Sunday, December 30, 2012

With more reports. From Paradise.

I’m off. For a week in southern Italy. With my Italian true love.   A nice way to bring in the New Year. Of course, she’ll want to see more than everything. I’ll try to convince her that less is more. To take time to savor. To catch the intimacy of the place. Which means, no hurry. Time to smell everything we see. Not merely the roses. Means I may not have time to write for a while. But I’ll be back. In a week.  With more reports.  From Paradise.  –Jim Broede

A dirty, rotten shame.

My gawd! I could have spotted them from blocks away. Young  Mormon missionaries. Clad in spiffy black blazers.  And skinny black pants.  They work in pairs. These assigned to the streets of Italy. They’ve been here only eight months. But already, they are mastering the Italian language. Better than me. They approach. Trying to dazzle me with their Italian. I announce in Italian that I don’t speak Italian. They ask for my language.   English, of course. I am an American. From where? Minnesota. They are Californians. And I know their surnames already. On tags. Emblazoned across their jackets.  Heder. Peachey. Yes, that’s right. Peachey.  If he goes into the ministry. He could become Preachy Peachy.  Anyway, before they have a chance to speak, I say, ‘You are Mormons, aren’t you?’  Of course, it’s all too obvious. They seem delighted to meet me.  Within a minute, they know that I’m not one of them.  I’m a spiritual free-thinker. I avoid organized religions.  As far too hateful.  Far too narrow-minded.  They know, too, that I’m a romantic idealist. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer.  They are 19 and 20 years old. And very naïve. No way will they ever convert me to Mormonism. More likely that I’ll swing them into a free-thinker camp.  Though it may take 20 or 30 years. We talk about Mitt Romney.  I wonder if they are ashamed of him. They claim to separate politics from religion. I wonder if they are old enough to vote. Yes, they are.  Won’t say whether they voted for Romney. But I suspect they did.  A dirty, rotten shame.  –Jim Broede

Victor's definition of Paradise.

Maybe Victor and I are destined to meet. Often. Our paths cross.  Three times in the past week or so. Victor is my new-found Nigerian friend. A street peddler.  In Sardinia. Where I’m living.  Victor is seated on a bench. Along Via Gramsci, the main street in the city of Carbonia. His bundle of wares next to him.  We chat for a while. I take advantage of Victor. Because he speaks English. Good, Brit-accented English. Victor left Nigeria in 2006. He’s lost communication with his family back in Nigeria. But doesn’t seem to regret it.  Wonder if he’s a little disillusioned with life abroad.  Says the two years he recently spent in Libya were better  than life in Nigeria.  Meanwhile, it can’t me much of a life as a street peddler. Victor says he’s looking for permanent work. A real job. But finding gainful employment in Italy is difficult, if not impossible.  Even for native Italians, let alone a Nigerian. My Italian true love suggests that Victor probably would be better off emigrating to a Scandinavian country. I’m not sure how Victor finds solace in his wanderings. Maybe he thinks of it as exotic and romantic. He’s a professed Christian. Wears a plastic crucifix around his neck. Doesn’t talk much about his religion.  Only that he left Nigeria  because of the constant strife between Christians and Muslims. Makes me wonder why anyone is attracted to organized religion of any kind.  So much turmoil and animosity.  The ‘believers’ can’t seem to get along.  At least  agnostics and atheists  seem to find common accord. And live together. Peacefully. Cooperatively.  I find agnostics and atheists to be more spiritual than religious. Their focus seems more on the here and now.  On savoring the day. The moment.  The devout Christians and Muslims are more focused on the hereafter. On some day reaching Nirvana. Heaven. Paradise.  I’m already in Paradise. Right here in Sardinia. Living with my Italian true love.  Makes me wonder about Victor’s definition of Paradise. I’ll ask him next time. –Jim Broede

On finding pleasure.

I have multiple things to do today. Things that don’t necessarily have to get done. But they all happen to be enjoyable pursuits. Therefore, if I’m diverted from one activity to another, doesn’t really matter. Because none of it is a ‘task.’ It’s gonna be a fun day.  Meanwhile,  I know people who have only one thing to do today. A single solitary task. That’s the point. Life is truly a task. Filled with things they’d rather not do. Makes ‘em unhappy. Often, makes ‘em grumpy. Especially when they see me. Being happy.  I find a funny sort of pleasure in all this. Guess that’s a vital part of life. In my realm. Finding pleasure in almost anything. –Jim Broede

Saturday, December 29, 2012

Give me the philosophical stuff.

I approach people. All sorts of people. I ask questions. Because I wanna know what makes ‘em tick. But a fair number tell me they don’t wanna talk. That’s all right. That is, if they are willing to talk to themselves. To analyze why it is that they don’t wanna talk. I suspect that some people shut down their minds. Their emotions. Almost everything. Because they find life unbearable.  Or too confusing.  That’s a sad way to go through life. But then, I believe in freedom of choice. It’s their choice. To be unhappy. To skirt the real issues of life. Maybe they seek to become zombies. To go through life on automatic pilot. Maybe that’s a legitimate option.  Better to be a robot. Than nothing. Or is it? That’s why I keep asking questions.  I’m trying to determine something. Have I encountered a truly thinking human being?  Or have I discovered a mechanical zombie/robot?  Thing is, I’m not good at figuring out mechanical stuff. I’d make a lousy handyman.    I prefer tackling philosophical stuff.  –Jim Broede

Friday, December 28, 2012

On feeling good.

Can’t do things I used to. Run a 7-minute mile, for instance. But that ain’t reason to lament. Instead, I walk 10 miles a day. Doesn’t matter that I’ve slowed. I’m still physically able. Enough to exercise. By going distance. If had to, I probably could walk all day.  I’m still functioning. Reasonably well.   Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. In some ways, better than ever. I’m constantly learning. To adjust. To adapt. To make the most of life. Despite inadequacies and limits that come with age.  In many ways, life is better at 77 than at 7 or 17 or 27 or 37. Makes me wonder if it’ll always be that way. Life getting better and better and better.  I suspect not. Life may end.  But I don’t necessarily count out everlasting  life. In one form or another.  I’m here today. In the moment.  Feeling good. About myself. And blessed life. –Jim Broede

Making all things possible.

I’d like to return from the dead. In 2,000 years. Just to see how the world has evolved. Hard for me to even imagine the changes. I’d be overwhelmed. Just as much as I’d be if I had died at the time the Roman Empire was flourishing. And then came back today.  Not sure I’d be impressed by all the change. I may even prefer returning to ancient times. Might be easier to adjust to the slower-paced life. Less complicated. Of course, in another 2,000 years, we may have destroyed the world.  Nothing to come back to. That’s the pessimistic view.  I prefer siding with the optimists. Maybe we’ll have colonized Mars. And the moon.  Able to make weekend trips around Jupiter and back. Traveling at a quarter the speed of light. And we’ll have discovered life in other solar systems. Just the thought of it. Makes me wish that life is a dream. Making all things possible.  –Jim Broede

A new kind of human being.

