Thursday, February 28, 2013

Imagination & the written word.

I’m talking directly to D. H. Lawrence. Which is no small feat. Because he died 83 years ago. Tomorrow. I’ve summoned his spirit. To ask him questions. I’m about halfway through his 600-page biography. And I find his life stimulating. And it’s a shame that we didn’t have opportunity to talk face o face. When he was still in the physical world. But thank gawd, there’s still the spiritual connection. Even though I’m not yet a true spirit. I’m gonna ask Lawrence what it’s like to be totally spirit. My guess is he welcomes living in the spiritual realm. Because he was sickly much of the time. Bronchitis. Pneumonia. He eventually died of tuberculosis. Age 44. Maybe a blessing. To die young. If it’s brought him spiritual happiness. Anyway, I’ll try talking to Lawrence about his writing style. And philosophy about love. He was a superb novelist and poet. No way do I want to mimic his style. But I want to understand it better. He’s also been purported to use his real life friends and acquaintances and family members as the base for characters in his novels. Often in satirical fashion. No doubt, that annoyed and even angered some. But I like what he did. I’d do much the same.  Giving real life characters odd twists and turns. Putting them into alternative lives.  All of us could have chosen many paths in real life. But in fiction, we can take our lives anywhere and anyplace. Oh, the power of the imagination and the written word. Lawrence was the master of both. I’m looking forward to our dialogue.  –Jim Broede

It's a crying shame.

The left wing has a great chance to rule Italy. If only all elements of the left came together. United. But there are personality clashes that may make that impossible. Too bad. But that’s the modern state of politics. The lack of compromise. No give and take. So many elements want all or nothing. Pretty much means that everyone gets nothing. So governments go into stalemate. Gridlock. Pettiness reigns. Happens in America. Over budget matters. And it’s happening in Italy. Where no political party can attain a majority. There are so many of ‘em. For a coalition to form, two and more likely three or four parties will have to cooperate. Wheel and deal with each other. So that everyone gains something. But that’s not happening. Parties look at each other as mortal enemies. Meanwhile, nothing gets done. The economy remains bleak. Unemployment continues to spiral. A feeling of despair crosses the land. Because politicians keep acting like politicians. They’ll make the nation fail. Then blame the other guy. When really, the fault lies with everyone. For tolerating malfunctioning political systems. All of us are to blame. For letting it happen. It’s a crying shame.  –Jim Broede

More pigeons than one can count.

I brought with me to Sardinia a bevy of CD disc players. Pocket-sized ones. Easily carried. Had a notion that when walking, I’d listen to music. Classical stuff. Would be soothing. But I haven’t listened. Not even once. Because I don’t want to be diverted from the scenes and the people I see along the way. I want to be a keen and astute observer. Of Italians. I’m fascinated with the idea/opportunity of living in Italy. I’d rather capture the every day sounds and sights of my new country. Better than the sounds of Baroque composers. I can do that when I’m back in Minnesota. Now I prefer listening to the cooing of pigeons. At first, I was fooled. Thought they may be loons. But here in Sardinia, there are no loons. And more pigeons than one can count. –Jim Broede

The matter of kindred spirits.

I don’t like some acknowledged very good writers. I concede they are good. But still, I don’t like ‘em.  Because they write in ways that I don’t like to read. Too pretty-like. Too descriptive. Too detailed. It’s almost as if they are in love with words for the sake of being in love with words. They overdo it. They don’t get to the essence quickly enough. Instead, they flower things up. They try to dazzle. Descriptively. Asking me to absorb too much. I don’t need to know the color of one’s tie. Or the shape of the buttons on one’s suit. Or whether one has big ears or small ears. Give me more substance. More pertinence. Of course, I can be easily criticized for the way I write. But it doesn’t bother me. Because I’m not out to please every reader. Only a very few kindred spirits. The same may go for the writers I don’t like. Maybe it’s that we aren’t kindred anything. –Jim Broede

All I need is a creative moment.

I’m creative. In the way I design my life. By using my imagination. In limitless ways. I imagine what I want to be. And then I devise a plan. To become. Maybe only in a dream. But I know how to dream in ways that seem real. And that’s often good enough. To live an illusion. Of course, that might be deemed duping one’s self. But believing something makes it true for the moment. And sometimes, that’s all I want. To grasp a moment. I can do that. With my vivid imagination. For instance, living on another planet.  Or believing in a creator. That's me. A grand creator. In a moment of revelation. Maybe it lasts for only a moment. But that’s good enough for me. –Jim Broede

Losing one's cool can be cool.

I like to lose my cool. Occasionally. Just to see if I’m still capable of becoming truly angry. It’s generally good to be calm, cool and collected. But maybe only 98 percent of the time. As for the other 2 percent. That’s reserved. A testing period. To determine if I haven’t lost the craft of anger. Actually, I’ve made it an art form. A way to achieve my goals in life. I use a burst of anger. Effectively. Some people think that because I claim to be calm, cool and collected, I’m supposed to be that way all the time. Which is a little bit ridiculous. After all, anger is one of the most effective tools in my toolbox. Especially when I encounter an exceptionally difficult and aggravating situation. –Jim Broede

Taking advantage of a sunbeam.

I’m dazzled. By the brilliant sunshine today. Because I choose to be dazzled. I could take the sun matter-of-factly. As just the same old thing. But it’s not the same. I’m overwhelmed. By the brilliance of the sunshine.   I’ve consciously noticed it. When on other days I wouldn’t have. That makes the day special. Because I took the time to savor something. To see and taste the full effects of a beam of light that took approximately 8 minutes to arrive from the sun, which is 93 million miles away. I’m also feeling the warmth. A reminder, of course, that the sun is a huge furnace. Don’t want to get too close. Better to take advantage of a sunbeam. –Jim Broede

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Maybe a friend some day.

Thinking. About the way I get to know people. A stranger I’ve just met. The name isn’t most important. Instead, it’s the words. I walk away. Might not remember the name. Instead, I remember something he/she said.  We start a dialogue. And maybe I have to ask three times. For the name. Maybe I don’t ask. Because I’m riveted on the conversation. Looking for something meaningful. Memorable. I need more than a name. The name is secondary. Often,  I have an instant impression. But a minute later, it’s a totally different take. Because I’ve peeked behind the façade. Inside the stranger. I’ve learned something. Significant. This is no longer an ordinary stranger. I’ve become acquainted. Because I have obtained a sense of a personal and unique being. Maybe I want to  know more.   Only then does the name come into play. Yesterday, not only name. But an email address. I decided quickly that a stranger should no longer remain a stranger.  A new acquaintance. Maybe a  friend some day. –Jim Broede

Maybe it was Moses' lucky day.

I met Moses today. Oh, not the biblical Moses. Instead, a Nigerian. Age 26. His full name is Moses John. Yes, that’s right. His surname is John. His first name, Moses. Gives one a hint. That he’s Christian. Yes, a Catholic. Trying to make a living. In Italy. As a street peddler of knick-knacks. And it ain’t easy. He has to do some begging, too. Moses won’t make a go of it in Italy. Unless he becomes fluent in Italian. And even then, he might not. Anyway, he speaks good English. That’s why I know about him. Met Moses in the parking lot of a grocery store. In Carbonia. In Sardinia. He approached me. In Italian. But it wasn’t long before I knew he spoke English. Suspected so. Right from the start. People from Africa speak lots of English. Often with a British accent. Moses sounds well-educated. He’s a computer engineer. Knows computers. Inside and out. I imagine he could be a computer whiz. Which could land him a decent job some day. Especially if he finds his way to an English-speaking country. Maybe the U.S. I’d like to help Moses.  Maybe to migrate to the U.S. Where he could build himself a decent life. Won’t do it in Italy. And he left Nigeria, too, because  of lack of opportunities. Went to war-torn Libya for a while. And came to Italy a year ago. Looking for work. And so far, nothing better than street peddler. That can be downright discouraging. But I tell Moses not to lose faith. Maybe his life will take a turn for the better. I’ll inquire. As to what he has to do to end up as a legal immigrant to the U.S. Wish it were easy. But then, it’s gonna take more than wishing. Told Moses to stay in touch. Maybe our chance meeting was  fated. Something meant to be. We’ll see. I’ve advised Moses to take life one day at a time. And to hope that this was his lucky day. –Jim Broede

Without being truly alive.

