I was born laughing.

I like to be funny. To introduce humor into most situations. Even at a funeral. After all, life and death can be taken too seriously. If so, that tends to eliminate the fun. I find laughter invigorating. Especially when I’m with people who refuse to laugh. They come off as funny. Of course, some of ‘em think I’m being disrespectful. That I should take a solemn approach. To just about everything.  I can be solemn. Momentarily. But not for a long time.  I need relief. Loosening up, so to speak.  Laughter is good for my mental, physical and emotional health. Most babies are born crying. But not me. I came into the world laughing. I want to leave the same way. –Jim Broede

The undisputed champion.

When it comes to romantic idealism, nobody is my equal. Not even my Italian true love. I am a full-fledged romantic idealist. And proclaim such on my business/identity card. I don’t expect anyone to be my match. To pursue romantic inclinations to the same level as I do. I don’t want anyone to. I’d rather be the standard bearer.  The one that excels. I want to do it better than others. It would be silly for me to tell anyone you’ve gotta do it better than me. Because if I do that, I’d be falling short. I’d be only the second or third or fourth best romantic idealist. My goal is to be the best. The undisputed champion. –Jim Broede

The essential art of survival.

I’m worried about an Alzheimer care-giver. Julie is caring for her parents. Both with dementia. And Julie is exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I tell her, get relief. Respite. Go away for a week. Maybe to a spa. Turn the care-giving over to others. Otherwise, Julie won’t outlast her parents. That’ll be a sad situation. For everyone. The best care-givers learn the art of survival. It’s essential. –Jim Broede

My flirtation with cappuccino.

Used to never drink coffee. But now I imbibe. Because of the Italian influence. My Italian true love thought it strange that I wasn’t a coffee drinker. Didn’t like warm drinks. Tea. Hot chocolate. American coffee. So she had me try espresso. So I’d act more like a true Italian. It was all right. But then I tried cappuccino. And that was better than all right. So now I regularly have a cappuccino with my breakfast. With whipped crème on the top. Maybe it’s the whipped crème that’s the real lure. But a cappuccino also helps me pass as an Italian gentleman. An image I seek to cultivate. –Jim Broede

I have the better grasp.

I expect something good to happen daily. In my life. Oh, it won’t be a perfect day by any measure. But it’ll generally be a good day. Good enough for me. And at the end of the day, that will be my focus. How I salvaged a day. By savoring the good stuff. Some of my associates think that makes me a Pollyanna. Doesn’t matter to me what they think. Because I’m just being me. That’s all I wanna be. Me. It’s all right if I’m perceived in negative terms. Thing is, I know better. I have the better grasp. Of me. –Jim Broede

I am constantly evolving.

I’m defining my life. Right here. In this blog. By posting virtually every day. My thoughts. Ideas that flit through my mind. Almost 6,000 entries, and counting. I could choose not to post. To not define. To give no clue. Instead, I choose to go naked into the world. To dare be psychoanalytical. Many of us leave others to do the defining. I’d rather not. Preferring to take charge. To become the creator. Of me.  Not knowing where I am going.  But still going. Unafraid. That’s the thrill of life. Becoming a lover. A dreamer. A romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. And far more. Because I am constantly evolving. –Jim Broede

In my multiple, on-going lives.

Living multiple lives. All at the same time. Yes, simultaneously. That’s a feeling I have. That I exist in many, many dimensions. And that I’m conscious in each dimension. But that I’m fully aware of being in only one dimension at a time.  Because each existence is separate. It’s a strange, strange feeling. Difficult for me to explain. Or to fathom. Though I have a sense of it. It’s sort of like pondering, what if? Like how would my life have been different if I decided not to come to Minnesota in 1965?  What if I had accepted a job elsewhere instead. In another part of the country. My whole life scenario would have been changed. Different acquaintances   Different friends. Different experiences.  Makes me wonder if that life is unfolding. At this very moment. In another dimension. In another reality. As if I had really made that choice.  And some day, I will be able to choose to live that life. In that other dimension. Just to see and experience what would have happened. Yes, the creator gives me many, many options. I can live and relive my many, many lives. Under an endless variety of scenarios.  Makes me both a spectator and an active participant. In my multiple, on-going lives. –Jim Broede

In the true nature of love.

I know people that are in love. And they don’t know it. Because they are too busy being miserable. When they don’t have to. By merely reminding themselves that they are in love. With something. With someone. Maybe it’s even being in love with themselves. That’s all right. It ain’t selfish. Because there are an infinite number of ways to be in love. Thousands. Millions of ways. But some people choose to pretend. That there’s no such thing as love. That love is an impossible dream. But all they need do is believe in the impossible. In the true nature of love. –Jim Broede

A reason to click my heels.

My Chicago Cubs played their 22nd game of the baseball season last night. And I have reason to celebrate. Because the Cubs finally have a winning streak. Yes, they’ve won two games in a row.  For the first time. A remarkable achievement. Because I make it so. It’s a big deal. Makes me happy.  That’s all I need. A season with a winning streak. Doesn’t have to be a long one. For Cubs fans, two games in a row without a loss makes for a remarkable season. Something to savor. And now here it is. Saturday.  And I’m dreaming of the impossible. A three-game winning streak. If that happens, I shall be jubilant. I will go for a walk. Jump high. And click my heels. –Jim Broede

I am taking charge.

