Sardinia. A paradise. And the home of my Italian true love. And she not only speaks English. She teaches English and English literature. Sardinia is an island. The second largest in the Mediterranean Sea. About 120 miles off the Italian boot. Only an hour's flight from Rome. And just south of the French island of Corsica, the birth place of Napoleon. When my dear wife Jeanne died of Alzheimer's five years ago, I never dreamed that my life would take an extraordinary turn. Falling in love with an Italian. Yes, a second love in my life. After 38 years of marriage. So instead of merely marking time for the rest of my life, I'm truly living. To the fullest. In love. Just the way life is supposed to be. And I've learned to take life one day at a time. Savoring every day, every moment. That's something Jeanne taught me. The pursuit of happiness. --Jim Broede

My kind of people.

I have a neighbor several houses up the road. And they occasionally invite me to dinner. On Christmas, for instance. Because they know I'm alone. But also, because we like each other. We connect. Politically. Socially. We're liberals in a mostly conservative Republican neighborhood. They happen to be busy, busy neighbors. Very much on the go. Because they have a business. Their own business. They work at it together. At the same time, they have brought her parents to live with them. Because they are in their 80s, and plagued by dementia. Might even be Alzheimer's in the case of the mother. Believe me, these people are spread thin. Incredibly so. Reminds me a lot of Italian families. That find time for each other. Though he's of French Canadian heritage. Anyway, they're nice people. My kind. --Jim Broede

The family.

I have a neighbor who bad mouths a guy living a half-mile away. Because the guy is 31 years old, and still lives with his parents. And he's unemployed. 'He ought to find a job,' my neighbor said in a disparaging way. As if the guy was a lazy bum. Mooching off his parents. Not understanding that in today's economy some people are having difficulty finding work and making ends meet. But my neighbor's opinion is that anyone who wants to work can find a job. My neighbor, I assume, votes Republican. If he votes at all. Anyway, the guy he's talking about was my house-sitter when I spent autumn and winter in Italy. Tended to my two cats. And did other things around the house. Made the place look lived in. Rather than vacant. My neighbor said the guy didn't show up as often as I thought. Implying that he isn't reliable. But I don't believe my neighbor. I have faith in the guy. My cats seem to have been well-fed and well-taken-care-of in my absence. They didn't lose any weight. And they look healthy. And the place was in good shape when I returned. The guy also has been picking up odd jobs, caring for lawns and handy-man stuff, while unemployed. And he's helping his parents build a summer retreat home in Wisconsin. Reminds me a lot of Italians. They tend to have close-knit families. Helping each other. Especially in times of need. That's really Italy's social welfare system. The family. --Jim Broede

It's a shame.

I find it interesting that neighbors know little about each other. Maybe it's that we tend to go our own ways. And we like privacy. I'm more likely to cultivate contact with total strangers in my travels around the world than I am to become acquainted with my neighbors. I'm far more observant and curious when I'm living in Italy than when I'm at home in Minnesota. It shouldn't necessarily be that way. I routinely pass by people living within a half-mile radius of me. People I've seen hundreds of times. And in some instances I don't even know their names. Maybe I'm the one at fault for that. If it is a fault. Maybe Italians are the same way. My Italian true love doesn't know the names of everyone living in her building. Of course, I'm at a disadvantage. Because I speak only a limited amount of Italian. Makes it difficult to carry on a spontaneous conversation. Unless the Italian speaks English. And some do, thank gawd. My true love teaches English and English literature. Anyway, I'm gonna start thinking of my neighborhood in Forest Lake as a foreign country. But a place where we all speak a common language. And it's a shame if we don't even know each other's names. --Jim Broede

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Still able to spout venom.

Yes, I should avoid getting emotionally upset. I know it. But sometimes I test myself. To see if I can still get royally pissed. A way to vent. Rather than burying my anger deep within. Did that this afternoon. Had a spat with my neighbor. Over something relatively trivial. But still, I was very much annoyed. Maybe not rightly so. Because I thought my neighbor was lying to me. So I called him a liar. Even though he might have been telling the truth. Don't know for sure. In cases like that, I should give him the benefit of the doubt. But I didn't. And so I berated him. And he knew my blood pressure was on the rise. I wanted him to know that I was pissed. Which isn't always a good idea. Means that I may be a little bit out of control. And when that happens, I'm in danger of losing the argument. And I often end up apologizing. But alas, there's something good about feeling pissed. Genuinely pissed. Knowing that I'm able to spout venom. --Jim Broede

I confess.