Wonder how many days I went through life on automatic pilot. Without thinking. Without consciously grasping that I was alive. And functioning. Didn’t give it a thought. Just went about doing my thing. Without pondering the thought that I was alive and functioning. Maybe those days have been swept away. Into oblivion. As if I never lived ‘em. Don’t remember. So many lost days. Though I admit, I probably enjoyed ‘em. Without thinking about it. Without pondering. Without savoring.  I don’t remember everything I did yesterday. Because much of it was automatic. Routine. Like driving down a country road. Without noticing anything in particular. Turns out to be a non-event. Unless I retrieve something. Particular. Memorable. That scares me, in some ways. No, not the possibility of dementia. Rather it’s more a case of not paying attention. To what I’m doing in ordinary life. Unless I’m in love. Then I seem to pay more heed. My attention is more riveted. On acts of love. On precious moments. Yes, love makes me feel more alive. More with it. More conscious. Makes me wonder if people out of love go through life without being  truly alive. –Jim Broede

My imagination. It's a real thing.

I like the thought/fact that I  have Czech relatives on my mother’s side of the family and German relatives on my father’s side. Plus having an Italian true love. Gives me sort of an international feel. Suppose if I dig  deep enough into the past, I’m a blend of many, many nationalities. Most, if not all of us, are. Nice to have such a hodge-podge. I’ve been trying to find my roots. By connecting with relatives. Even distant cousins. I suppose, in a sense, we are all related. I’m doing the connecting mainly out of curiosity. But there are elements of adventure and the exotic in it, too. I go to places all over the world. To walk the same ground as my ancestors. And it helps me capture their spirits. Maybe it’s merely my imagination. But then, my imagination is a real thing. Vivid. Alive. Magnificent. –Jim Broede

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Living to 1,000. Ain't a bad idea.

I’ve distanced myself from people back home in Minnesota. Been living in Italy. Since early November. So it’s natural. To start forgetting about Minnesota. And my friends and acquaintances there. But something nice about that. When I return in the springtime, maybe I’ll appreciate them more. Proving the adage that absence makes the heart grow fonder. I don’t know. We’ll see. Anyway, I’m broadening my world horizons. My world view. Because I’ve found a way to live in two places. In Sardinia. With my Italian true love. And in Minnesota. In my cocoon. On a lake. With my two cats. And a daily Skype connection with my true love back in Italy. She, in turn, comes to stay with me in the summertime. A good deal. For both of us. I’m beginning to feel both American and Italian. Except I haven’t mastered the Italian language. And may never will. Unless I live to 1,000 years. Which ain’t such a bad idea. –Jim Broede

In Italy, it's business as usual.

Italy has the capability of reforming its government. Radically. But won’t. Because politicians are politicians. And therefore they steadfastly refuse to do the right things. Makes no difference which nationality. American or Italian or Timbuktuian. They’re all the same. Putting their personal egos far ahead of the common good.   Comedian Beppe Grillo’s party finished first in the Italian parliamentary elections, and Pier Luigi Bursani’s left of center party came in second.  Neither with a majority. So it’s necessary for at least two parties to cooperate and form a coalition in order to govern.  And Grillo and Bursani could do it. For the good of the country. But they won’t. Because they are politicians. Probably more tuned in to their personal desires than to dear old Italy. That’s the way I see it. Of course, I could be wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time. But that doesn’t stop me from being an imaginative dreamer. Seeing these two guys set aside their differences. For the sake of true reform. Doing what’s best for their country. Forming a leftist government. That gets things done for a change. Giving Italy a government that works. That plays by decent and humane rules. Reduces inbred corruption. Puts the common good first and foremost. Imagine that. Yes, it’s a radical concept. It’d set a fine example for the rest of the world. But like I say, politicians will continue to act like politicians. They’ll do business as usual. In some pretty gawd awful ways. –Jim Broede  

How about it, Mr. Creator?

My perspective on life keeps evolving. Changes from day to day. Maybe in minor ways. But over a lifetime, in big ways. Significant ways. That’s the blessing of living a long life. Give me 1,000 years, and I would no longer recognize myself. I’d be something dramatically different. Hopefully, a much better human being. I need time. Because I’m a slow bloomer. Getting things right doesn’t come easy. Takes lots of experimenting. And learning experiences. From multiple mistakes. Might think at a given moment I’ve got it right, only to discover in the next moment that it was wrong. But hey, no reason to give up. Seems to me that the creator gave himself forever to get it right. So why not me? I want just as many rights as the creator. Maybe the creator doesn’t want to give me equal status. Maybe that’s what I’ve gotta learn to accept. That is, as long as the creator gives me forever to learn acceptance. That wouldn’t be a bad compromise. How about it, Mr. Creator? –Jim Broede

Maybe I'm in the ideal world.

In an ideal world, everybody would live long enough to retire. And then have the opportunity to  live for a few years. Healthy. And with enough income to live decently. Of course, that won’t happen. Not on Mother Earth. But maybe it does elsewhere in the cosmos. Especially if there are billions of inhabitable planets. A distinct possibility. Because of the vastness and maybe infinite size of creation. Makes everything a possibility. Anyway, I’m figuring the creator gave us limitless chances to get everything right. Which means some day we will. If not on Planet Earth, then elsewhere. I speak of retirement. Because it has given me the opportunity to pretty much do what I wanna do. My way. As a writer. Because I have good health. And enough resources to live on. And I don’t have to report for work.  I write for pleasure. For fulfillment. Without having to get paid. Without having to please anyone but myself. It’s a nice position to be in. Gives me a feeling of independence. Also known as freedom. And the other thing. I’m in love, too. Call it a bonus. Freedom and love. Life can’t get much better than that. Maybe I’m in the ideal world, after all. –Jim Broede

Savoring. Maybe more than ever.

I’ll be leaving Italy. In about a month. One of my close and dear German friends told me the other day, in an email, that he’s reading between the lines of my written words. And that I’m homesick. For America. Don’t know about that. Maybe it’s that I’m in love with both countries. America and Italy. Desiring the best of two worlds. Nice to come and go to both places. But the friend tells me that there’s no place like one’s native country. That it’s the place of one’s soul and heart. But I’m not sure about that. My soul and heart is more likely in the cosmos. In all of creation. That makes me in love with life. The whole shebang. At times, I may sound disenchanted. With virtually everything. But I ain’t disenchanted with the pulse beat of life. I suspect that even after death, I’ll be savoring it all. Maybe more than ever. –Jim Broede

Ignoring the rest of the world.

My aim in life isn’t to please a mass of people. Maybe a handful, at the most. But mainly myself. Doing the right thing. That’s my desire. My goal. If I please throngs of people, chances are things have gone awry. I’ll have done the wrong things. Failed. I suspect that the masses want all of the wrong things. A selfish and greedy style of living. Survival of the fittest. Which means the most corrupt. The manipulators. He/she who is able to acquire power. By duping most everyone. Taking advantage of the gullible. And that’s the general population. Make them think that they have a vote. A say. When they really don’t. That’s the true nature of a democracy. Of course, I would  personally work for the common good. But that makes me the enemy of the real powerbrokers. I haven’t got a chance. My only feasible/practical option is to hide away. In my cocoon. Minding my own business. Finding  a true love to give me loving solace. Which I’ve done. Leading a quiet and peaceful life. Ignoring the rest of the world. –Jim Broede

Monday, February 25, 2013

Can't get more Italian than that.