Wishing. Not sure if I do a lot of wishing. Or any wishing at all. Maybe it’s more a case of deciding to get on with life. To continue the pursuit of happiness. Thing is, I know many unhappy people. And I sometimes tell ‘em, ‘You don’t have to be unhappy.’ And then I demonstrate. By pointing to the stuff that could make me unhappy. Discontented. Even miserable. But usually I choose to focus on a single fact. That I’m in love. With my Italian true love. And with life. I really don’t have to wish for a better life. Because I have a decent enough life now. I’m fully capable of being happy. At this very moment. I’m living a glamorous and fulfilling life. Writing my own script. That’s better than letting others do it for me. I am taking charge. –Jim Broede

On becoming a fat spirit.

Wonder what it’s like living as a spirit.  As a non-physical being. I believe in spirits. And assume that someday I’ll evolve into one. I won’t have a mouth, eyes or ears. But still, I’ll be able to talk, see and hear. Or so I assume. But maybe I won’t be living in a physical world. Instead, I’ll be in a totally different dimension. But for true freedom, I may need the opportunity to enter the physical world. How does a spirit go about that? Oh, so many, many questions. I sense that spirits enter my physical world now. Even the creator, himself. I can’t see him. Because he’s spirit. But still, I can feel him. Actually speak to him. And he to me. By thought transference. I suppose that’s the way spirits communicate with each other. They are well-tuned for that. But physical beings find that sort of communication difficult. If not impossible. Another thing. Spirits probably don’t have to go to the bathroom. And don’t need to sit down for dinner. In fact, they probably don’t eat. Don’t need customary physical food.  They most likely thrive on thought.  Sheer thought. Could be that loving thought is a spirit's most savored/favored food. I might indulge to an excess. Wonder if that would make me a fat spirit. –Jim Broede

Without any qualms of guilt.

My dementia-ridden friend Ron keeps losing or hiding his hearing aids.  Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know any better. That can be aggravating for Ron’s care-givers. His daughter Julie, for instance. She loves Ron. Evidenced by her devoted care. Having taken Ron into her own home. She puts up with the disruption and upset.  A remarkable feat, indeed. I keep telling Julie to take care of herself. First and foremost.  To seriously consider putting Ron into assisted living.  But she doesn’t. Easier to live with Ron than with guilt. That’s the case with many Alzheimer care-givers. I felt guilt, too, when I put my dear sweet Jeanne into a nursing home. But the guilt quickly evaporated. Because I became an immensely better care-giver. When I started caring for Jeanne 8 to 10 hours daily. Instead of 24/7.  I didn’t miss a single day at the nursing home in 38 months. Seeing that Jeanne got quality care. From a rested, devoted, loving care-giver. Of course, with help from professionals. The nursing home staff. I saw to it. Learning that I couldn’t do it all alone. It took a team effort. I liked being the team leader. Without any qualms of guilt. –Jim Broede

Maybe the best invention ever.

Listening to string quartets today. Three of ‘em. By Schubert.  Makes me think. About how I’ve evolved. When I was a kid, my favorite music was bombastic symphonies. Beethoven. Tchaikovsky. Now I like more peaceful and sublime music. String quartets. Especially adagio movements. I could listen all day, all night.  So relaxing. So tranquil. My collection includes virtually all of Haydn’s string quartets. Seventy-some.  Happy music. Joyful.  Recorded music. Maybe the best invention ever. –Jim Broede

Not equal to Chenuska & Loverboy.

My cat Chenuska (Czech for little black lady) caught a cold. Had a bad cough. And had me worried. Took her to the vet. For a shot of an anti-biotic. Ten days later.  She’s all right. Looks like a complete recovery. For which I’m thankful. She’s up on my desk. Now. With her companion, Loverboy.  They qualify as my best friends. I even put them ahead of human friends. Except for my Italian true love. She’s at the top of the list.  As for my other friends, there’s no reason to feel jealous. You are still very good friends. Just not quite equal to Chenuska and Loverboy.  –Jim Broede

Guys, where are you?

I know two Nigerian refugees. Roaming somewhere in Europe. Maybe they are still in Italy. Where I met them.  Moses. Alexander. Don’t know where they’ll end up. I’d like to see them come to America. They’d fit in. Both speak English. They’re still young men. In their mid-20s. Fled Nigeria. Because of political unrest. And rampant poverty.  Went to Libya. Where life was better. Under Gaddafi.  But after the Libyan civil war, life became troublesome and dangerous. So they ended up in Italy. Barely making a living. As street vendors. Not a very good life.  They are well-educated. Moses is a computer whiz. Knows computers inside and out. Alexander has three years of training in veterinary medicine. But jobs are few and far between. All over Europe. Even for the natives. Refugees have little chance. That’s the state of the world. My guess is that Moses and Alexander would have a better chance in America. They are industrious. Motivated. Asked them to stay in touch when I left Italy at the end of March.  But haven’t heard anything. They read my blog, I think. Guys, where are you? –Jim Broede

Like an almost genius.