I’m fearful. That the huge economic gap between the rich and the poor will continue. Until there’s a revolution. Which brings about  redistribution of the world’s wealth. A new kind of government. A new worldly society. In which the wealth is more equally divided. So that the rich no longer get quite so rich. The  poor become far less poor. Seems to me that’s the decent and moral way to go. But it’s gonna take a long time to overthrow the interests and the power base of the money-grubbing  and political-manipulating elite rich. They ain’t gonna surrender very easily. It may take a blood bath that makes the French Revolution seem like meek child’s play. I’m fearful. Because I dislike the violence and the spilling of blood. I’d like to see change come peacefully.  But this kind of change rarely does. Because it takes the uprooting of deeply entrenched ways of life.  Might even require the changing of the basic human essence.  The creation of a new kind of human being.  Fined-tuned to accept the common good. As  best for everyone. Even the solitary individual. –Jim Broede

Thursday, December 27, 2012

No reason to panic.

It’s a weird and annoying dream.  That I’m not retired any more. That I’m back writing for newspapers again. But there’s nothing to write about. A complete absence of happenings. And if I can’t find a decent legitimate story, the newspaper will be blank.  It’s my responsibility to find something.  The deadline is nearing. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t find anything. There’s a complete absence of news. Didn’t occur to me until I awakened that would be the best news story of all time.  I could write about nothing to write about. No reason to panic.  –Jim Broede

My declaration of independence.

I’m sick and tired of people telling me what not to write. Editors. Friends. Family members.  Strangers. Sometimes, it’s as if the whole world is telling me it’s inappropriate to say this or that. Well, world, you are on notice. I’ll write about anything I damn well please. No restrictions.  No limits. And I’ll write just the way I want to. My style. My way. I hereby declare that I am free. Free to speak my mind.  With the written word. I make my own rules. Even my own grammar. My own spelling. When I sit down and write, I do as I please. No taboos on subject matter.  Nothing too personal. Oh, I believe in some degree of privacy and respect. But it’s up to me to draw the line. Not others. I’ll do the choosing, the deciding. So step aside editors and friends. I’m a free man. I write as I please. –Jim Broede

Ways to wipe away the tears.

I suspect there are many, many routes to happiness.  Maybe even for people in the depths of despair.  Through a variety of treatments.  But for most people, maybe all it takes is mind manipulation. And a listing of the practical alternatives.  Maybe a half dozen or more. But I know people who insist on only one route. They become obsessed with a single pursuit.  One that’s bound to an unhappy place.  They don’t consider all of their options. Maybe it’s stubbornness. They want happiness only one way. Completely. Fully. And if they can’t have it that way, they would rather risk being unhappy for the rest of their lives. It’s all or nothing.  Which sounds stupid. Sort of like wanting to be a billionaire. And then being unhappy because one has to settle instead for being a mere millionaire.  I see people sobbing away the rest of their lives. Because they’ve come up short of their outlandish goal. Instead, they feel sorry for themselves. And sob and sob and sob.  When really they should be finding ways to wipe away the tears. –Jim Broede

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

When it's time to say adios.

I try to not let anyone drag me down. To stand strong. But I see many, many people who allow themselves to be abused.  Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.  I don’t fully understand it. Because I’d not want to be abused. I’d call an immediate halt to the abuse. Sadly, abuse happens. Often. Perpetrated on entire races of people. Blacks. Jews. But also on solitary individuals. On spouses. On friends. Of course, there’s such a thing as forgiveness.  Maybe once. Or twice.  But sometimes, forgiveness becomes a farce.  When repeated almost endlessly.  I’d tend to draw the line in the sand. Right from the start of the abuse. And once that line is crossed, it’s adios time. –Jim Broede

On heading off trouble.

I impose.  Which can alienate some people.  Because I try to force ‘em to solve their problems.  I make suggestions. One. Two. Three.  Maybe more. All sorts of alternatives. Often, I try to relieve heartbreak by imposing. Sometimes, that makes the situation worse.  They become pissed.  They wish I’d mind my own business.  But still, I proceed.  Even against better advice.  Because I’m of a mind that every problem can be solved. And the sooner, the better.  Lingering unhappiness ain’t good.  It’s bad for one’s physical, mental and emotional health.  For the soul. One ends up in the throes of devastating depression. I’m for heading off the dire consequences.  By imposing. By intervening.  –Jim Broede

A sweeping desire.

Saw a street sweeper today. Don’t know if he was an amateur.  Or a professional. There are both kinds where I’m living. In Italy. Maybe Italians have an innate skill and desire. To sweep streets. Often, with thatched brooms. They look homemade, and probably are.  Maybe street sweeping is a labor of love. It was the day after Christmas, and this guy was out sweeping the street. By the curbside. Most of the professionals have push carts. For their brooms and  canisters for street debris. The sweeper I spied had no push cart. Which means he may be an amateur. Merely out to tidy up in front of his  apartment building. For the holidays. I think the professionals had the day off. I may have Italian blood in me. Because I have an overwhelming compulsion.  To pick up a broom. And start sweeping.  My Italian true love says the world would be better off if I tidied our abode. With a vacuum cleaner and a wet mop. –Jim Broede

Being naked is being beautiful.

I’m  a good listener. I tell people in crisis to talk. But often, they don’t feel like talking. For whatever reason. When really, they should try to talk. At the very least, talk to themselves. To reach into their inner beings. Their souls. Yes, carry on a dialogue with their souls.  With themselves. Many people don’t know themselves. Or so I suspect. Can’t really know. Because I’m looking in. From outside.  Only they can get inside themselves.  I wonder if people are afraid to see themselves. Afraid of their nakedness.  And maybe that’s why they don’t talk.  I’m not sure if I was ever afraid. Could be that I was just plain stupid. I didn’t have the words. The knowledge.  Or I was just shy. Perhaps nakedness scared me.  I was brought up to be clothed.  To hide my real self.  Maybe even to be ashamed of nakedness.  But one day I ventured into the world. Naked. And hey. I discovered that being naked is being beautiful. –Jim Broede

Life is good even when it's bad.

I thrive on crisis. And heartbreak. That is, if it happens to other people. Not to me. Because it’s often easier grasping a situation from the sidelines. As an observer.  And I can relate it to my actual similar experiences. Often of long ago. Elapsed time gives me an opportunity to be more objective.  I can relate to families coping with suicide. Because my father committed suicide when I was 13. That was 64 years ago. I have learned to talk about suicide in a calm, cool and collected manner. I am able to perceive my father’s suicide as a blessing. Yes, a very good decision on his part. And good for the family,  too.  Time has a tremendous healing effect.  Gives one a better grasp of life and reality and the coping mechanisms. When my dear beloved Jeanne had a 13-year siege with Alzheimer’s,  it once seemed like a horrific experience. For both of us. But I learned the art of care-giving. Of real, unconditional love. Took time. But now I look at the several blessings wrought by Alzheimer’s.  Turns out that life is good. Even when it’s bad.  –Jim Broede   

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Being happy...without Christmas.