I like being a make-believe Italian. Might as well. Because I’m living in Italy. Since November. With my Italian true love. In Sardinia. Anyway, I’m beginning to feel like a real Italian. Though I know it’s pretend. I genuinely feel at home. Even though I don’t speak much Italian. You might call me a quiet Italian. Though my true love would disagree. Says I talk too much. Maybe I do. In English. And she gets the brunt of it. Because she speaks and understands English. I tell her that when walking down the street, I’m occasionally taken for an Italian gentleman. She thinks that’s a little too much pretending. Maybe a bit preposterous. I tell her I may try to vote in the Italian election. Just to see if I could pull it off. Similar to voting in Chicago, where even dead people have been known to vote. I’ve also mastered the art of driving in Italy. Like an impatient maniac in a hurry. I’m also wearing Italian-made shoes and sweaters. Very stylish. And I’m calling myself Giacomo. Instead of Jim. And among other things, I fancy myself to be a lover. Can’t get more Italian than that. –Jim Broede

The significant Mr. Berlusconi.

Some Italians tell me that most Italians are ignorant. That they don’t know how to pick a decent political leader. That they  invariably  end up with a buffoon. Such as Silvio Berlusconi. He’s been prime minister three times. And is dangerously close to a fourth. Of course, I don’t necessarily buy into the premise that Italians are stupid. Maybe Berlusconi is a wise choice. The Italians may be in search of comic relief. No doubt, Berlusconi provides it. Though some Italians weep over his style of politic. They ain’t laughing. Maybe they lack a sense of humor. The world pokes fun at the Italian electoral system. And at Italians in general. Because of the likes of Berlusconi, a 76-year’old billionaire tycoon. He fancies himself a dapper lover. Still capable of attracting young lovers. Though his money and political power may have something to do with it. Anyway, when Berlusconi is on stage, he draws worldwide attention to Italy. Some say that any kind of attention is good attention. And that Berlusconi is a master at his art of buffoonery. Perhaps the greatest buffoon to have ever lived. So give the guy credit. He’s achieved something significant. In his role as prime minister. –Jim Broede

So, don't worry. Be happy.

Apparently there’s no clear winner in the Italian parliamentary elections. Which happens in Italy often. Because of a fantastic number of political parties. No one party comes close to corralling a majority. Maybe that’s the advantage of the American  two-party system. Can’t be sure. Both systems stink. Because politics of any kind tends to be a dirty, rotten game. Played unfairly. Often without any sense of achieving the common good. Therefore, the poor and middle class suffer. And the elite and monetarily rich tend to thrive. They become selfish and greedy powerbrokers. Happens in the USA. Happens in Italy. Happens all over the world. That’s the nature of politics. My Italian true love stayed up late into the wee hours of morning. Watching the Italian election results. Lamenting. Worrying. Anguishing. For her country. I went to bed. Relaxed. Had sweet dreams. Because I’m in love with my true love. I count my blessings. Living in a cocoon. In the beautiful and bountiful paradise of  Sardinia.  More or less isolating myself from the political realm. I can’t control the world politic. So I just let it be. A matter of acceptance. And get on with the rest of my life. Relishing the good things when they happen. And ignoring the not-so-good. To the best of my ability. Keeps me reasonably happy. Especially when I’m with my true love. I love her even when she’s a little bit forlorn. I tell her things could be worse. Berlusconi could end up with a fourth term as prime minister. Don’t think it’s gonna happen. So, don’t worry. Be happy. –Jim Broede

On becoming a confident writer.

To be good at anything, one needs to be confident. Or so I think. That especially goes for writing. I wasn’t always confident. But I’ve cultivated confidence. Especially since I retired. I became my own editor. Should have done that long ago. Following my instincts. Crafting a writing style that feels comfortable. For me. Putting faith in my ability. Feeling my way. With confidence. And practicing, practicing, practicing. Writing every day. I like what I write. Doesn’t bother me to be criticized. I’ll listen to criticism. But I don’t necessarily accept it. I do what pleases me. That’s a far better approach than pleasing other people. But something nice has happened. I’m getting positive unsolicited response. People who aren’t writers are pleased. With my style. And my words. And thoughts. Little wonder that I’m becoming more confident every day.  –Jim Broede

I'll settle for Brooding Broede.

A philosophy of life. Maybe that’s what I’m reflecting. Makes me a philosopher. Maybe that’s what my blog is all about. My philosophy. I’m no Socrates. No Plato. I’m in another class. An amateur. With a new style. Much easier to read. Than the famous and highfalutin philosophers. Too intellectual, too smart for me. Though I like to read ‘em. And translate. Into laymen’s terms. That’s what most philosophers need. Good translators. To reach the common man/woman. Suppose that to be a full-fledged philosopher, I need a degree. Maybe a Ph.D.  Then I can be called Doctor Broede, the philosopher. Sounds good to me. But arrogant.  Guess I’ll just settle for Brooding Broede. –Jim Broede

The naked truth.

I talk to my Italian true love every day. And she talks to me. About private things. Things that I never write about. Yes, a private life and a public life. My writing is public. Except for the love letters. Anyway, I like the blend. Mostly, I venture naked into the world. With little to hide. Might as well be honest. Sure beats telling lies. Or masquerading. But I know people who wear masks. And hide behind facades. That’s fine with me. To each his/her own. I respect privacy. But I’m leery about lying. Don’t trust politicians. And liars. Often, they are one and the same. Some people wish I were more private. More secret. But I’ve always liked openness. The naked truth. Gives me a better understanding. Of the world. Of people. Of myself. –Jim Broede

Getting this love thing right.

Reading a biography of D. H. Lawrence. Maybe I read it long, long ago. And this is a re-reading. And good thing. Because I’m in a better position today to really understand Lawrence. Because I am truly in love. With someone. With life. And that was Lawrence, too. Especially in the last half of his life. Pity that he lived only to 44. And that he was sick and frail much of his life. But love made the difference. He lived his love. Maybe that was his finest novel. The one he never wrote. But lived, instead. He had a storybook life. A real love. No pretend. Though his written novels and poetry were pretty much a reflection of his actual life, too. Much of it agony. In search of love. But the agony was well worth the price to pay for the love that it finally brought. As for me, the nicest thing about a long life is that it gives one time to find and understand love. Unfortunately, some people run out of time. And never experience true love. But then, if there really is a kind and compassionate creator, there’s life after death. And one has  forever to get this love thing right. –Jim Broede

Thank gawd for all the girlfriends.

My Italian true love has  a handful (several) of girlfriends. For which I am grateful. Because she gets much sustenance from them. They are, indeed, dear friends. They interact in buoyant and bountiful ways. Cheerful. Make each other laugh.  They seem to understand each other. Know what to say to lift a spirit. I don’t understand everything being said. Because they speak in Italian. But I can tell. It’s vibrant and stimulating conversation. My true love may be in a somewhat somber mood when the call comes in. But immediately, there’s a spark. A vitality. And I benefit. Because the mood change has a lasting effect. Thank gawd  for ‘em all. The likes of Alessandra, Giovanna, Patrizia, Maria. –Jim Broede

Sunday, February 24, 2013

I want more pasta choices.