Fellow Minnesotans tell me it’s been a cold spring. But I’ve been assuming it’s still winter. And if so, it’s been an unusually warm winter.  Maybe I’m fooling myself. But that’s all right. After all, I’m a fool. Nothing wrong with that. Actually, it’s a good thing. Psychologically. I could easily be in hell. But still think I’m in heaven.  Better to be a happy fool than a downtrodden, depressed genius. I just glanced at the weather forecast. This weekend, temperatures are supposed to be in the balmy 60s. Maybe even nudging 70. Now that’s spring. Even a fool knows it. Yes, a very happy one. Makes me seem like an almost genius. –Jim Broede

Let's gab about meaningful stuff.

The art of good conversation. It’s neglected. But I’m trying to do something about it. By initiating conversation. With friends. With acquaintances. With strangers. Too often, we don’t talk. When we have the opportunity. Instead, we ignore each other. Maybe it’s because we want quiet. Solitude. But I suspect it’s also because we are too lazy to make conversation. Other than boring small talk. But I’m gonna try to stimulate interesting dialogue. About controversial and personal matters.  No subject is taboo. Let’s gab about meaningful stuff. –Jim Broede

Ain't what the creator wanted.

I struggle. With concepts of right and wrong. Not always easy. Determining right from wrong. Because some people’s right happens to be my wrong. And it goes the other way, too. Maybe it’d be nice if there were clear cut rights and wrongs. On which we all could agree. But I doubt that the creator intended life to be that way. Preferring instead great flexibility. No single principle that applies all the time. That would make life far too easy. Life is supposed to be difficult.  Open to debate. A test of multiple choices. No solid rights and wrongs. For some people, that’s scary. They want commandments from the creator. So that life becomes easy. Rigid rules by which to abide.  But seems to me that the creator didn’t prescribe rules. So mankind decided to create rules.  Conservative ones. With the intent of imposing them on everyone.  Contrary to the wish of the very liberal and free-thinking creator. –Jim Broede

To an evil bidder.

Being is important. A lover and a dreamer and a romantic idealist. I’m all of those. And more. I’m laughable, too. Because I have no qualms about being a clown, a fool, an idiot, a jackass. Gives me a true feel for life.  Generally, I define myself. In positive ways. Even when I make a fool of myself. Because it feels good. I learn from the experience. And get on with life.  And there’s nothing wrong with being a clown, jackass or idiot. They are respectable pursuits. But politician? That makes me feel uneasy. Like I’ve sold my soul. To an evil bidder. –Jim Broede

A very worried creator.

People do crazy things. In the name of religion. Makes me wonder about religion. I don’t want to be religious. Rather be spiritual. I disdain virtually any kind of organized religion. I was brought up as a Christian. I no longer consider myself a Christian. Because, to me, it seems like a close-minded religion. Often bigoted. As if it’s the only true faith. That’s characteristic of most religions. I’d rather design my own faith. Tailored for me. Nobody else. I want direct communication with the creator. Nothing less. No intermediaries. I have it. We use a spiritual language with each other. That’s nice. A true dialogue.  The creator tells me that he’s a free-thinker. So that’s what I am.  He abhors organized religion, too. Too much show. Too much ritual. Too much bull shit. The creator also frowns on excess. Such as the building of houses of worship – cathedrals, temples, mosques, synagogues. It’s a waste of money. Instead, he suggests savoring the great outdoors. The natural ‘church.’ Which he calls his greatest creation.  As for his decision to create people. He’s very worried. That man may become a failed experiment. That he never intended a world full of violent religious zealots. –Jim Broede

Never to realize our lofty dream.

I find ways to waste my time. Deliberately. Because it’s good for me.  Wasting time can be beneficial. In one way or another. I learn to salvage something. From the waste. And I start to believe that there’s no such thing as wasting time. At the top of my wasted list are the Chicago Cubs. The perennial losers. The so-called loveable losers. The Cubs specialize in losing baseball games. In every which way. They concoct endless ways to lose games. Especially in heartbreaking fashion. That is, if one takes the games seriously. I do and I don’t. Certainly, I’m less serious than I used to be. I’ve become fascinated by the art/craft of losing. The Cubs almost always find novel ways to master losing. Like last night. In Cincinnati. They get a brilliantly pitched game from their starting pitcher. In fact, the Cubs starters have the third lowest earned run average in baseball. Yet, the Cubs have the worst record in baseball. Five wins, 13 losses. Of course, the season is still early. Last year, the Cubs lost 101 games. Second worst in baseball. This year, they are striving to be the worst. Despite the decent starting pitching. The Cubs offset that with lousy relief pitching, pathetic fielding, atrocious hitting. They have the baseball’s lowest batting average with runners in scoring position. They can’t buy a clutch hit. They choke when there’s an opportunity to score. Well, back to last night’s game. The one in Cincinnati. The Cubs held a 2-0 lead for most of the game. But the bullpen gave up two runs, and the game went into extra innings. The Cubs held on tenaciously, and  scored two runs in the top of the 13th inning. Yes, took a 4-2 lead. But I turned off the game. Knowing full well that the Cubs would find a way to lose. And they did. Cincinnati rallied for three runs in the bottom of the 13th. And the Cubs lost again, 5-4.. Fortunately, I’ve learned to forgo the anguish of loss.Therefore, my time as a Cubs fan hasn’t been a total loss. Instead, I’m intrigued. Fascinated. By the antics of my favorite baseball team. The Cubs used to have a mediocre baseball team. But now they are in an alleged rebuilding program. Cubs fans have been told that the Cubs roster was scuttled. To get rid of mediocrity. To start over from scratch. With young and mostly inept players. With potential. To some day blossom into star elite players. And Cubs fans are supposed to practice patience. To truly believe in the impossible. To wait a few more years. For the grand reward. In baseball heaven. A World Series, which Cubs fans haven’t seen since 1908. Those fans, unfortunately, are all dead. And the rest of us are waiting, waiting, waiting. Knowing we’ll all be dead some day, too. Never to realize our lofty dream. –Jim Broede