I like solitude for Christmas. That’s much better than family gatherings. Families, I’ve learned, can be dangerous. I grew up in a household of stress and tension.  Especially at Christmastime .  And even in later years, when we had family reunions, the squabbles persisted.  The focus wasn’t on things going right in our lives. On the present and the future. But rather on the past. Recriminations. Bad times. Frictions.  Maybe that’s a sign of dysfunctional families.  Anyway, all this made me aware of the benefits of solitude. Rather than family gatherings. Now that I’m living in Italy with my Italian true love, I can’t necessarily avoid family gatherings. And I don’t want to. But I like to weave solitude into the Christmas celebration, too. Because Christmas often has the knack of pulling out the worst in families. Even in the best of families. Maybe it’s that everyone longs for a perfect Christmas. For everything to go right. And when it doesn’t there’s great disappointment.  Therefore, all I ask for Christmas is a special moment. A precious moment. Something to savor. And I had that this Christmas. Because my Italian true love and I found ourselves alone. All by ourselves. On a rocky ledge. Overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. In a place called Portoscuso. On a perfect weather day. Balmy. Sunny.  In the 70s. A light breeze.  I imagined that 2,000 years ago, there might have been Romans perched on these same rocks. With this same view.  With a sense of peace and tranquility and solitude. Didn’t matter what day it was. Christmas had not yet been invented. And one could still be happy. Without Christmas. –Jim Broede

Pizzazz & passion. I need it.

So very difficult for me to socialize with Italians. Because I don’t speak much Italian. I need a translator. And often I do. My Italian true love.  But still, I’m handicapped by language inadequacies. Which makes me aware of what it must be like to be illiterate or semi-illiterate.  That’s why education should be a basic human right. Everybody needs a good education. In order to thrive. In order to be fully human.  Maybe education should be declared the most basic human right.  Being able to read and write. That’s the way to earn most of the other basic human rights. Being able to negotiate for one’s self with words. Meaningful words and thoughts. Of course, I’m able to navigate the world with my English-speaking skills. But hey, it’d be even nicer if I were bilingual or trilingual. If I could speak Italian and German, too. That would open up so many more opportunities and horizons.  If I were a truly dedicated  human being, I’d make expansion of my language skills a top priority.  Thing is, I talk a good game. But I don’t always play the game the way I should. With maximum pizzazz and passion. But I’m working on it. –Jim Broede

Monday, December 24, 2012

My lovely and scenic butte.

My Italian true love says I’m looking out the window at a mountain. But it really isn’t a mountain. Maybe a huge hill. Maybe what I’d call a butte.  I looked up the word ‘butte’ in the Cambridge dictionary. And it isn’t listed. But I went to google and asked for synonyms of ‘mountain’ and up came ‘butte.’ I’m aware of the city of Butte, Montana. And my assumption is that Butte is landscaped by buttes that look like what I’m seeing out the window of our abode in Carbonia, on the Mediterranean island of Sardinia. For lack of a better word, I’m calling it a butte.  I’ve seen many mountains in my travels around the world. And believe me, this ain’t a mountain. It’s a butte. And time for the dictionary to define a butte and to illustrate it with my lovely and scenic butte. –Jim Broede

Getting to the mountain top.

Things have to get worse before they get better. That’s often my philosophical bent. Actually wishing  for things to get worse.  Especially in the sports world. With my Chicago Bears and Chicago Cubs.  Recognize mediocrity for what it is. Mediocrity. Or maybe something even worse. Lousy football. Lousy baseball. Which usually means starting over. From scratch.  Starting anew. Rebuilding from the ground up. The Bears have an opportunity to get into the National Football League playoffs this season. That is, if the Bears win at Detroit next Sunday, and the Minnesota Viklings lose to the Green Bay Packers. The Bears have no realistic chance of going very far, even if they make the play-offs.    But management might assume that  reaching the playoffs is good enough. And therefore, rebuilding ain’t necessary. But I say, face the truth.  The Bears need a long-term rebuilding program. A new coaching staff. New players. The whole shebang. And it’s more likely to happen if the Bears lose to an inferior Detroit team, and don’t make the playoffs. So, contrary to the inclination of many diehard Bears fans, I want the Bears to lose and lose and lose.  So that some day there’s no other way to go than up.  That’s the strategy being used by the Chicago Cubs. A lousy baseball team keeps getting worse and worse. Intentionally. Until the quality of baseball has to get better. To the point of maybe becoming the best. Hitting the basement so hard that the bounce takes one to the top of the mountain.  –Jim Broede

Sunday, December 23, 2012

The soap opera element.

Life is full of soap operas.  Real-life ones. I could write about ‘em. They are happening around me. All the time. In the lives of people I know. Relatives. Friends. Acquaintances. Some of the scenarios  are so unbelievable that they’d be rejected by scriptwriters for TV soap operas. As too preposterous. I’m not gonna write about the specifics here. Because I respect people’s privacy. To a decent degree. If not totally. But I could write about the soap operas in my own family. When I was growing up. And even now. In the lives of my sister. And my son. And my friends. In some respects, my life has been a soap opera. But I’ve learned to glamorize and romanticize much of it. But there’s also plenty of comedy mixed in.  That’s an essential part of life. The humor. The laughs. The soap opera element.  I’m always looking forward to the next episode. –Jim Broede

The right and moral thing.

The problem in America is not too much spending. Instead, it’s not enough taxes. We need higher tax rates. Especially on the rich.  To balance the budget. It’s that simple. But Republicans have adamantly  opposed any new taxes. Since 1990. That’s a long time. And it’s the major reason for budget deficits. America is not a poor nation. There’s plenty of money to go around. Unfortunately, it’s mostly in the hands of 1 percent of the population.  The filthy rich. The obscenely rich.  Yes, multi-millionaires and billionaires. And maybe a trillionaire or two mixed in. They should be expected to pay more in taxes. A whole lot more.  We don’t need much in spending cuts. It’s really increased spending that we need. To help the poor and middle class out of a prolonged economic morass.  It’s the right and moral thing to do. –Jim Broede

The last straw.

Little wonder that I’m in no hurry to return to America. Because I’ve just read that the National Rifle Association is calling for armed guards in every school in America.  Tell me, fellow Americans, that we won’t come to this. If we do, I’ll stay in Italy. I’ll renounce America.  I don’t want to live in an armed camp. We already have Americans possessing 300 million firearms. Including machine guns that fire 45 bullets in a minute.  Armed guards in the schools, and maybe even the churches – well, that’ll be the last straw.  –Jim Broede

A night made for walking.