I approach pasta with an open mind. If left to her own devices, my Italian true love would cook only maybe 10 different kinds of pasta. Her favorites. Cultivated over a lifetime. But I think that’s too limiting. Therefore, when I go shopping, look out. I’m likely to come back with new and intriguing kinds of pasta. Stuff I want us to experiment with. And we do. Some we like. Others we don’t. We end up expanding our acceptable pasta list. I tell my true love, let’s keep open minds. Try new things. Not only with pasta. But in all sorts of ways. Another thing. My true love tends to be stingy with tomato sauce on the pasta. I like more. So I insist on a side dish of sauce. So I can keep adding, adding and adding. Our tastes are a little bit different. Which is all right. To each his/her own. –Jim Broede

Coincidental, but meaningful.

I tend to analyze life. Analyze what’s happening. Inside me. And around me. Trying to find meaning. If there isn’t a purpose – well, then I make one up. I’m allowed to do that. For instance, my maternal grandparents died young. My grandmother at age 26. My grandfather at 38. That could be interpreted as sad. A tragedy. Because it left my teenage mother an orphan. But what the circumstance did was prompted her into a marriage of convenience. To the man who was to become my father. That marriage would never have occurred if my grandparents had still been living. Chances are mother would have married years later to another man. Someone she genuinely loved. But if that had happened, I would not have been born. Therefore, my grandparents’ deaths at relatively early ages turned out to be  a good thing – for me.  That’s how I analyze it. Yes, analyze the happenings. Around me. Finding meaning to it all. Especially meaning that applies to me. A good meaning. Not a bad meaning. I needn’t stop with this example. I could do it hundreds of times. Or thousands. Maybe limitless numbers. By extrapolating many twists and turns in life. Perhaps all of ‘em coincidental. But meaningful. –Jim Broede

Cheating. It's the Italian way.

Tax evasion. Italy is built on a foundation of it. Or so Italians tell me. And I believe it. But it’s mainly the rich, the well-off, that come off as the principal villains. They can evade taxes far more easily than the less affluent who are employed as workers, either by the public or private sector. Because taxes are withdrawn from their wages. A professional, such as a doctor or dentist, can more easily avoid taxes. That annoys many Italians who get stuck with the tax bills. But even they find ways to cheat. By moonlighting. By putting their skills to work outside their normal job. And getting paid in cash. So there’s no paper transaction. When I went to an Italian dentist, he wanted to be paid in cash. Not by check or credit card. For obvious reason. Of course, there’s cheating in the U.S., too. But maybe not nearly as pervasive as in Italy. Italians will tell you that virtually everyone cheats. So they do it in good conscience. It’s the Italian way. –Jim Broede

My Italian true love is weeping.

My Italian true love is going to the polls today. To vote. In the Italian election for parliament. And to pick the new prime minister. She doesn’t relish the choices. Knowing full well that no party will get a majority. And that no matter which parties form a ruling coalition, Italy will remain in political chaos.  Perhaps forever. That’s the cursed fate of Italians. They are condemned to live with some of the worst functioning politicians in the world. Usually, Italians end up with a comedian or buffoon as prime minister. Maybe that speaks well for many Italians. Because they want to laugh from their perch in political hell. Might as well. Sure beats crying. My true love, however, is one of those not laughing. She’s downright angry. She wants a revolution. A shake-up. A new Italian politic. But she’s a realist. Knowing it won’t happen. So she’s despondent. And I’m here to try to cheer her up. I tell her we Americans have survived eight years of George Bush. And scary Republicans such as Sarah Palin and Mitt Romney. But my true love counters that we’ve never experienced Silvio Berlusconi. The billionaire buffoon with a chance to become prime minister for the fourth time. Come now, I tell my true love. Learn to laugh. But she ain’t laughing on the trek to the polls. She’s weeping.  –Jim Broede

Might as well remain dead.

I wonder about things I’d like to be. Professionally. If I’m reincarnated. Maybe a writer once again. But hey, I’d probably be better off trying other pursuits. Maybe a monk. Locked up in a monastery. For free-thinkers. Monks that avoid organized religion. Is that possible? Well, worth giving it a try. I’d find out. Also could settle for being a shepherd. Tending a flock in a remote part of the world. Maybe being the only shepherd within 100 miles. Another thing. I wouldn’t mind being an actor. Playing many roles. Just pretending. But still trying to live the part. Just for kicks. For the sake of variety. I’d settle, too, for being a street sweeper. In a small Italian village. Of course, maybe I should give a try at leading an evil and dishonest life. As a politician. But then, why spend time in a wasted life? Might as well remain dead. –Jim Broede

My own story. My own life.

I take life seriously. By not always taking life seriously. That’s important. Don’t overdramatize life. Learn to take it as it comes. And laugh. Heartily. Because there is much absurdity in life. Funny stuff. Even in tragic events. I see how lives unfold. Real stuff. Much stranger than fiction. Maybe that’s why life is like living in a storybook. In a novel. I’m one of the characters. The main character, as far as I’m concerned. Because I’m living inside myself. I try to get into the other characters, too. By delving. Psychoanalytically. That’s fun. And funny, too. Of course, I psychoanalyze myself. In mostly nice ways. But I occasionally love to be a villain. Full of intrigue. That adds to story plots. The nicest thing of all, I can mold my character. I strive  to be a romantic idealist, a spiritual free thinker, a political liberal, a lover and a dreamer. And by golly, that’s what I’ve become. Helps to be the author of my own story. My own life. –Jim Broede

Yes, we're talking real change.

I have a way to make Catholicism a better religion. A more open-minded religion. My picking a non-Catholic layman as the next pope. Give it a try. For a year or two. That would bring great and much-needed changes to Catholicism. I,  for one, would be happy to serve as pope. Maybe for two years. That would be time enough to revitalize Catholicism. We’d have women becoming priests. We’d have married priests. And I don’t mean married to the creator. Yes, we’d no longer call god, god. He’d be the creator. And it wouldn’t matter if creator was spelled with a lower case ‘c.’ Another thing. I’d divest the church of many, many of its treasures and artifacts. And give all those riches to the poor and destitute. Even if they weren’t Catholics. And you know what? I suspect that Jesus would give his approval to all these changes.  I’d soon become known as the ‘new tradition’ pope. The one that brought dramatic change to Catholicism. And to religion, period. Yes, we’re talking real change.   –Jim Broede

Saturday, February 23, 2013

So easy. So satisfying. So fulfilling.

A discomforting dream. I have ‘em occasionally. And the nice thing is awakening. And knowing there’s no reason to feel uncomfortable anymore. Because I’m retired. No longer subjected to the grind of the work world. No longer obligated to produce/write newspaper stories virtually every day. I always enjoyed writing. But not to deadline. Not in a hurry. And I preferred picking my own subjects. Which I could do often. But not often enough. There were just too many things to write. And not nearly enough time to do everything. That weighed on me. And I still have the occasional dream that I’m back in those days. Employed. And obligated to some degree to the dictates of bosses. Now I’m my own dictator. And so when I awaken out of a troubling dream of work overload,  I am no longer troubled. I smile. I’m relaxed. I get up at 4 in the morning. And write what I wanna write. Under my terms. At my pace. At my choosing. I’m my own boss. Man, that feels good.  Makes writing so  easy. So satisfying. So fulfilling. –Jim Broede

Once, I even fell asleep.

From 1 to 4 every afternoon, I can go for a walk in the heart of my Italian town, and encounter virtually no one. I like that. Carbonia in Sardinia shuts down in the early afternoon. The stores close. Everybody disappears. Except me. I have the place pretty much to myself. A nice time to walk. Even the traffic lights in downtown Carbonia are turned to blinking yellow. Any driver that ventures out doesn’t have to stop. Just be cautious. Same goes for me when I cross a street. Hardly ever see a motor vehicle from 1 to 4. Apparently, people just go home. Maybe have lunch. Or take a nap. A break in the day. I’m told that it’s much appreciated, especially during the hot summertime. Makes for leisurely paced living. Won’t ever happen in the USA, I suppose. Because we Americans have to be on the go. All the time. Evidenced by my need to walk from 1 to 4. But generally, I’m adapting to the Italian way of life. I’m walking slowly. And occasionally I sit down on a park bench and read a book. Once, I even fell asleep. –Jim Broede

The nature of the business.