I really do feel superior.

I like to take stands. Positions. On this and that. On almost anything. On serious matters. And nonsensical issues. That’s a way of testing myself. I ask, ‘Do I really believe what I’m saying?’ Might depend. On how well I’m listening. I allow others to challenge me.  If they make a better case, I may shift my stance. Of course, many times they don’t. Thus fortifying my slant. Often, it doesn’t matter. Someone may ask if I like the weather. And I really don’t care. One way or the other. But I’ll take a contrary position. Just to stir a debate. Or to be funny.  Then there’s the typical perfunctory question, ‘How are you?’ And I reply, ‘Perfect. Superior. Infallible. Better than everyone else.’  Some people take me seriously. As well they should.  Because often enough, I am. I really do feel superior. Nothing wrong with that. It’s a good feeling. –Jim Broede

I left my heart in Norway.

I like the temperament of many Norwegians. In Norway, they don’t execute anyone. No matter how heinous the crime.  Because Norwegians are against killing, period. Doesn’t matter if one is a coldblooded murderer. Executing him is still wrong. That’s a principle I can live by. And thankfully, a principle being adopted by an increasing number of so-called ‘liberal’ countries. But also supported by many ‘conservative’ Catholics. Including the pope, himself. I have no qualms about drawing lines. One either makes killing totally wrong. Or allows killing willy-nilly.  Which means it’s all right when the killing is sanctioned by government.  Such as the state of Texas. But if one commits murder in Massachusetts – there’s no capital punishment. Unless the federal government steps in. And foists it’s way. Which allows for execution.  For more killing. That’s why we have lax gun laws. We Americans generally feel that it’s all right to kill.  That it’s an inalienable right to own a gun. Usually for the purpose of killing something or someone. We protect ourselves from killers by killing. Each other. And ourselves. With our precious guns. Just about everybody in sight. But I exaggerate. It’s only about 30,000 gun deaths every year. That’s a relatively negligible number. Unless you are a Norwegian. Then even one death is one death too many. Anyway, I may be an American. Technically, speaking, that is. But my heart is in Norway. –Jim Broede

Should have heeded my true love.

We’re supposed to get 6 to 10 inches of snow tonight. And here we are only a week from May. This is even unusual for Minnesota. Not sure I’ll be able to ride my bicycle tomorrow. But I can always get exercise. By shoveling snow. Maybe all day. I’m not complaining.  I need to strengthen my upper body. So this will be the kind of exercise I need. I got in 35 miles on my bicycle before the snow arrived.  I have a good/positive  attitude.  Setting a fine example for everyone. I can’t change the weather. So I accept it. And make the best of it. Same goes for politics. Of course, the easiest thing for me to accept is my Italian true love. I should have followed her advice. And stayed an extra month in sunny and balmy Sardinia. –Jim Broede

Without truly being.

I’m opposed to a forced death on anyone. Even for terrorists and others that kill or maim people. Makes me against capital punishment. But if someone wants to take his/her own life – well, then maybe that’s all right. I wouldn’t encourage suicide. But I’d accept it. As a legitimate moral alternative. An individual choice. Not sure about my stance on abortion. Because I don’t necessarily accept the notion that life begins at conception. In fact, I’m not even sure that life begins at the moment one climbs out of the womb. Maybe true birth occurs only when one achieves true consciousness. Awareness of being alive. Could be that some of us merely go through the motions of being alive. Without truly being. –Jim Broede

Not tomorrow. But today. Now.

My Italian true love too often focuses on stuff that makes her furious. Italian politics, for instance. Or the bureaucracy in the school system where she teaches. Makes her distraught. Even despondent.  She actually loses sleep. Fretting over things she can’t change. But I’ve issued her a challenge. Give me a list of things that you love. Things that make you happy.  That’s the stuff you should be focusing on, I tell her.  So, do it. I refuse to be furious. Or hateful. About anything. Instead, I occupy myself with loving thoughts. About how wonderful it is to have a true love. To have her in my life. Even when she becomes furious. Because that presents me with a challenge. To make her see  the good side of life. And to savor it. Not tomorrow. But today. Now. –Jim Broede

Far better than weeping.