Went for a walk last night. With my Italian true love. Along Via Gramsci, the main street in Carbonia. Throngs and throngs of holiday shoppers.  Despite the bad economy. Maybe they don’t buy much. Maybe it’s mostly window-shopping. But still, that doesn’t deflate the festive air. A sense of camaraderie. That we are all in this world together.  We are all breathing the same fresh air.  On a wonderful night. Made for walking.  –Jim Broede

An exotic place. An exotic life.

Exotic. That’s my perception of Italy and Europe. Far more exotic than America.  Exotic, of course, is in the mind of the beholder.  An impression. Of a place as distant and alluring and exciting. Very, very different.  Seem to me that  I’ve lived an exotic life. Even in America. In Minnesota. No matter where I am.  I work myself into an exotic state of mind. I cultivate the exotic.   My Italian true love, for instance. She’s the most exotic woman in the world.  She enlivens me. Makes me feel alive. Passionate. Tempestuous. Impulsive.    As if I am living in Paradise.  An exotic place. An exotic life. –Jim Broede

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Our backyard.

We have a spacious, walled-off backyard at our home in the city of Carbonia. With no access. Because of the high walls that surround the yard. Fortunately, we are on the second floor of our four-story building. So we have a good view from the kitchen balcony. Looking down and east. We watch the sunrise while eating breakfast. Sun glistening  off the orange-tile roofs of our neighbors. Most of whom live at ground level in rustic single family dwellings. Our building has eight tenants. All of whom own their places. As for the backyard, I’m unaware of any plans for it. Other than to remain vacant. With several  trees. And lots of brush.  A yard big enough to contain two American-size football fields.  Some day I’m gonna climb the wall, and jog around the perimeter. Just for the heck of it.  The walls are ready-made for a prison. Come to think of it. That’s another potential use.  –Jim Broede

I'm well-off. And happy, too.

It’s good for me to pay less attention to happenings in the U.S., and more heed to events in the rest of the world. Especially in Italy, where I’m now living.  Gives me a fresher perspective on life.  It’s a good life in Italy. In different ways than in the U.S.   A slower-paced life. And for me, it means learning new ways. Not least, learning a new language.  New ways to communicate. Without a fluency in the native language. Gives me a better understanding of what life must be like in the U.S. For newcomers. Especially the ones not versed in English.  I’m not ready to say that life is better in the U.S. than in Italy. Thing is, I’m happy.  In both places. I’m also a little bit disgruntled.  No matter where I am. Because I like to complain. About this and that. It’s part of my nature.  I’m annoyed with politicians. Whether they be American or Italian. But I’m more in tune with the Italians. Because they have a wider variety of political thought. They even have very active and progressive communists. And there’s a decent chance that next year Italy may have a communist prime minister.  Representing a center/left coalition. But still, there’s a ray of hope in the U.S. Vermont has an ‘independent’ U.S. senator who’s really a socialist. Makes me think that maybe I should move to Vermont.  But for now, I’ll split my time between Italy and Minnesota.  I know when I’m well-off. And happy, too. –Jim Broede

Friday, December 21, 2012

Makes me proud to be me.

I’ve learned to define myself. Rather than allowing others to define me. Early in life, others defined me. My parents. My teachers. Older people generally.  But at some point, I took charge. And the older I get, the more defining I get. Know thyself. That’s what I try to do.  When I meet a stranger, I’m defining myself almost from the start. Before he/she has a chance to jump to erroneous conclusions.  And I ask strangers to define themselves, too. Many of ‘em can’t.  They haven’t yet decided. Though many of ‘em have already lived more than half of their lives. Yes, without knowing. Some of ‘em will die without ever really knowing themselves.  Meanwhile, here I am. Romantic idealist. Spiritual free-thinker. Political liberal. Dreamer. Lover. Wow! What a conglomeration.  Makes me proud to be me. –Jim Broede

From within one's soul.

Maybe I want to live forever. Conditionally. As long as I’m in good health. Feeling good. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. If something goes awry and can’t be fixed – well, that creates a new consideration. I’m assuming that if one evolves into spirit form, one no longer needs worry about physical ailments. Then one needs to adjust mentally and emotionally. Maybe that comes the  easiest for me.  I’d hate to become a physical wreck. Beyond repair. Maybe that would be living in hell. I could be distraught mentally and emotionally. But I suspect that can be fixed. With mental adjustment. From within one’s soul.  –Jim Broede

The Italian way: No hurry.

A big digital message board on main street flashes the date, temperature and time 24 hours a day. Goes to show that Carbonia, the Sardinian city I’m living in, is much like any American city. Except that the time has been wrong since the last Sunday in October. When daylight saving time went off. Nobody has bothered to shove the digital clock back an hour.  It’s a sign that Italy may be more ‘with it’ than America. Because Italians tend not to pay heed to time. Doesn’t matter. Things get done when they get done.  It’s an easier, more restful pace of living. The Italians help me grow old gracefully. In a slow and methodical way. No hurry.  –Jim Broede

Doing what comes naturally.

Sometimes, I excuse myself. On the grounds of old age. For instance, that I’m too old at 77 to learn to speak Italian fluently. Or maybe even less than fluently. That it’s gonna take too long to learn to speak Italian well. And by that time, I’ll be dead. So why waste my time? Yes, it’s a stupid and inexcusable mistake. But still, I do it. More because I’m lazy rather than old. No doubt, it’s easier learning a language at a very  young age. But it’s not impossible. I continue to walk 10 miles or ride a bicycle 30 miles in a single day. But it’s as if I can’t learn 10 new Italian words in a day. It’s mental laziness. And a defeatist attitude. For which I should be ashamed.  Don’t find it too difficult to live as a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a dreamer and a lover.  Maybe it’s because that stuff comes naturally. Learning a new language – well, that ain't so natural. –Jim Broede

On becoming a dreamer and lover.

For young Italians, the future may be outside of Italy. Maybe in the U.S. or in the Scandinavian countries or elsewhere in Europe. Where they can find jobs. Maybe young Italians need something different than their homeland. Maybe when they retire, returning to Italy will be a good and wise decision.  Then they can truly enjoy Italy.  Exactly what I’m doing now. As a retired American. Living in Italy for up to half a year. With my Italian true love. Meanwhile, she isn’t retired. But still, she has the opportunity to spend summers living with me in Minnesota. We each have the best of two worlds. I encourage young Italians to start exploring second and third worlds. To learn English or German or French or Chinese. Anything that broadens their vistas and opportunities and understandings.  Oh, it’s all right to stay in Italy, too. To make the best of it. To learn how to truly live without getting hugely monetarily rich. Instead, put the emphasis on culture and learning and appreciating the relatively inexpensive pleasures of life.  Good art. Good books. The great outdoors.  Learn to converse with strangers.  Cultivate a handful of true friends. Find a true love.  Maybe of a different nationality. A different perspective/persuasion. Yes, become a dreamer. A lover of life.  –Jim Broede

A sign of linguistic progress.