My Italian true love genuinely loves life. Though she doesn’t always know it. She forgets sometimes. Fortunately, I’m around to remind her. Anyway, not everybody loves life. My dad, for instance. He committed suicide. A long, long time ago. And I’m aware of other people who declare that they hate their lives. Not sure that they really do. I’d question them. And see if it’s really true. As for my true love, one of the main reasons I love her is for her love of life. Even when she’s disgruntled over something that happened at school. I can still tell, she loves teaching. She’s the best. If all teachers were like her, the school system would function well. Thing is, though, not all teachers are in love. With teaching. Or with life. That’s the nature of the business. My true love has to learn to accept that. –Jim Broede

A Slavic-looking American mixed in

When Italians stop me on the street to ask for directions, it’s a compliment. Or so I think. They mistake me for an Italian. One who speaks fluent Italian. Of course, they are wrong. I’m an English-speaking Americano. Legitimately taken for an Italian gentleman. No, my Italian true love tells me. I don’t look anything like an Italian. Not even like an American. Instead, she says I look Slavic or Russian. Of course, I disagree. Twice yesterday, I was asked for directions. Taken for a fellow Italian, I presume. It happens often. Though I’m not sure that there’s an Italian look per se. I look at passersby. Giving them long gazes. And ask myself, ‘Is this really an Italian?’ Can’t really tell for sure. If it’s a black guy, I suspect he’s African. Most likely from Nigeria or Ghana. Many of ‘em speak English. As for the rest, it’s a 99 percent chance they’re Italian. With one Slavic-looking Americano mixed in.—Jim Broede

In deeper & more profound ways.

Got up at 5 this morning. To write. And haven’t gone back to bed. Probably won’t. Until late tonight. I’m tired. But it’s a relaxed tired. That makes a difference. I have friends who get tired. But in nervous ways. And they can’t sleep. Which makes them more uptight. Ornery. Moody. I could go back to bed. And nap. Fall into a peaceful sleep. But don’t. Because I like what I’m doing. Writing. Walking. Shopping. Thinking. All in a relaxed manner. That allows me to tolerate being tired. To still feel good.  Not nervous or moody. When I write, I may doze at the computer for a while. Close my eyes. But I’m still conscious. Still awake. Feels more like a hypnotic spell. A trance. Often, that spurs pleasant thoughts. Allows me to write. In deeper and more profound ways. –Jim Broede

Should I be more bothered?

I have a confession to make. I waste  electricity. And water. Time, too. I’m wasteful. And maybe I shouldn’t be. But I am. So I confess. I even waste food. Buy too much. Let it spoil. Or I don’t finish everything on my plate. And it goes into the garbage. At a time when other people in the world are starving. I wonder why I do all this. Bad stuff. Suppose it’s because I’m preoccupied with other things. Therefore, I neglect things I should be doing. Don’t think about it that much. And don’t let it bother me. When maybe it should.  But that’s me. Preferring not to be bothered. Because if I got bothered, I’d be bogged down. In endless bother. Some people around me are bothered by the fact that I’m not bothered enough. But I don’t even let that bother me. Makes me wonder, should I be more bothered? –Jim Broede

Friday, February 22, 2013

Thank you, dear Republicans.

Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. I can’t think too much. I love to think. About nice things. Oh, I think about politics, too. But even that can be nice. Nice and funny. Full of laughs. Don’t take it seriously. I tell myself that all the time. And I follow my advice. Laugh over things that I cannot control. Laugh at the absurdities of life. And nobody  is more absurd than a politician. Especially a Republican. Dedicated to the principle of stupidity. To do the dumbest thing possible. And then pretend that it’s smart to be stupid. To wear one’s stupidity as a badge of honor. It’s stupid as stupid can be. But hey, Republicans have got me to think. By being so stupid. Republicans have awakened me. Made me feel so much smarter. And made me very, very happy. Very, very joyful. Knowing that I ain’t a Republican. Makes me feel superior. Thank you, dear Republicans. –Jim Broede

An isolated life. I'll take it.

Living in Sardinia is a little like isolating myself from the rest of the world. Because I’m in a country where I don’t speak the native language. I can’t just approach strangers and initiate a meaningful conversation. That can be a negative thing. Or a positive thing. My first thought. If I want isolation, it’s good.   But then my second thought. Maybe it’s not isolation, after all. I’m merely creating the world that I want. In Paradise. I limit my human contacts. To quality over quantity. Makes it easier to focus on individuals. Because I’m not spread thin. Because I have my Italian true love. The most important person in my life. Other than me, myself and I. Meanwhile, I take advantage of my skill. As a  writer. I write to people. A handful. Of my choosing. Again, quality over quantity. And I’m able to read. Just about anything I want. A book. The New York Times, in cyberspace. Emails from my dearest and closest friends/contacts. And I’m able to think. All sorts of thoughts. Of my choosing. And write. Exactly what I want to write. In English, of course. And when necessary, my Italian true love can translate for me. Therefore, if this is an isolated life – well, then give me an isolated life. I’ll take it. With gratitude. –Jim Broede

Work for everyone.

I’d put everybody back to work. No matter how much it costs in government spending. Not only in America. But worldwide. Everybody that’s willing to work needs a job. And there’s plenty of work. Plenty of needs. For construction. For public utilities. For public services. If the private sector doesn’t provide enough jobs – well, then make it the public responsibility. Give the private sector the first crack. I’m of a mind that if everyone is working, pulling in a decent wage, able to support himself (and family), then all will be well. Consumer spending will spiral. The economy will thrive. Sure beats austerity. Which would force more unemployment. Increase human suffering. Yes, the decent thing to do is put everyone back to work. Nobody remains jobless. That’s what I want. Jobs, jobs, and more jobs.  Work for everyone. –Jim Broede

Thursday, February 21, 2013

The good life.

I need the good life. Whatever that is. Maybe it’s that one has to believe in good. And that’s an abstract term.  With me, I’m satisfied without being fully satisfied. I savor what I’ve got. But I’m always looking for something more. A new experience. A new insight. I have an Italian true love. That’s for sure. Part of the good life. But the nicest thing about true love is the constant source of new discovery. Something new every day. It ain’t always the same thing. Maybe a new kind of radiance. An unexpected pleasure. Which may seem little at the time. But upon reflection, it has  a lasting effect. Something that happened yesterday. A moment of intimacy. But it’s still with me today. An awareness. That I have the good life. –Jim Broede

The forgiving Italian women.

Maybe Italian women are far more forgiving than American women. Wonder if there have been sociological studies about things like that. It’d be interesting to find out. I have only anecdotal evidence to support my suspicions. That if you are a cheating male, you are more likely to be welcomed back in Italy. Because Italian men are perceived and accepted by women as macho. And that includes wanderers in relationships. In other words, unfaithful in their marriage vows. I’m amazed by what I see. Just how forgiving. I shake my head in disbelief. No way do these women want their marriage to break-up. They’ll claim that they still love the guy. And plead for him to come back. Like there doesn’t have to be faith and trust in a marriage/relationship. Some Italian women would rather have a sham marriage than no marriage at all. I suppose that’s true in America, too. But maybe not as much so as in Italy. Think I’ll start to Google. If there haven’t been such studies, there should be. Maybe it’s the Catholic culture. A belief that one can be married only once. So you gotta make it work. Even if it ain’t true love. –Jim Broede

Adjusting. Balance or no balance.