I'm superstitious. Especially when it comes to baseball. I'm convinced that if I completely ignored the Chicago Cubs, they'd become winners. And promptly capture the long-coveted World Series. But I jinx the Cubs by remaining a steadfast fan (fanatic). The more I follow the Cubs, the more they lose. In excruciating fashion. When I halfway ignore the Cubs, by not watching games or by not checking scores until the games are safely over, the Cubs begin to win more often. The Cubs might even go through a 162-game season undefeated. That is, if I vanished from the face of Mother Earth. Yes, I jinx the Cubs. I put an unintended hex on 'em. So fellow Cubs fans, I'm the one responsible for your misery. I confess. --Jim Broede

Try going insane. You'll like it.

I like to tell my Italian true love that I used to be sane. But that when I met her, I went crazy. In love. Yes, that's what love does. Drives one crazy. For which I am grateful. I really don't wanna be sane. It feels so good being crazy. Sanity is boring. Humdrum. I've lived far too much of my life as a sane being. The safe, sensible way. That's not for me. I was supposed to be crazy. That's the greatest discovery of my lifetime. I encourage others to follow me. Try going insane. You'll like it. --Jim Broede

Always. Somewhere. Some place.

I'm assuming there are other Jim Broedes in the world. In the cosmos. Many of us. With virtually the same DNA, the same genetic make-up. And that our consciousnesses are pretty much the same. That we share similar souls. We are more or less clones. In that sense, I have lived before. And I will live again. On Planet Earth. And other planets in the universe. Think about it. I'm told that there are about 7 billion or 8 billion people on Earth. Today. Heck, some of us must be practically identical. Some other guys look just like me. As horrific as that sounds. Still, it's a mathematical likelihood. And I'll bet our brains work about the same way. The same thought process. For the exception that our life experiences are different. That makes us different individuals. We're shaped largely from experience. Could be that occasionally our paths cross. And we don't recognize each other. Because we're not sure what we look like. We see ourselves from inside. Not from outside. Anyway, the nice thing about this is that I have eternal life. Because I'll always have a clone. Somewhere. Some place. --Jim Broede

For her own sake.

I have a friend grieving over the death of her true love. And I'm encouraging her to get over it. To stop grieving. To get on with the rest of her life. I wonder if that makes me cruel. Unsympathetic. I'd like to think not. Instead, I'm of a mind that I'm doing what a friend should do. Another associate tells me that I shouldn't interfere. That grieving is an individual thing. That some people choose to grieve for a very long time. Maybe even forever. And I say that's stupid. Ill-advised. That it ain't healthy. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. And that as a friend, I should try to persuade her to end the grieving. For her own sake. --Jim Broede

No matter what.

I have great power. I can affect an individual life. Almost as much as god can. Not only affect my own life. But another's. For instance, the life of my Italian true love. I chose to cultivate this relationship. I didn't have to. Neither did she. But we chose to affect each other's lives. Dramatically. If we hadn't made that choice almost five years ago, our lives would have taken different paths. Perhaps very different turns. Of course, it would be easy to say that god intended all of this. That god fated that we come together. But then, maybe there isn't a god. And even if there is a god, maybe god didn't give a hoot. And left everything up to us. Free choice. I suppose it really doesn't matter. Whether our choice is free or not. Because I'm enjoying and savoring life. No matter what. --Jim Broede

Dispassionately.

I accuse some of my friends of over-reacting to the perils/pitfalls of life. But then, maybe that's what I do. Over-react to the outcome of a baseball game. When the Chicago Cubs lose in a heartbreaking fashion. I allow it to be heartbreaking. Which is an over-reaction. Really, I shouldn't allow myself to be heartbroken. Over anything. That would make me more like god. Because I suspect god is never heartbroken. God puts himself above it all. And is just a dispassionate observer. Often, we humans ask, how can god sit idly by and allow tragic event after tragic event to occur? Maybe god is telling us to not over-react. To act more like god. Dispassionately. --Jim Broede

Into the sunshine.

I encourage people to go naked into the world. To not hide. Of course, that takes courage. Maybe some stupidity, too. Because one risks being harmed. If one is naked. Because nakedness is a form of honesty. And most people can't stand the truth. Nakedness. Therefore, maybe nobody dares to be totally naked. Totally truthful. But still, I have fun testing the bounds of nakedness. Gives me a sense of discovery. A better understanding of myself. Maybe the most difficult part of nakedness is baring one's soul. Many of us don't even know if we have a soul. Because it's kept under wraps. Underground. Some souls never see the light of day. But I find that I prefer bringing out everything. Into the sunshine. --Jim Broede

Life.