I’ve been in Italy for six weeks. Without a haircut. Until yesterday.  I have a barber. An old fella. On Via Gramsci. The main street. In Carbonia. In Sardinia. I tried to enter the shop. But the door was locked. It was noon. Time for shops to close for an afternoon break. Another example of the relaxed style of living in Italy. Business can wait. Anyway, the barber saw me. And as I walked away down the street, he came out the door. Yelled. In Italian, of course. For me to come back. Got my haircut. Italian-style.  I’ve mastered saying in Italian, ‘Not too short.’   He dutifully complied.  I tested some of my well-memorized and well-rehearsed new Italian phrases.  My gawd. He understood. And as I left. We wished each other a merry Christmas. In Italian, of course. A sign of linguistic progress. On my part. –Jim Broede

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Do we live in the same world?

Victor. Have to wonder where he’ll go next. He’s a Nigerian. But left his country. Because of religious strife. A constant battle/feud between Muslims and Christians. One might think that religions are designed to bring people together. Thinking kindly of each other. Seems that should be the basis of religions. But it isn’t. Maybe religions divide us instead. My way is right. Your way is wrong. I see light. You see darkness. Anyway, I met Victor on a street. Via Gramsci.  The main drag. In Carbonia.  In Sardinia. Victor and I are sharing the same world. The same island. In the Mediterranean Sea. We were strangers yesterday. Now we are friends, of sorts.  Our paths crossed. Victor is a peddler. Selling wares. Socks. Blankets. Knick-knacks. Told Victor I don’t speak Italian. No problem. He speaks English-accented English. Just like a Brit. That’s the primary language in Nigeria. English got him by, too, in Libya. Where he lived for two years. Just before coming to Sardinia. Victor has no idea where he’ll end up next. He’s 26. Don’t know if I’d rather be in his shoes. Or 50 years older. Like I am now. I have relative certainty ahead. A few more years maybe. And then adios. Maybe Victor has another 50 or 60 years. But what will it be? Living hand- to-mouth? Or will it be a great adventure? I’ve ended up a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a dreamer, a lover. I wonder if Victor and others of the new generation will have the same opportunities.  Do Victor and I  really live in the same world?  --Jim Broede

I'll laugh at the funeral.

I’m for going over the fiscal cliff. That’s far better than bargaining with Republicans.  Raise taxes on everyone. Poor and middle class and rich alike.  Soak everyone. And cut the budget.  Including defense. Live with that for a while.  Maybe it’ll bring Republicans to their senses. But if not, to hell with the Republicans. They’ll be ousted from office in the next election.   And some degree of sanity and compromise and fairness and camaraderie will return to government.  Nothing better than to allow Republicans to commit political suicide.  I’ll go to the funeral. Laughing all the way. –Jim Broede

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Where spirits go. To start anew.

Don’t begin to understand how it’s done. Men actually stepping on the moon. Barely 70 years after the  Wright Brothers for the first time launched an aircraft off the ground.  And now mechanical rovers rove on Mars. Sent by more spacecraft.  Makes me wonder what’s to come in the next 100 years.  Of course, I’m reminded, too, that it was difficult to imagine creation of a bomb that could annihilate a city of six million in one gigantic explosive swoop. It’s all pretty and not-so-pretty fantastic stuff.  Makes me dream of leaving Mother Earth some day. For a better place.  The moon or Mars. An escape. Maybe that’s where spirits go. To start life anew. –Jim Broede

The language of love.

I’m capable of carrying on intelligent conversations. With most people. If they speak and understand English. And even if they don’t, I can still find other ways. By improvising. With sign language. Or with the help of translators.  I can even communicate with Alzheimer patients. Some in advanced stages of the disease.  Merely by exuding good vibes. By winning their confidence. Their trust. So very many ways to converse.  When I write, I like to use short sentences. Often, a single word is more effective than a long sentence.  Even silence can be an effective way of sending a message.  Then there’s the language of love. That’s my favorite.  The love letter, especially. Because the words of love can be read over and over. They can grow and expand. And become more vibrant with time.  Many love poems will last forever. Even after death.  –Jim Broede

Exercising. Reasonably. Adeptly.

I’m a strange one. In that when tired, I tend to exercise. Physically.  That makes me seem less tired.  Maybe because exercise relaxes me. Gets the blood flowing, too. Wakes me up.  Sometimes, I have no right to be tired. I have adequate sleep. Then there’s the idea. That the body was meant to be used. To move about. Why else would we have arms and legs?  Some people think I’m nuts. For walking 10 miles or bicycling for 30 miles. Day after day.  I do it. Primarily because it makes me feel good.  I would have loved to be a professional athlete. Maybe a baseball player. But I lacked the skills. The coordination.  Gracefulness. Proper rhythm. I’m a lousy dancer. But still, I know how to walk. And to pedal a bicycle. Probably takes more stamina than athletic skill. Even a clumsy oaf can find ways to exercise. Reasonably. Adeptly. –Jim Broede

The grand/glorious Sardinian way.

I have a favorite walking route.  More or less circular. Takes me about two miles. I often repeat it five or six times a day. Takes me through the heart of my city. Carbonia,  in Sardinia. I leave the house on Via Dalmazia and finagle to Carbonia’s palm-tree lined main street, Via Gramsci. I head south to spacious and wide open Piazza Roma, west past a lovely and quaint city park with a 30-geyser fountain and a monument to coal miners. I weave my way to Piazza Italia, essentially a glorified parking lot. Where I turn north on Via Trieste, which blends into Via Dalmazia.  Often, I bring along a book. So I can take breaks. On metal benches spaced nicely on Via Gramsci or wooden benches scattered in the fountain park. If it rains, I can find shelter under a covered walk way at the south end of Gramsci. Or I can duck into one of several coffee bars and have an espresso or a cappuccino. I hardly ever imbibed coffee. Until moving to Italy. Coffee and wine. It’s  part of  becoming Italianized. Last week, a line of about 20 white domed tent-like booths were erected along the south end of Gramsci. Where one can buy Christmas-related knick-knacks, many of ‘em handcrafted by local artisans.  Meanwhile, I’m walking in a light jacket. No snow in Sardinia, and no prospect for snow or freezing temperatures. No white Christmases around here. Instead, I'll happily settle for Yule  the grand/glorious Sardinian way. –Jim Broede

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Takes two to tango.