Sometimes, Julie doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So she often does both. In dealing with her father. In his 80s. And coping with dementia. Yesterday, she was putting in his hearing aides. When she got a phone call. So she left him. For five minutes. Upon returning, no hearing aids. She looked high and low. Everywhere, it seemed. For three hours she searched. Then suddenly, Eureka! She found one of the hearing aids. Wrapped neatly in a cloth. And placed beneath a stack of sheets in the linen closet. Later, she found the other hearing aid. Tucked beneath a sofa in the living room. Why? Why? Why?  Why did he hide his hearing aids? And then pick such unusual hiding places. Later, he took the dangling cord on blinds in his bedroom, and tied it into 35 knots. Yes, 35. She counted 'em. Why? Why? Why? She asked, ‘Did you do this?’ He confessed. ‘Well, I want you to untie all those knots,’ she told him. Never expecting he would. Surprise! Surprise! He did. Methodically. Dutifully. Untied everyone.  As Julie wiped away her tears. Tears of laughter. Far better than weeping. –Jim Broede

A less effective president.

Barack Obama ain’t a politician. And maybe that’s too bad. Because a politician knows how to get things done. Especially if he has the power of the presidency. Plus the power of public opinion. Overwhelming on his side. In both cases. That’s what Obama had in the debate over gun regulation. Yet he lost. In the Senate. Because he was unable to corral the 60 votes necessary to pass the legislation. Settled for 54 votes. Six fewer than he needed. That’s gross failure. Something that should shame a real politician. Maybe Obama is far too idealistic. Far too emotional. He doesn’t know how to really get things done. Politically. He’s not a Lyndon Johnson. The master of political pressure and gamesmanship. Could be that Obama is suited more to be a college professor than a politician. Maybe that makes him a less effective president than Lyndon Johnson. –Jim Broede

Time to laugh. Not fret.

I am fascinated by Italian politics. Intrigued, too. Baffled. Amused. Entertained. These are all positive elements. I never lose sleep over what might happen next. I accept it all. In a good-humored way. Knowing I can’t change any of the outcomes. And knowing that Italian political truth is stranger than fiction. Meanwhile, my Italian true love becomes distraught over the state of Italian politics.  She’s repulsed. Sickened. Actually loses sleep over the antics and what might happen next.  She even talks about wanting to leave Italy. Move to another country. In order to escape Italian politics. Italy’s last national election was in February. And still, a new government has yet to form. Because Italy is divided into multiple political parties. And no one party comes close to corralling a majority. Therefore, coalitions of two or more parties are necessary. And they are all feuding. They can’t agree on anything. So here they are. At stalemate.  In a sense, without a government. The politicians can’t decide what to do next. Maybe another election. Very soon. And maybe another and another after that. Endless elections. Endless sharply divided votes. Because a majority of Italians can’t decide what kind of government they want. I tell my true love this is funny. Time to laugh. Not fret. –Jim Broede

I'd require common decency.

Wonder. Wonder. Wonder what it’d take for me to do bad things. Like kill people. Or harm them. In violent ways. Oh, I’m capable of getting angry. Enough to use angry words. With my big mouth. Or in writing. But that’s it. And then I might apologize. I don’t like anger. In me. In anyone. So I usually cool it.  Most of the time, I deny being angry. Instead, I’m annoyed. Or disappointed. In others. In myself. Sure beats being downright angry.  Maybe I lose my temper some times.  But that may not be the same as being angry. Maybe it’s a case of my kind of intolerance. A refusal to tolerate certain kinds of behavior. Such as a total lack of respect. People need to show common decency toward each other. That ain’t asking too much. It should be a requirement. –Jim Broede

To the exclusion of everything else.

I’m puzzled. And enamored. All at the same time. By life. I call myself a lover. And a dreamer. A romantic idealist, too. And a spiritual free-thinker. And a political liberal. But still, I can’t figure it all out. Life. And why my fellow human beings choose the courses they choose. Like the Tsarnaev brothers. Young men. The ones that (presumably) planted bombs at the Boston Marathon. Why do people do what they do? Crazy things. Intended to kill and maim people. At random. In a crowd. People they don’t know. It’s almost as if they are doing it just for the hell of it. As a lark.  Gawdawful things like this happen. All over the world. Every day.  Things over which I have absolutely no control. Some of the stuff goes unreported, I’m sure. Just as well. I’d rather not know.  Instead, I try to get on with my life. In the pursuit of happiness. Mainly as a lover and dreamer. Pretending, if only for a moment, that bad stuff doesn’t happen. That life is beautiful. That I have ample reason to savor my precious moments. To the exclusion of everything else.  –Jim Broede

I have nothing to hide.

I can’t hide. Even if I wanted to. Because there are an infinite number of search mechanisms in place. So that I can be found. By the FBI. Or the CIA. And if they choose to kill me, they can do it. I can be zapped. Obliterated. Wiped from the face of Mother Earth. By a drone.  Anyway, I’ve been thinking about this. Because of the immense number of surveillance  cameras. Almost everywhere. I’m probably filmed a dozen times daily. When I go shopping. Or when I merely walk down a street. At the Boston Marathon, for instance. The bombers were spotted. Pictured. Identified. Tracked down. In a matter of three days.  Of course, I’m not worried about being caught on surveillance camera. Doesn’t matter if the FBI and the CIA knows everything about me. I have nothing to hide. No secrets. My life is an open book. I’ve been walking naked into the world for a long time. –Jim Broede

On making the impossible possible.