My Italian true love yearns for a balanced life. At least when she goes to school. To teach. She doesn’t like teaching five classes in a day. Which happens twice a week. Today, she has only two classes. She’d rather have things even out.  Maybe three or four classes every day. Instead of the great variance. Of course, it wouldn’t matter to me. I readily adjust to imbalanced days. Some days, I write more than on other days. I adjust. Based on my mood. Of course, if I were a teacher, adjusting might be different. Maybe some days I wouldn’t feel like teaching five classes. But I might have no choice. Fortunately, I live by the schedule of a retiree. Flexibly. If I don’t feel like writing, I don’t have to. But still, I pretty much choose to write. Daily. Because I don’t have to. That puts me in a good frame of mind. I write because I don’t have to write. That’s when writing comes easy. No pressure. Therefore, I enjoy writing. Maybe if I had a job, and I was required to write five stories a day, I’d find that more difficult. But if I genuinely loved to write, that would make it easier. Same goes for teaching, I suppose. If one loves to teach, it comes relatively easy. If one hates to teach, it might be a chore. As  for my true love, I think she’s in love. With life. That makes it easier to adjust. To whatever happens. Balance or no balance. –Jim Broede

Cool, but not downright cold.

In Minnesota, when a cold front moves in, we blame the Canadians. It’s usually a mass of Canadian air sneaking in. In Italy, it’s different. A Russian cold front. Yes, an invasion from Mother Russia. No Canadian air makes it’s way here in Sardinia. Russian air ain’t as cold. That is, by the time it arrives. Maybe because of the distance. It warms up over the rest of Europe before coming to Italy. Which is all right with me.  I sort of look at a Russian cold front as exotic. Maybe even romantic. Imagining that it’s come from St. Petersburg rather than Siberia. Feels more cool than downright cold. –Jim Broede

Being better off not to worry.

I try not to worry. About anything. Which ain’t always easy. I could list 100 things to worry about. But I don’t. Maybe only two or three. And I try to not even do that. I find that life is more enjoyable. When I forget to worry. But often other people don’t let me forget. Or they list their worries. And that reminds me of my worries. Because people’s worries tend to overlap. I’ve discovered, though, that many times I didn’t have to worry about my worries. Because the worries never came to fruition.  All that worrying proved to be a waste of time. That worries me. That I’m wasting time now. By writing about the damn topic of worry. I’d be better off writing about –well, just about anything else. –Jim Broede

A beyond? I'd like to think so.

My cousin Ferd (not Fred) is in a hospice. Dying. I hate to see people die. Wish we all could live forever. Ferd has had a good life. He’s well into his 80s.  His dad, my uncle Fred (not Ferd), died in 1960. When he was in his 60s. I used to spend summers with the family. As a teenager. In a Chicago suburb. Ferd had already left home. To attend Yale. Where he was an athlete. Played football and basketball. But Ferd also was a scholar. Had a successful business career. As a head hunter. Another name for someone who recruits executives. Often for big companies. Haven’t seen Ferd in maybe 15 or 20 years. When he would come. With his sister, Marj, to visit my mom in Wisconsin. Marj keeps me up to date on Ferd’s condition. He’s in Florida. I’m in Sardinia. Probably won’t see Ferd again. But I’m thinking about him. Nice that he’s had a good life. Thing is, he knows it, too. Too bad that we all have to die. But that’s part of life. But then again, maybe there’s a beyond. I’d like to think so. –Jim Broede

Sweet everything.

When I write, it’s an opportunity to renew my spirit. That’s why I write every day. I need constant revitalization. And I find it. In meaningful words. Often, it takes only a single thought. Put into words that move the spirit. A love letter will suffice. But I find other ways, too. One of my favorites. A prose poem. I’m not writing for other people. Or so I tell myself. Maybe that’s a lie. It’s more a case of trying to satisfy myself. Rather than others. I’m addressing my soul. My inner spirit. In ways that make me feel alive. Extraordinarily so.  I measure my pulse. With a finger on my throbbing spirit. A wonderful beat. Sweet music. Sweet rhythm. Sweet everything. –Jim Broede

As much power as the god of love.

Can’t help it. I’m compelled to write about people I know. In many instances, they are disguised. I try to recreate them. Often into characters that I imagine they’ll become. Some day. Mostly good. But not always. Because I have a feeling. That they are headed for disaster. Could be wrong. And hope I am. Anyway, that’s the nature of writing. For me, at least. A blend of fact and fiction. Maybe that makes me dangerous. As some friends think. But I don’t think so. Instead, it’s merely my imagination. Being exercised. Allows me to create worlds. Maybe not real. But hey, sometimes scary. Other times, pleasant. Mostly, I like love stories. That’s my mission. To create love. To feel love. To grasp love. Even when I see hate. I can see ways to transform it. So that it evolves. Into love. Magically. Gives me almost as much power. As the god of love. –Jim Broede

Capturing D.H. Lawrence's spirit.

I want to go to the city  of Eastwood. In the English Midlands. And walk the same ground that novelist D. H. Lawrence walked when growing up around 1900.  I want to keep capturing Lawrence’s spirit. Later in life, he settled in New Mexico. On a ranch. Near Taos. I’ve been there. Lawrence also loved Italy. And he wrote a book, ‘The Sea and Sardinia,’ about his travels in Sardinia. That’s where I’m living now. But I’ve never been to Lawrence’s birthplace. I must go. I am compelled to go.  Maybe I’m being drawn by Lawrence’s spirit. I hope so. I’ve read that not everyone is Eastwood is enamored with Lawrence. They feel forsaken. Because after Lawrence became famous, he never returned to his hometown. But others revere Lawrence. In 1973, they opened a museum in Eastwood. Honoring Lawrence. As well they should. Initially, the prudish element of Eastwood rejected Lawrence. For his novel ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover.’  And some still do. But they’re the minority. Anyway, I’m reading Harry T.  Moore’s biography of Lawrence, ‘The Priest of Love.’   I’ve been fascinated by Lawrence’s novels for a long, long time. Lawrence died in 1930. But for me, his spirit still lives. And I wonder if it’s still wandering around Eastwood. I’m gonna  find out. One of these days soon. –Jim Broede

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Living from one lie to the next.

I am watching a guy – an acquaintance rather than a true friend – turn his life into a shambles. And there’s not much, if anything, I can do about it. Because the guy has built a life of lies. Yes, he’s a liar. He lies to other people. But worst of all, he lies to himself. He needs psychoanalysis. And won’t get it. Because he has no desire to face the truth. That he’s a liar. And has been for a long, long time. Self-deception has become engrained. He professes to be in search of happiness. A truly loving relationship. Which generally comes with honesty. But that’s a foreign word. I’d like to sit down and chat with the guy. And talk man to man. Honestly. But that can’t happen. Until he’s willing to have an honest dialogue. And he ain’t ready. Therefore, any friend or acquaintance that wants to help is helpless. The guy will continue to be himself. Maybe for the rest of his life. Living from one lie to the next. –Jim Broede

A dose of delight.

Give me a dose of delight. Every day. That’s what I look for. Moments of delight. And do you know what? Delight almost always leads to tranquility. The way I like to end the day. Savoring an earlier moment of delight. Oh, so many ways that delight comes. Out of the blue. Out of the sky. Sunshine. A smile from a lover. The purring of a cat. A raindrop. A random thought. The scent of a flower. A caress.  A sip of water. Yes, just being alive. And aware. –Jim Broede

Meeting god. Face to face.