Misunderstandings.  I like ‘em. Because they often lead to understandings.  Problem with many misunderstandings is that we don’t know about ‘em.  Because we don’t talk to each other.  We remain silent. And keep living with the misunderstanding.  That’s why I like to talk. And write. They are ways to communicate.  To be more easily understood. Silence often is the problem in misunderstandings. But then, maybe some of us talk too much. We mislead other people. Maybe even ourselves.  I’m all for genuine dialogues. Which means, both parties have to recognize that it takes two to tango. –Jim Broede

To explore at an oddball hour.

I’m up at 4 in the morning. And customarily I then take to the computer. And start writing. Whatever  comes to mind. But the thought occurs that maybe one of these mornings soon I’ll go for a walk. Down Carbonia’s main street, Via Gramsci. And then through some residential side streets. Just to see what it’s like. I presume just about everyone will be asleep. That I may encounter no one. Other than the local police. Makes me wonder if I’ll be stopped and quizzed. It’d probably happen in the USA. I’d come under suspicion for being a burglar. Up to no good. Anyway, it’ll be interesting to see if I spot other pedestrians. Maybe I won’t even see any traffic in this city of 30,000 inhabitants. Sometimes, I see hardly anyone at 2 in the afternoon. Most businesses are closed from 1 to 4 p.m. Traffic is so light that the automatic signals are turned to flashing yellow. Nobody is required to stop. Just be cautious. I’m sure that’s what my Italian true love is gonna advise me on early morning strolls. Be cautious. More likely, she’ll tell me, ‘Don’t go. Stay home and write.’ Problem  with writing, I’m signaling my intention.  To explore the city at an oddball hour.  I should just do it. Without telling anyone.  –Jim Broede

The nice state of affairs.

One thing I like about the coming of winter. The days start to get longer. More daylight. I like night, too.  But give me sunshine. Or even brightly lit clouds. And warmer temperatures. But not hot and humid.  Even then, though, I’ll make the best/most of it. Figuring sweat will do me good. I’ll even take a cold winter day in Minnesota.  Because I have no choice. That is, when I’m living there. Instead, I’m in Sardinia, an island in the Mediterranean Sea.  There’s a fierce wind howling out of the north. But not chilling. The temperature remains well above freezing. That’s the nice state of affairs. In Paradise. –Jim Broede

No curses for me.

Cursed people. There are many.  I know. Because I encounter ‘em often. They claim to be cursed . And I believe ‘em. Because they act cursed. They tell me all their troubles. Rarely do they count blessings. Only curses, it seems. As if everything goes wrong in their lives. Makes me feel guilty. Because I’m blessed. I count multiple blessings every day. Maybe I’m cursed, and just don’t recognize it.  For instance, the sun is shining today. And if I’m not careful, I could be sun-burned. I suppose that would be a curse. But I’m gonna feel the warmth of the sunshine. As I sit down on a park bench. And read a book. So that I can feel blessed.  But to play it safe, I’ll put a high number sun block on my nose and cheeks.   No way am I gonna allow myself to be cursed . –Jim Broede

An overdogging experience.

I approached a stranger yesterday. On Via Gramsci, the main street in the city of Carbonia in Sardinia. And she threw her arms around me.  Actually, her paws. She’s a big dog. Probably with some golden Labrador in her. Of course, this took me by surprise. I merely talked a few sweet nothings to her as I walked by.  I couldn’t get her off me. She kept hugging me. Tried to give me a kiss. I lurched to  nearby bench beneath a palm tree. And she tried to climb up next to me. I rebuffed her. Told her to behave. And to sit. In English. And she seemed to understand.  I patted her on top the head. She looked up. And maybe smiled.  I’m not sure how a dog smiles. Anyway, I sat there for five minutes. Until another dog, maybe her real boyfriend, came along. And they romped off. Together. And I breathed a sigh of relief.  As I sneaked away. From an overdogging/overbearing  experience.  –Jim Broede

Monday, December 17, 2012

My friend Mauro.

My Sardinian friend Mauro Addis always finds a job.  Never out of work. Even when the local economy goes sour. There’s lots of unemployment in the land.  But Mauro always finds a job. Has ever since he was 14. ‘If you really want to work, you can find work,’ Mauro said. ‘Maybe it won’t be very good pay. But it’s work.’  Mauro has been selling vacuum  cleaners. Door-to- door. For two years.  He works on commission. No straight guaranteed salary. Mauro has known lean times. But he always gets by. One way or another.  Because he’s willing to try almost anything. For work.  He’s 33. And single. And seems to be enjoying life. Selling. He’s got me convinced. When I need a new vacuum cleaner, I’ll go to Mauro. Because I like the guy. ‘You’ve planted a seed,’ I told Mauro. ‘Look at it as a long-term investment.  Maybe in three or four years, I’ll need a vacuum cleaner. I’ll buy from you.’  But I have a hunch that Mauro will be doing something else by then. I suggested he might emigrate to America. ‘You’ll be welcome,’ I said, ‘because American business likes industrious  and energetic guys like you. You’ll fit in. And you speak the language.’   I won’t be surprised if in a few years Mauro owns and operates his own successful business. Making nifty profits.  I’ve talked to Mauro several times. Initially, he told me his English wasn’t very good. But it’s much better than he thinks.  Now he welcomes me as a friend. Partly because it gives him a chance to practice English. Meanwhile, I practice  getting to know Mauro. Better and better. If he’s a typical Sardinian, it speaks well for Sardinia. –Jim Broede

Strangling the poor & middle-class

What we need more than  anything are programs that shield poor and middle-class from harm. Yes, more social safety nets.   I’m not only speaking of America. But all over the world. Italy, included. Where I’m living now.  We don’t need more austerity.  Because that will only make economic recessions and depressions even worse.  We have to meet the needs of real people. First and foremost. Even if it means running the economy at  deficit levels for a while longer.  The important thing is to keep the masses of people at sustainable levels. Not just the rich. But mainly the poor and the middle-class. Many economists tell us that. But the ruling rich elite and the politicians they bribe, tell us we have to pull in our belts.  Around our necks. Until we strangle. So that the rich can sustain their wealth.  –Jim Broede

Wrong place at the wrong time.

Barack Obama says tragedies such as the killing of 20 youngsters by a crazed gunman must end. But that won’t ever happen. Life always has been full of tragedies. And always will be. Controlled tragedies. Uncontrolled tragedies. That’s part of life. War is probably the biggest tragedy of all. Especially modern war. With modern and ever-more lethal weapons.  Entire cities can be wiped out. With a single bomb. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Most likely, it’ll happen again and again and again. Endlessly.  That’s the sad nature of the human condition.  One has to wonder if a crazed gunman is any worse than crazed nations that go to war. Resulting in millions of deaths.  Many of ‘em children that never yet experienced going to school. Far too young to die. In a perfect world.  But there’s no such thing as a perfect world. Never will be. But don’t call me a fatalist or a pessimist.  That’s just the way it is. And I’m still bound and determined to find happiness amidst all the tragedy going on. Around me. Just hoping that it doesn’t hit me directly. All it takes is being in the wrong place at the wrong time. –Jim Broede

Places for solitude and respite.