The discovery of two new Earth-like planets. In another solar system. Some 1,200 light years away. That’s the news that made my day. Overshadows everything else. Captures my imagination. The possibility of life throughout the cosmos. Sure, it’s life fantastically far away. But still, it’s a nice feeling. To dream about whether, if as a spirit, one could travel that immense distance. Easily. In an instant. Outside of time. Can’t imagine doing it as a physical being. Propelled at the speed of light (186,000 miles a second), it’d take 1,200 years to reach that distant solar system.  Of course, there’s so much I don’t understand.  Maybe  the grand design of creation was to make everything  possible. I'd like that. – Jim Broede

Can't pass for anything Italian.

I’ll keep doing it. Until I pull it off.  Impersonating a true Italian gentleman. My Italian true love says it won’t happen. Not that I ain’t a gentleman. I am. But I’m not Italian. And I don’t speak much Italian. And when I do, it’s with a heavy American accent. I wear Italian shoes. Italian-made clothing. Everything from pants to shirts to sweaters to sport coats. Underwear, too. And I drink cappuccino out of an Italian-made cup. Still, my Italian true love says I don’t look the least bit Italian. That I could easily be mistaken for a Russian or a Slav. But no way, an Italian. I tell her, I’m a great actor. I can play any role. But she claims I have yet to convince anyone that I’m a genuine purebred Italian gentleman. That I can’t even pass for an Italian street bum. –Jim Broede

If I could.

I don’t want a gun. Don’t need a gun. Oh, I can use a gun. If necessary. Qualified as a sharpshooter when I was in the army. A feat that amused me. Surprised me, too. I’d much rather have a sharp tongue. And shoot words. Instead of bullets. Yes, I know that words can hurt. But they seldom kill. And kind words often heal. I use words to make love. When angry, words will suffice. I don’t wanna be a killer.  Not even an accidental one. So I avoid firearms. I abhor hunting. It’s a personal thing. In practice, I’m not totally against killing. Animals. For food. Though I have serious qualms about it. Ideally, I’d like to become a vegetarian. But I procrastinate. Don’t practice what I preach. Except when it comes to guns. Don’t even want to touch a lethal weapon. I have no desire to kill any human being. Even the worst of the lot. I’d end capital punishment. If I could. I’d sharply regulate the use and purchase of guns. If I could.  –Jim Broede

I can handle a full schedule.

My Italian true love routinely tells me that she has too much to do. And I tell her, that’s a figment of her imagination. Or a lack of organization. A failure to set priorities. One has to learn to pick and choose. To never try to do everything.  Better to assume that one has all the time in the world. Forever. Even if one doesn’t. Another thing. I refuse to look at life as full of tasks. Instead, my daily pursuits are pleasures.  Each one to be savored. Most days, a single pleasure is all I need. But hey, if I choose two or three pleasures, that’s all right. I can handle it all.  A full schedule of pleasures. Without feeling overwhelmed. –Jim Broede

My specialty: Sweet dreams.

I know people that don’t know how to turn things off. They fret. They worry. They think too much. They can’t fall asleep. Because their minds are full of extraneous thought. As for me, I’m a thinker. But I know how to control/corral my thoughts. And to stop thinking bad/negative thoughts. Especially when I’m in need of rest. To be a good thinker, one must be able to revitalize and rejuvenate. To take time off. I suspect that the great thinkers mastered the art of shutting down their minds. Of taking a break.  Of becoming non-thinkers, of sort, for a while. Thinking must become a pleasure. A form of relaxation. The positive thinkers know how to put themselves to sleep. By thinking sweet dreams. That’s my specialty. –Jim Broede

Better the lover than the loved.

Amazing. How I’ve shut my mind to the travesties that keep occurring. All over the world. Senseless killings.  Often the result of  people hating each other.  Maybe I should be losing sleep over it all. But I don’t.  Because I’ve learned to turn it off. Like a light switch. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the pleasures of life. Maybe that makes me cold and callous. Instead, I’m merely trying to live happily amidst the turmoil and tragedies. I feel it when something strikes close to me. To my loved ones.  I grieve and lose sleep in those cases. But I find ways to recover. And to get on with the rest of my life. Maybe it’s that I learned to take care of myself. First and foremost. Otherwise, I won’t be able to take care of others. Love is a strange thing. One has to be in a position to love. In order to truly love another. If I devastate myself, I’m the one that needs loving. Better the lover than the loved. –Jim Broede

I am an explorer.

When I’m in Italy, I travel. But I don’t have to. Because I’m already in Italy. And that’s where I want to be.  I am capable of appreciating and savoring my immediate environs.  And I don’t have to see all of Italy. After all, that would be impossible.  Just as impossible for me to see all of America. Or all of Minnesota, for that matter.  I’m at ease settling in one place. The city of Carbonia on the Mediterranean island of Sardinia. Four winters there, and I am still exploring. Finding something new and delightful and fascinating virtually every day. –Jim Broede

The right place at the right time.