As I get older, I lose certain skills. Physical. Mental. But not necessarily emotionally. Maybe I become more adept at the emotion of love. Certainly, I hope that’s the case. Maybe it’s only my imagination. But then, that’s a large part of love. A vivid imagination. I’ve always had that. It’s the one thing I’d hate the most to lose. That, and my innate curiosity. When I am no longer a physical being, and only spirit, that’s what I want. Imagination and curiosity. That can take me to any place in all of creation. To limitless destinations. I could even meet god. Face to face. –Jim Broede

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

The meaningful stuff of love.

I have a nice breakfast. Skip lunch. And dine well and slowly in the evening. That’s my routine. Come to think of it, I live sort of routinely. By a predictable schedule. Don’t know if I like that. I write. I walk. I think. Therefore, I am. And I spend time with my Italian true love. Maybe I should make more effort to break out of my routine. To some day do something alarmingly/surprisingly different. Even the fact that I’m living almost half of the year in Italy, and the other half in Minnesota – well, that’s become routine, too. And I’m routinely in love. If there is such a thing as routine love. Thing is, it shouldn’t be. There should be something new and different about love. On a daily basis. A constant renewal. Seems to me that I learn something new about my true love every day. And that I could spend 1,000 years with her, and still learn something new. For as long as I keep looking. For eternity. One should not allow love to become humdrum. Lost in the routine. That’s the danger to guard against. When my true love and I are separated by distance, I try to write a love letter every night. That’s a routine. But each night, I try to have something new to say. That ain’t a routine. It’s renewal. The meaningful stuff of love. –Jim Broede

I could become a spy.

I walk pretty much the same routes. Daily. Oh, I vary ‘em. Find new routes, too. But essentially, I cover the same ground. And though people may see me as a familiar face, they don’t stop to ask, ‘Who am I?’ Which seems strange. Wouldn’t happen in the U.S. If nothing else, the cops would inquire. ‘What’s he doing here? Is he a terrorist casing the joint?’ After all, I’m wearing a choker and a headband. I could easily cover my face. And at least look like a potential bank robber. Anyway, I suspect that Americans may be more curious than Italians. Or maybe it’s that Italians mind their business. And allow strangers a great deal of latitude. My Italian true love tries to discourage me from wearing a headband. She says that makes me conspicuous. Because nobody else does. It’s unfashionable. She thinks I’m being observed. Discreetly. But I wonder about that. Maybe I’m seen as just another wandering Italian. A natural part of the landscape. If so, I could become a spy. –Jim Broede

Another Loverboy. Made my day.

When I’m out walking in Italy and see a cat, something automatic happens. I want to become acquainted. Sometimes it works. Most times it doesn’t. Because cats tend to be persnickety. They don’t cozy up to strangers. They keep their distance. Unless you are an exceptional cat. Such as my dear Loverboy. He warms up to everyone. Immediately. Yes, he’s appropriately named. He’s a lover. And today, I met what could be one of his relatives. A beautiful tranquil and loving cat. Roaming on spacious coal mining property in the city of Carbonia in Sardinia, where I’m staying this winter. I made my musing catlike sounds. He stopped. And invited me to come see him. He rolled over on his back, and begged for attention. He got it. A cat like this must have a home. He must belong to someone. He’s irresistible. Another Loverboy. Made my day. –Jim Broede

Talent ain't everything.

Attitude. I like attitudes. Especially in baseball. It’s a team sport. Congeniality. Players playing together. Good camaraderie. It all blends together. And often can make up for lack of talent. The most talented team doesn’t always get to the World Series. More often, it’s the team with a winning attitude. Convinced that it can win. Baseball is a head game, too. Your head has to be in the game. Confidence. That’s what I’m banking on this season. With my Chicago Cubs. I like the approach of the Cubs management. Bringing in players with the right attitudes. To form a winning blend. The Cubs won’t be the most talented team. But hey, talent ain’t everything. –Jim Broede

A suggestion: Read a good book.

My Italian true love is a channel switcher. Might bother me, if I watched TV. But I don’t do much watching in Italy. The language barrier. All sounds like gobbledygook to me. Just as well. So I have no real complaint when she switches channels. I suspect she’s really bored with TV. Much like me. And therefore, she’s constantly looking for something better. I have a suggestion. Read a good book.  –Jim Broede

Italy, land of happy youngsters.

I’ve never seen a happier bunch of infants and young children and mothers. Yes, right here in Italy. Incredible. Back in the states, I see ornery children and unhappy mothers too often. But ornery is a very rare instance in Italy. Maybe it’s because Italians know how to raise children. Maybe Italian parents, especially mothers, are a kinder and gentler sort. Don’t fully know what it is. I’m merely speculating. Maybe Italian mothers like being mothers more than mothers in the USA. The Italian mothers carry their babies and push them in baby buggies and strollers. I see ‘em out on the streets every day. Even in bad weather. Their children get plenty of fresh air. And lots of loving attention, I presume.  Little wonder that they are happy. –Jim Broede

The toughness of the human spirit.

I’m visiting the coal mines. Daily. Have to. To catch the spirit of Carbonia. Where I’m living this winter. On the island of Sardinia. In the Mediterranean Sea. Carbonia exists. Because of coal. A new modern city.  Created at the behest of fascist dictator Benito Mussolini. In the late 1930s. A model city. Designed exclusively for the mining of coal. And that was Carbonia’s lifeblood. Until the 1970s. When the mines closed. But the buildings. The mine shafts. The sprawling grounds. It’s all still there. A ghost mine, of sorts. With a museum. Containing artifacts and pictures. From the mining days. I’ve been down into the mines. The tunnels. Crouched like a coal miner. Wearing a hard hat. But mostly, I’ve been above ground. Trying to commune with miners long gone. But their spirits still linger. The photos come alive. I see the miners. In action. Not exactly the best way to make a living. Unhealthy. Many miners died before their time. With black lung disease. A terrible shame. But still, they savored life. One can see it. In their faces. A happy glow. A labor of love. Or is it a love of labor? Reminds me of Sisyphus. Pushing a rock up a hill. Only to have it fall back before reaching the top. And going after it. Time and again. Labor. Labor. Labor. It ain’t all bad. Brings one close to the Earth. Another way to savor life. Despite the travail. Makes me wonder. About the perseverance of the human spirit.  –Jim Broede

A way to live. Underground.

I’m fearful. About drone warfare. Some day,  just about everybody will have a drone. Capable of spying on anyone. And quite possibly, the drone can carry and launch a lethal weapon. A bomb. Maybe wipe out an entire football stadium, and everyone in it. An atomic bomb is horrendous enough. But with a drone to deliver it, wow! Double wow!! Used to be that war had to be waged by a nation. Drones make it possible for individual madmen to wipe out just about everyone. Imagine drone warfare. The guy with the most sophisticated drones may be all-powerful. Maybe the only safe way to live will be underground. Deep, deep into the recesses of Mother Earth. Maybe some day we’ll discover life on Mars. Martians living underground. Going there after most of life above ground was eliminated. Maybe a million years ago. When an advanced civilization invented drones. Wiped out life above. By bombs launched from drones. The few survivors went underground. Never to come out again. Because of fear. Of drones, drones, drones. The whole planet went kaput. No more atmosphere. No more water. No more life. Unless one found a way to live. Underground. –Jim Broede

The art/craft/blessing of love.

My daily life has essentially three focuses. Writing, physical exercise and my Italian true love. All three get special attention. Some days, more one than the others. Depends. On needs. My needs. And my true love’s needs. She would occasionally have to have more attention than my other vices  --walking and pondering thought. Fortunately, she’s tied up much of the day with teaching. English and English literature. We have so much to talk about. But sometimes don’t. Because we are busy with our own pursuits. Making a living, professionally. Or, in my case, walking, walking, walking, and thinking, thinking, thinking. Anyway, I love this existence. This phase of my life. Especially being in Italy. In my fourth month now. And in my fifth month before I return to Minnesota. For spring and summer. Before I return to Sardinia in the autumn. It’s a good life. And to sound modest, could say it’s more than I deserve. But really, I think highly of myself. And I deserve it all, if not more. Because I was born to savor life. Fully. Completely. Every single moment of life. And I haven’t always done that. But I’m getting better at it. Though it be late in life. Thank gawd, I’ve lived this long. And learned the art/craft/blessing of love. –Jim Broede

Ain't ready to die for any country.