Sounded like mumbo-jumbo. Especially since it was all in Italian or Latin. But still, I enjoyed being there. With my Italian true love. It was a Catholic mass. For the dead. It’s held every year. In mid-December. The names of the deceased from the San Ponziano parish are mentioned. In a homily. A sermon.  Two years in a row I’ve attended. The one last year was more elaborate. A choir. A guitarist, too. And the mass was celebrated by Padre Antonio, the top priest in the parish. The parish has five priests, I’m told. I’m hoping to find one that speaks English. Because I want to schedule an interview. A theological/philosophical discussion. Which I plan to write about in my blog. Right here.  Sprinkled with all sorts of information/tidbits about the parish. Anyway, Padre Antonio doesn’t speak English. I’ve met him. Shook hands. And conversed a little bit.  Through a translator. Namely, my true love. Anyway, the mass this time around wasn’t as elaborate as last year’s. Two of Padre Antonio’s underlings conducted the service. And lay people did some readings, too. And the parishioners kneeled in prayer. And all but a few trekked up in single file to take communion. Of course, I merely watched. Taking it all in. Semi-fascinated.  It was chilly. We all wore coats/jackets.  But still, there’s  an inner warmth felt by just being in a church. This one of contemporary design.  A relatively small sanctuary, as Catholic churches go. The church looks impressive from outside. With a bell tower and clock that can be seen from miles away. If I get lost in Carbonia, I look around. For the bell tower. Head there, and I know where I am. I can find my way home again. The church faces on Piazza Roma. The biggest piazza in town.  Wide open. Also bordered by a fountain park, city hall and a theater for the performing arts. I stroll through the Piazza Roma virtually every day. When traveling in Italian cities,  my true love and I frequently take rest breaks in churches. Sometimes cathedrals and basilicas. It’s very pleasant.  Oh, so very soothing.  That’s how I think of churches. As places for solitude. For respite.  –Jim Broede     

A fantastic dream.

Not sure if life is determined by pure fate or pure conscious decision-making. On my part.  Could be that things just happen.  And I have absolutely no control. I’m just along for the ride. And I’m living an illusion. That I have a real say in the matter. I come to a proverbial fork in the road. I can turn left.  Or right. Or go straight ahead. Or go back where I came from. Or stay where I am. Supposedly, it’s a conscious decision on my part. But is it, really? Maybe it’s all pre-determined. Maybe the creator knows exactly what’s gonna happen. And he merely lets it be. Without interference. Or maybe there is no creator. No pre-determined outcome. Everything is happenstance.  Maybe life is a total illusion. A figment of one single profound imagination.  A fantastic dream.  --Jim Broede

Sunday, December 16, 2012

The way life was meant to be.

Five years ago I started my blog. Now I’m posting my 5,339th thread. I hardly miss a day. Maybe 20 times . It’s been an enjoyable experience. Even when taking on a group I affectionately  dubbed  ‘snob ladies.’ From the Alzheimer’s message boards. They didn't like me. For what I was posting on the message boards. Claiming that maybe I didn’t show enough empathy towards Alzheimer care-givers. My dear sweet wife Jeanne had died in January 2007 after a 13-year bout with Alzheimer’s.  During Jeanne’s long siege I posted almost daily on the message boards. Talking about care-giving. And my experiences. And I emphasized the need for ‘good vibes’ therapy. Yes, positive attitudes on the part of care-givers.  And I suggested that some care-givers were inadvertently negative. Doing more harm than good. And that it was no shame to openly admit  that some of us aren’t cut out to be care-givers.  I certainly wasn’t good at care-giving from the outset.  But I learned. On the job. And probably finished as a darn good and loving care-giver.  Learned that I made mistakes. By exuding bad vibes. It all turned around dramatically when I started exuding nothing but good vibes. It helped, too,  that I started getting daily respite. Instead of being a 24/7 care-giver, I transitioned to a rested 8-10 hour a day care-giver. Didn’t miss a single day for the 38 months that Jeanne spent in a nursing home. But I got home by 10 o’clock every night. Had a leisurely supper. Read a book. Watched TV. Got a good night’s sleep. And returned to the nursing home by late morning.  Jeanne got loving attention. Fresh air, too. Lengthy outdoor wheelchair rides. Daily. Showers. Every night. Hand-feeding in the privacy of her room instead of in the distracting atmosphere of congregate dining.  Really, every Alzheimer patient needs this sort of individual attention. And sadly, so very, very many don’t get it. Anyway, it’s gonna be six years next month that Jeanne died. Physically, that is. She’s still with me. In spirit. And I’m alive and thriving. Living with my second true love. In Italy.  And posting right here. Daily. Yes, getting on. The way life was meant to be.   –Jim Broede

More than nothing.

I routinely make something of nothing. Because there’s always something in nothing. If one just looks. Last night my Italian true love and I socialized. At the home of her teaching colleague, Patrizia. They gabbed. In Italian. While Patrizia’s 5-year-old son Pier Francesco picked up and played with his immense collection of toys and knick-knacks and acted like an acrobatic chimpanzee. Which I found entertaining. The kid has energy to burn, and he burns it. Wonder if I was that active and agile at 5. Can’t remember much, if anything. It’d be nice to recall life from another time. To analyze it all. I remember only seemingly little things. Which may be big things, if I think about it more.  Why? Why? Why do I remember some stuff and not other stuff? So very much of my life must have been spent in an unconscious state.  Living as a zombie. I’m more aware now. Even of what momentarily seems like nothing. Finding ways to give it significance. Writing about it. Analyzing it. I notice. Maybe I forget  or don't bother to see. But I often post the experience. The social outing. In my blog. Or in an email to a friend.  Somewhere. Some place. To make it all mindful. Meaningful.  Looking for all sorts of signs of life in Patrizia's living room. Fish. In an aquarium. Little live fish. On the way out, on the porch, bric-a-brac ceramic  swordfish on the wall. Are there swordfish in the Mediterranean Sea? I didn’t know for sure. Now I know. Yes, they thrive. Until caught. And served on a plate. To the likes of me. That’s only a little bit of knowledge. But it’s something. More than nothing. –Jim Broede

Saturday, December 15, 2012

Celebrating life.