I try not to lament tragedy. Like the stuff that happened in Boston. Instead, I get on with the rest of life. Because I have absolutely no control over the violence and mayhem in the world. It’s all gonna happen. No stopping it. No matter how much I lament, it won’t change the situation.  I’d anguish if I had the ability to change events. But I don’t. So I have to accept it all. And still pursue life. The best way I can. In my little cloister.  Safe, I suppose, only because I’m lucky. To be in the right place at the right time. Makes me blessed. Having survived this long amidst the daily occurring tragedies all over the world. –Jim Broede

Time to grow old. Gracefully.

In my youth, I occasionally thought about what it would be like to be old. To be in my 70s, for instance. Well, I’m there now. And it’s nothing like I imagined. That I’d worry about having little time left. That I’d be decrepit. In poor heath.  Yes, generally miserable. But it’s nothing like that. Though it may be some day. For one thing, I don’t feel old. And I don’t worry about tomorrow. Because I’ve learned to live one day at a time. And to savor  precious moments. Virtually every day.  When my dear wife Jeanne died of Alzheimer’s six years ago, I grieved. For a while.  But I let things happen. Let life flow naturally. And lo and behold, here I am. Living with the second true love of my lifetime. A wonderful Italian. Having evolved into a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. Took time. And maybe that’s the nicest thing of all. A true blessing. Time to grow old. Gracefully. –Jim Broede

While speeding around the circle.

When I go bicycling, I often follow the same one-mile circular route over and over. Maybe 30 or 40 times a day. A neighbor thinks I’m crazy. That I should peddle out into the country. Enjoy the scenery. And take along a picnic lunch. Yes, that’s a good idea. But it doesn’t suit my purpose. Which is to ride and think at the same time.  I mull things over.  Carrying on conversations with myself. I’m indifferent about the scenery.  Oblivious. I’m merely getting much-needed physical exercise while doing mental gymnastics. Some of my best thoughts come while speeding around the circle. –Jim Broede

A real nice and decent guy.

My friend Sherman’s life has gone awry. Happens to almost everyone. Sooner or later. Happened to me. When my dear wife Jeanne had a 13-year siege with Alzheimer’s. And died six years ago. But life is good again. I have cultivated a second true love. An Italian. And I split my time living in Sardinia and Minnesota. Meanwhile, I know what Sherman is about to experience. He just put his wife, Pam, into assisted living. She has dementia. Sherman is moving out of our Forest Lake neighborhood. Closer to St. Paul. So he can more easily visit and care for Pam. Sherman, at age 55, is 10 years younger than Pam. And willing to be a caregiver. He’s that kind of guy. But he’s doing it sensibly. Part-time. Rather than 24/7.  He knows his limits. Because of his own health problems. Diabetes. And a stroke survivor.  Sherman knows that he has to take care of himself. Because if he doesn’t, he won’t be able to care for Pam. I commend Sherman. He’s had a tough life. In part, because he’s black. An African American. He’s had to cope with discrimination of one kind or another all his life. But he’s managed. And in the process, he’s developed a positive attitude toward life. And become a real nice and decent guy. Has his priorities straight. Such as truly loving his wife.  Even in difficult times. –Jim Broede

In ways that flow naturally.

My blog is a little like publishing my own newspaper. Because it’s updated daily. With stuff I consider pertinent. That’s always what I wanted to do. When I spent much of my lifetime writing for newspapers.  For a while, I even wrote a column. Called Broede’s Broodings. Back in the 1960s. Wish I had continued that.  Writing about anything I pleased. My way.  Without directives or dictates from editors. Or readers, for that matter. My purpose was to please myself. By writing about things and in ways that flow naturally. –Jim Broede

Mother Nature keeps us guessing.

Mother Nature likes to play tricks. To give Minnesotans the unexpected. Oddities. For instance, winter a year ago was one of the warmest on record. Maybe the warmest since white settlers/explorers arrived. Only three days of subzero temperatures. And the lake (Forest Lake) that I live on opened (free of ice) earlier than ever. On March 18. Evidence of global warming? Maybe. But this year, the lake may open record late. Beyond April 21. The sheet of ice is still thick. And snow-covered, too. And high temperatures all week are predicted to remain in the low 40s. Yesterday, I bicycled in a mix of snow and cold rain. But I ain’t complaining. Not nice to alienate Mother Nature. There’s no predicting what she might do next. –Jim Broede

The world's most beautiful woman.

I notice people. As they age. And I’m amazed. Some become more beautiful. More handsome. More distinguished. More expressive. Or maybe it’s my concepts that are changing. It’s the way I see them. My notion of beautiful, for instance, has evolved. My Italian true love becomes more beautiful every day. As she ages.  She actually looks more elegant.  Don’t know exactly how this happened. But she’s become the most beautiful woman in the world. I used to assume that people lose their beauty. But not her. I gaze at her. In the flesh. Or on Skype. For my daily dose of loveliness. And every day, she’s more beautiful than yesterday. For five years now. Incredible. –Jim Broede

Makes them real Italians.