Don’t know that I would ever want to die for my country. Probably not worth it. Too much that I’d dislike about my country to actually die for it. Maybe that makes me less than patriotic. But I suspect I wasn’t born to be a patriot. I have other missions. Such as savoring life. Especially my life.  And if I cashed in  my chips for the sake of country, I’d not be savoring. I’d be dead. My country ain’t perfect. Not by a long shot.  I have serious qualms about the political, economic and social climates. There are better ones in the world. That’s not to say that I lack respect and reverence for my country. But it ain’t a total thing. Like true love. I’d much rather pledge allegiance to my Italian true love than to my country. I like her country, too. Italy. But hey, I’d stop short of dying for Italy. If things got tough, I wouldn’t hesitate fleeing to better places. Maybe Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Canada or Greenland. Of course, I could end up dying in those places. By freezing to death or being buried alive in an avalanche of snow. But that would be more or less accidental. Rather than a conscious dying for my country. Yes, when it gets down to the nitty-gritty, I ain't ready to die for any country. –Jim Broede

Monday, February 18, 2013

Two strangers.

Maybe too often my conversations tend to be abstract. Too philosophical. Makes me wonder if that turns off most people. Maybe it doesn’t. Instead, they think I’m strange. Different. Which is all right. Personally, I like strange and different people. Maybe that’s why I like myself. Anyway, I’m able to converse with people. Mostly in English. But conversing doesn’t always take a spoken language. Mere presence can do it. Exuding vibes of one kind or another. By one’s looks. Or physical bearing. I practice looking at people. When walking along a street. Trying to force ‘em to look at me. Because they know I’m looking at them. I’ve sent a signal. It’s fun. Yesterday, I made the same rounds. Several times. Each time, I saw a man. Sitting atop a low wall. Wondered if he was a vagrant. Unemployed. Homeless. Must have been an Italian. Because I’m in Italy. If I spoke Italian, maybe I’d have approached him. Out of curiosity. Wonder if he noticed that I noticed. Or if he was oblivious of passersby. Oblivious of me. A strange man. As strange as him. Two strangers. Choosing to remain strangers. –Jim Broede

To be savored. By one and all.

My mother would be turning 99 on Wednesday. That is, if she had lived. Instead of dying. At age 88. Was thinking about her today. And about time, too. Imagining that I was living 100 years ago. In 1913. Before mother was even conceived. Much of history was still to unfold. To make mother’s life possible. And mine, too. And so many events to come. Two world wars. Landing man on the moon. Sending spacecraft beyond  our solar system. In the grand scheme of time, barely an instant. Yet so much change. And now here I am. Mother’s gone. Father, too. For over a half century. And my time on the wane, too. Wonder. Wonder of it all. How with a little twist of fate, the three of us might never have been. Or is it all fated? Pre-ordained? Could I see it all unfold from a perch outside of time? And then enter time. To make everything unfold in different ways? In a parallel universe. The slightest altering of a circumstance. May totally change the outcome of millions of lives. A fascinating thought. So many ways to get it right. But then again, maybe there is no right or wrong way. Life is life. There to be savored. By one and all. –Jim Broede

Inside and outside of time.

I’ve tried with all my soul to project myself outside of time. And I can’t. Unless I become  complete spirit. Absolutely no physical existence. That’s the only way to get outside of time. Only then is there no today, no yesterday, no tomorrow. Time has stopped. There is no sequence of events. No one thing after another. For sequential stuff  to happen, there must be time. But can one be aware and conscious outside of time? I suspect so. But only if one is focused on a single thought. A single emotion. And I conclude that must be love. To be immersed in a loving thought/emotion forever. Or until one chooses to enter time again. And then one’s mission, presumably, is to bring love into the space of time. Into the physical world. Maybe one can even choose the specific time and type of physical domain to enter.  With time and creation being infinite, that leaves a broad range of choices. Yes, an infinite number.  I’ve lived outside of time before. And I will again. It’s the natural way of life. Ebbing and flowing. Inside and outside of time. –Jim Broede

A form of unintelligent life.

We earthlings will always be living in the Dark Ages. As primitives. Oh, we become slightly more enlightened. But still, we live in the dark. Dark Ages. We’ve learned that our world ain’t flat. And that Mother Earth ain’t the center of the universe. But we still cling to old time religion.  And old time politic. We have little grasp of quantum physics. We are an ignorant, uncivilized species. Other forms of truly intelligent life look at us sort of askance. With curiosity. Seeing us move about in methodical, robotic, unthinking ways. Waging war against each other for no other than stupid earthly reasons. With no hope of ever becoming intelligent beings. The same way that we earthlings look at microbes. We earthlings are so stupid that we think  our ‘intelligence’ is really true intelligence. When it doesn’t even come close. We fool ourselves into thinking that we think intelligent thoughts. That we are a god’s gift to the cosmos. That there is no higher form of physical intelligence. That we are the ultimate. When we  don’t even come close. Because there is truly intelligent life far beyond the physical world. In an infinite number of dimensions. If we truly understood. Only then would we start to emerge out of the Dark Ages. We are locked into the dark. Because we are a form of unintelligent life. –Jim Broede

Sunday, February 17, 2013

Rather be sassy than classy.

My mother always insisted that I be well-dressed. In spotless clean clothes. Of course, I thought that was silly. Didn’t matter if I had a spot on my outer jacket. But mother thought people would think less of me. If not immaculately dressed. And that maybe I had a poor upbringing. So that it would not only affect me, but her, too. Maybe that was it. She wanted to be known for raising a proper son. Well, turns out. I’m proper. In my own way. Doesn’t bother me one iota if people think I’m a slob. Really, I’m not. But I’m not meticulous about the way I dress. Or about the way I do almost anything. If my clothes get dirty, I put them into the wash. Sooner. Rather than later. And I take a shower every night. That’s good enough for me. I also have clean thoughts. A clean mind. But I can’t get through a day without accumulating a little bit of dirt. A spot here and there. And some of my favorite clothes are a bit shabby. Or out of style. But then, I set my own style. My own ways. Doing whatever makes me comfortable. I even wear headbands. When my Italian true love says that ain’t classy. Things is, I’d rather be sassy than classy. –Jim Broede

To be my faithful translator.

I could teach my Italian true love lots about Italy. Stuff she doesn’t know. And probably needs to know. If only she’d serve as my translator full-time. Which would allow me to approach total strangers. On the street.  Interviewing them on the spot. Unexpectedly. Tell them I’m an American. Keenly curious. About Italians and Italy. And so I’m conducting interviews with Italians. Randomly. Strangers on the street. I want them to tell me about themselves. About what it’s like to be an Italian. So that I could put it in a book. Maybe titled, ‘What it’s like to be an Italian.’ I’ll bet that even my Italian true love doesn’t fully know. Maybe she’s never asked herself the question. She’s waiting for me to ask. Really, she doesn’t have to answer. Because  I already know. That she feels very much alive in Italy. But that she has no qualms about leaving. To visit other parts of the world. And she wouldn’t mind living away from Italy for an extended period of time. Maybe years. But she’d miss Italy, too. And would want to return. If not forever. For lengthy visits. Because she truly is Italian. In blood. In mind. In soul. Just the kind of Italian I need. To be my faithful translator. –Jim Broede