Usually, I don’t pay much heed to Christmas. Maybe it’s that I’d rather not. All the folderol. I can do without it. So much of it has become commercial. A pretense of happiness and camaraderie and family solidarity. Anyway, it’s a Christian holiday observance. And though I was raised a Christian and enjoyed Christmas celebrations for selfish reasons as a kid, I no longer am a Christian.  It’s more a case of shunning religiosity. I’d rather be spiritual.  Though I’m unsure what that means. Just sounds good, I suppose. I’m into free-thinking.  Which also makes me sound more liberal. More open-minded. When really, I’m just as close-minded as any Christian or Muslim or Buddhist or atheist. I have my way. Which is to take life one day at a time. And that requires a flexible approach to life.  Because I’m not sure what life is all about. I’m merely an observer. And so I’m aware that it’s Christmastime. Here in Italy. In Sardinia. In the city of Carbonia. Where the Christmas decorations are in full force.  Italians are in a festive mood. Despite hard economic times.  Church bells are ringing. And there was live music in Piazza Roma. Sounded like blue grass.  Thought I was back in America for a while.  But then I looked around. And recognized that I’m in Paradise. Holding hands with my Italian true love.  Celebrating life.  –Jim Broede

Hey, that's my Italian niece.

I’m thinking of 16-year-old Giorgia as my new-found niece. Why not? After all, she’s my Italian true love’s niece. That makes my true love her aunt. And we are more or less hitched.  That would make me Giorgia’s uncle, more or less. At least by proxy.  And as a relative, I have a right to encourage Giorgia to seriously consider becoming a journalist.  She’s well-suited for it. She speaks two languages. Fluently. Italian. English. She’s intelligent. She’s curious. She’s pretty. Actually, beautiful. Which gives her an inside track as a TV journalist. She’s got it all. Now it’s my role to sell Giorgia on the idea. Becoming a journalist. On the glamour and the personal fulfillment that can come with such a pursuit. From what I’ve seen, she’d be a natural at it. As an inquisitive teen-ager, she might as well give it a try. Nothing ventured. Nothing gained. I’ll offer to take her along on interviews. For pieces I write in my blog. I gab with Italians. She’ll see how I go about it. She can be a big help. Using her bilingual talents. She can translate my English questions into Italian. And then she can turn the Italian answers into English.  I’ll write my piece. In English, of course. I’ll suggest that Giorgia write her own versions.  In English. In Italian.  Wouldn’t surprise me if she writes the best story. Wonderful idea, isn’t it? I’ll not only be Giorgia’s uncle. I’ll teach her the craft of journalism. Wow! If she ever becomes a successful and famous journalist/writer, I’ll become a  braggart. Boasting. Hey, that’s my Italian niece. –Jim Broede

An ongoing romantic odyssey.

Life. A romantic odyssey. That’s what I try to make of it all. Sometimes successfully. Other times not. I’m always looking. For that special aura. Shaping life into what I want it to be.  That’s how I picked my profession. Writer. Maybe a hack writer at times. But nevertheless, writer. That’s how I picked my mates.  Or is it, they picked me? Anyway, two true loves in a lifetime.  And my environments. Where I live. In Minnesota. In Italy. In a very curious world. I live a storybook existence.  Indeed, an ongoing romantic odyssey. –Jim Broede

Losing track of time.

I know people that think of time as long and excruciating. For instance, five hours at work. Whether it be digging ditches or teaching or writing. Can seem like a long, long time. That is, if one isn’t having pleasure. If one dislikes the activity. If one isn’t absorbed. But add such ingredients as fulfillment and love and curiosity – well, it’s almost as if time ceases to exist. One loses track of time.  –Jim Broede

A living thought.

Sometimes , I become locked in. I’m on the computer. Writing. So focused that I’m unaware where I am. At home in Minnesota. Or living with my Italian true love in Sardinia. I have to think for a moment. Where am I? It’s a good feeling. An out-of-body experience. As if I’m in another world. In the spiritual realm. Amazing. What one can do with a mind. A focused mind. One can shut out the extraneous  and become immersed in a single thought.  A living thought.  –Jim Broede

Friday, December 14, 2012

Living in our shared paradise.

My Italian true love is still too young to retire. Wishes she could. I might be willing to trade places with her. If I could. In other words, for me to be the younger one. And still working.  As a journalist. Then she’d become the older one, and retired.  The thing with me, I’m basically happy.  No matter what I’m doing.  Retired or working. In a sense, I’m retired when I’m working. And I’m working when I’m retired. I never quit living. No matter the role.  For instance, I love to write. And to live. I write more now than before I retired. The big difference is I write pretty much what I want. No boss. No editor. I continue pursuing my craft. Maybe it’s even become an art.  Very enjoyable. Once upon a time, my goal was to never retire. To continue being  gainfully employed by newspapers until the day I die. But toward the end of my work career, work started becoming work. Because the nature of the news business changed. It was becoming far too commercially oriented. More an entertainment business.  And that started to annoy/disenchantment me. I finally learned to welcome retirement. Furthermore, my wife of 38 years had Alzheimer’s.  And I assumed the role  of care-giver.  Not so enthusiastically at first. But I learned the new craft/skill and became very good and loving at it.  Showed that one is never too old to learn something new.  Anyway, I’m now on my second true love. And one of my missions goes beyond love. I’m trying to teach her to accept life as it comes. To truly embrace what she’s doing. Teaching. To find ways to effectively deal with the bureaucracy of the school/education system.  To learn acceptance.  And to always find  ways to be happy.  At least for part of the day. Especially when we are together. Living in our shared cocoon.  Often called paradise. –Jim Broede

On getting closer to my goal.

I’ve been stymied all my life. By people who want to dampen my curiosity. Friends. Acquaintances. Teachers. Even parents.  But I’ve become a rebel. Becoming more curious all the time. I refuse to heed advice to become less curious. To mind my own business.  Well, I happen to be in the business of satisfying my curiosity. I wanna know significant and meaningful  stuff about people and the world. Nobody and no place are off-limits.  I wanna know everything.  Of course, I’ll never achieve that goal. But I’m gonna keep getting closer and closer and closer to achieving the impossible. –Jim Broede

At least I'm able to escape.

I expect nothing meaningful to be done about gun violence in America.  Any more than I expect something meaningful to be done about the ever-widening gap between the rich and the poor. Violence and inequality are part of the American spirit. The American psyche.  The American way. Oh, we deplore what we’ve become as a nation. But nothing politically meaningful gets done. We just go on and on and on. Without meaningful change. Without meaningful laws. Without meaningful regret for what we’ve become. As a nation.  We allow a vocal and powerful minority to rule. Note, I mention powerful. Because we allow the likes of the idiots in the National Rifle Association to have their way. We have a dumb-downed America.  Maybe because the smart people aren’t smart enough to overcome the antics of wild-eyed, hare-brained idiots. Therefore, we have what we have in America. Fortunately, I’m an American living in Italy. That gives me some solace.  Maybe I’m starting to hate America for what it’s become. At least I’m able to escape. –Jim Broede