Italians are in love with their language. As well they should. After all, it’s a beautiful language.  And romantic, too. Don’t tell Italians that they should settle for subtitles when they watch foreign films. Or when they see American television shows. It’s all dubbed-in Italian. Unlike in America. Where I expect subtitles.  No dubbed-in English for me. Italians are proud of their native language. Maybe that makes them less cosmopolitan. More parochial. But one thing’s for sure. Makes them real Italians. –Jim Broede

Following the dictates of my heart.

Facts and truth. On which to base my life’s decisions. Maybe I’m stupid. Because it’s difficult for me to grasp facts and truth. Much of it is guesswork. Therefore, I don’t always rely on logic. I distrust my mind. Instead, I follow my heart. My emotions. My inner sanctum. I’d rather be soulful than mindful. It’s a struggle. Trying to do the right things. Admittedly, I can’t always make up my mind. But as for my heart, I know what’s in it. Often with great certainty. That’s why I became a romantic idealist and a spiritual free-thinker and a political liberal. People may suggest that I’m crazy. Maybe even an idiot. But that’s all right.  Doesn’t necessarily matter how I’m perceived. As long as I’m following the dictates of my heart.  That’s where I find my truth. –Jim Broede

Of things meaningful.

All I need in life is my own little world. My inner sanctum. Living in certain bounds. Often, in solitude. Such as at this very moment. When I sit down. At my computer. And write. I am alone. All is quiet. And dark outside. No. No. Not true. I see dawn breaking. And soon my immediate world will be awake. With the rising of the sun. Another wonderful day. To feel the pulse beat of things meaningful. –Jim Broede

Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!

I’m looking ahead. To the U.S. presidential election in 2016. To the woman that’s gonna replace Barack Obama. And it ain’t Hillary Clinton. Instead, give me Elizabeth Warren, the U.S. senator from Massachusetts. Yes, a liberal. A consumer advocate. And a dreamer. Exactly what we Americans need and deserve in the White House. She’s my heroine. Just behind my Italian true love. When I listen to Warren speak, I’m enthralled by what I hear. So are many others. Evidenced by her getting elected to the U.S. Senate last year.  And what I like most is she’s hated and despised by Republicans. Because they know she’ll be a formidable foe.

Here’s the kind of speech one hears from Warren:

‘There is nobody in this country who got rich on his own. Nobody. ... You moved your goods to market on the roads the rest of us paid for; you hired workers the rest of us paid to educate; you were safe in your factory because of police forces and fire forces that the rest of us paid for. You didn't have to worry that marauding bands would come and seize everything at your factory, and hire someone to protect against this, because of the work the rest of us did. Now look, you built a factory and it turned into something terrific, or a great idea. God bless. Keep a big hunk of it. But part of the underlying social contract is, you take a hunk of that and pay forward for the next kid who comes along.’

Bravo! Bravo! Bravo! –Jim Broede

Feeling good about life.

I like every day, ordinary life. Just being alive. And conscious. That makes the ordinary very special. To stop to think that I am able to think. To savor it all.  Doesn’t matter if I have nothing special planned.  Gives me time to reflect. About life. And to grasp the moment. Looking out the window. At the ice-covered lake and the snow-laden branches on the fir trees.  Doesn’t matter that spring has not yet arrived. I’ll take winter conditions. Even in mid-April. Or in June, for that matter. Because what matters most is that I am alive And conscious. And feeling good about life. –Jim Broede

In each other's footsteps.

My Italian true love is becoming more bold. More forceful. In her dealings with colleagues. And even with strangers.  She’s standing up for her students. And working for changes that enhance the common good. In her school system. Where she teaches English and English literature. I’m not going into all the details. Because she wouldn’t want me to.  She may even frown on me bringing up the subject at all. But that’s what I do. I talk and write about every and anything. No subject is taboo. I write about things I like and dislike. I praise. I criticize.  Nothing wrong with that.  Maybe my true love and I are following in each others' footsteps. –Jim Broede

Italy's finest ambassador.

My Italian friend Bruno reads my blog. I know it. Because my Italian true love in Sardinia sees Bruno. He lives nearby. And he mentions stuff he has read. When I’m in Sardinia, I occasionally walk with Bruno. And he talks to me. With his limited English vocabulary. And he does a stellar job with it. Far better than I do with my limited Italian.  I like it that Bruno and his lovely wife, Mariella, have warmed up to me. They’ve had me over for tea and cookies. They are very, very nice people. Wish I could speak fluent Italian. So that I could express my appreciation in more flowing terms. But Bruno gets the gist of what  I’m saying.  He’s Italy’s finest ambassador. –Jim Broede

Thank you, baseball gods.

The baseball gods are toying with me. Playing jokes. With my emotions. For instance, yesterday they were both mean and nice to me. My Chicago Cubs seemed to be on the way to a nice smooth win. Over the San Francisco Giants. Leading 2-0 on a well-pitched three-hitter going into the 9th inning. But Frisco rallied with three runs in the top of the 9th and it appeared the Cubs were going to take another heartbreaking loss.  Which have become routine. But maybe the baseball gods were teaching me to have faith. Because the Cubs rallied for two runs in the bottom of the 9th and won the topsy-turvy game, 4-3. In a matter of minutes, my emotions went from despair to elation. Thank you, baseball gods, for making it all end happily. For a change. –Jim Broede