I have certain, particular friends that I take from a distance. They live in different parts of the world. Where it's inconvenient for us to see each other every day. Or to maintain daily contact. But still, we stay in touch. Maybe several times a month. Or maybe only once or twice a year. We stay connected. Mostly by emails. Or an occasional phone call. I'm sure, too, that several of my friends read my blog. Regularly. And they may even see themselves in the blog. They aren't identified as such. Merely in an anonymous way. But still, the more astute and perceptive friends will see themselves. Recognize that I'm writing about them. I like to do that. Because they are a part of my life. And that's what I tend to write about. Life. --Jim Broede

I refuse to be annoyed.

I'm swearing off the Chicago Cubs. For a while. For how long and to what degree, I don't exactly know. Probably until the Cubs get their act together, and stop losing games in agonizing manners. For now, I choose not to subject myself to the annoyances of life. Oh, I'll still stay in touch with the Cubs. By checking the scores daily. After the games are over. And if the Cubs lose, I won't bother to check how they lost. If they win, I may choose to read about it. That's my way of taking the Cubs from a distance. Because I'm hooked/addicted to the Cubs. I'm still capable of taking the Cubs in small doses. From a distance. Without being annoyed. Mostly to satisfy my innate curiosity. But I refuse to allow myself to be annoyed by the Cubs. Or by the other trivial goings-on in life. --Jim Broede

Learning all the time.

Some of my favorite friends are the ones in depression. I've come to realize that. Or maybe to accept it. To like 'em. Because they present me with the opportunity to study depression. To become analytic about it. I experiment. With psychoanalysis. To see if I can nudge them out of depression. Usually not. But hey, it's worth a try. And maybe I succeed. In little ways. Hard to tell. Because they mostly seem to lapse in and out of depression. Meanwhile, they take my efforts in varied ways. Some plead with me to shut up and get out of their lives. Others welcome me. Still others are merely blah about it all. But the good thing is that they keep me out of depression. I try to avoid the traps. By watching and learning from them. In a sense, they are my teachers. I'm a friendly observer. Learning. Learning. Learning all the time. --Jim Broede

Life itself.

I really have no need to lament or complain over anything. Because I've reached a nice stage of life. Alive. Conscious. Healthy. Of course, I have no guarantees in regard to the future. But I have the existing moment. Always have. As long as I can remember. And always the opportunity to make the best of it. Thing is, if it all ends in a snap of the fingers, I won't know it. That is, if I'm not alive and conscious. So I won't be able to lament and complain. Guess I'm coming to realize that it's a waste of time to lament and complain. That I'm much better off finding something to savor. Something to like. To embrace. Life itself. --Jim Broede

Saturday, April 7, 2012

The hellish lament of a Cubs fan.

Somewhere along the journey of life, I've alienated the baseball god/gods. I'm not liked. I get that feeling. And I'm not sure if baseball is ruled by a single, supreme god. Or if it's handled by a committee of gods. Probably makes no difference. Whatever the number, he/they are trying to teach me a lesson. To be humble. And accepting of whatever happens to my dear Chicago Cubs. I have to accept losing, and like it. Even agonizing losses. Like the Cubs have endured in their first two games this season. Games they should have easily won. But that's the story of the Cubs. And maybe the story of life. I know life would be a whole lot easier. If I forsaked the Cubs. Gave them up. Entirely. And maybe that's what the baseball god/gods always wanted for me. To get on with life. Without the Cubs. Unfortunately, I've been coming back again and again and again. Like an addict. I've written off many alcoholics. Because I don't wanna let 'em drag me down. With them. And I know it's hard for an alcoholic to give up booze once and for all. But I show 'em no empathy. No sympathy. I tell 'em pull yourselves up by your bootstraps. Be a strong being, like me. But when it comes to the Cubs, I'm as weak as the weakest alcoholic. I'm pathetic. And I plead to the baseball god/gods to be kind and understanding. To give me a break. To give the Cubs a world championship. Just once in my lifetime. But I'm denied such a wish. Maybe it's that I'm selfish. I'm being taught a lesson. Because there are many, many other better wishes. More spiritual in nature. More in keeping with the common good. So, I'm faced with an unholy dilemma. I cuss the baseball god/gods. And that's blasphemy. One doesn't do that to any god/gods. One gets punished. No salvation for the likes of me. Yes, no salvation for Cubs fans, period. We are condemned to eternity in hell. --Jim Broede