Voter fraud ain't the problem.

Not sure where I stand. When it comes to racists. And their racist remarks. On the one hand, everyone should have a right to free speech. Even when it becomes downright nasty and bigoted. Guess I draw the line. When racists and bigots try to impose their ways on the people they disdain. By depriving them of their civil and human rights. Often in somewhat devious ways. By not revealing their true motives. Take the Republicans, for instance. The ones imposing strict new voter ID laws in Republican-controlled states. The more honest of the Republicans openly admit that the laws are designed to make it more difficult for minorities and poor people to vote. Because they generally don’t vote for Republicans. Of course, the natural born lying Republicans claim they’re out to prevent vote fraud. Without ever citing a single case of actual fraud. Believe me, voter fraud ain’t the problem.  Instead, it’s deceitful politicians. –Jim Broede

A welcome turn of events.

The billionaire owner of the LA Clippers basketball team has been suspended. For life. From operating his basketball team. Fined $2.5 million, too. For making racist remarks.  Wow! Wow! Wow! This was the penalty. Imposed by the National Basketball Association. Might sound a bit severe. But doesn’t bother me. Nice to see bigots get even more than their just due. But I wish the harsh penalties also were applied to racists in other walks of life. Such as politics. It’d mean some conservative white Republicans would be losing their jobs.  A welcome turn of events. –Jim Broede

One thought at a time.

I wonder. If I have too many thoughts. And thereby lose focus. By moving from one thought to another and another. In rapid order. Makes it difficult to keep track of my thoughts. Maybe I should take more time to ponder a single thought. For an entire day.  Some days I juggle 100 thoughts. Spreads me thin. At that rate, I can’t do justice to any single thought.  I must make more effort to savor my thoughts. Yes, one thought at a time. That’s the way true thinkers should operate. –Jim Broede

An intriguing choice.

The possibility. That life may not be forever. That after physical death. There is nothing. No more now. Absolutely nothing. Maybe that’s the way human life was designed. To help motivate one. To live to the fullest. Now. Because. At any moment. There could be no tomorrow. No now. The end, period. For everyone. Even the most religious. The most devout.  Doesn’t matter. The good and perceived bad, alike. They all meet the same fate. After an instant of life. No more life. Of course, that doesn’t stop one. From imagining. All sorts of scenarios. Such as religions. That offer rewards. To the pious few.  Those that toe the line. And follow the rigid rules. The elite. The saints.  But it’s all right, too. To imagine. Salvation for everyone. No right or wrong. Everyone survives. Or everyone perishes. It’s all for one. And one for all. All that matters. Is living. Now. In a  meaningful way. Or perhaps. Without any meaning at all. An intriguing choice. To say the least. –Jim Broede

Life is looking pretty fishy.

The prediction. Here in Minnesota. Isn’t quite for 40 days and 40 nights of rain. But for at least a solid week of showers. Yes, every day. We had rain all weekend. And are being told (on Monday) that we won’t see the sun again until at least next Saturday or Sunday. And maybe not then. We are caught in an unchanging weather pattern. Outside the main jet stream.  Water. Water everywhere. Astronomers and scientists tell us that water is a necessary ingredient for life. As we know it.  Therefore, Minnesota is being blessed. I’ve just run to the mirror. And yes, those are gills starting to form on my neck. I am evolving. Into a fish. Into a natural born survivor. –Jim Broede

In a natural flowing order.

I’m not so sure that the creator is in control. Or even wants to be in control.  Creation is the creator’s grand experiment. Maybe the creator doesn’t know how everything will turn out. We are allowed to be our own creators. Endowed with free will. Independent rather than dependent. Go to it, the creator tells us.  That even he doesn’t know where we are going. Created in the creator’s own image. A scary and joyfully divine thought. All at the same time. We have the potential to live meaningful lives. It’s up to us to choose our own paths. Our own meanings. To become, for instance,  romantic idealists, spiritual free-thinkers (and not necessarily Christians), political liberals, lovers, dreamers, poets. With the help of my imagination, of course. In that sense, I am creating myself. And not leaving it to the creator. Yes, one of life’s most profound blessings. Perhaps the creator is telling us. There is no right or wrong way. Even the creator doesn’t necessarily know right from wrong. Preferring to let everything be. In a natural flowing order. --Jim Broede

Love. Of life. In all its forms.

There’s something nice about venturing out. Into the storm. I’ve done it often. Into a rain/thunderstorm. Into a blizzard.  Didn’t seem so raging. Gives me a sense of fearlessness. Strength. Oneness with nature.  Even nature’s fury can seem soft and soothing. It’s a mind set. Today, here in Minnesota, it is raining. Windy, too. But still, I will savor the day. Walking. Walking. Walking for 10 miles. Maybe more.  I will walk the neighbors’ dogs, too. We give each other confidence. And a sense of love. Of life. In all its forms. --Jim Broede

Wondering: If losing is profitable.

The Chicago Cubs don’t have to be an atrociously bad major league baseball team. It’s strictly a matter of choice. By the ownership. The Ricketts family. Billionaires. The Ricketts could easily spend the money necessary to build one of the better teams. Now. But the Ricketts want to do it all in a frugal manner. It may work. Or it may not work. Could be that the Cubs remain a lousy team. Forever. Other big market teams, such as the New York Yankees and the Los Angeles Dodgers, spend lots of money. More than the Cubs.  Granted, the Ricketts spent nearly $1 billion. Buying the Cubs a few years ago. And the family may be well-intentioned. To make the Cubs the winner of the World Series. Some day. But I’d like the Ricketts to do it far sooner than later. And by at least making the Cubs mediocre. Almost immediately. By signing a bevy of free agent players. To fix certain weaknesses. Of which there are many. The Cubs are inept in so many ways. They have become perennial losers. Fielding some of their worst teams ever. I’d settle for a .500 club. For a while. A team that wins as many games as it loses. That’s better than teams that lose nearly 100 of their 162 games. Season after season. Teams that have no chance of qualifying for the playoffs.  The Ricketts have the money. To do it all. Quickly. My presumption is that billionaires have money to spare. They can even afford to lose money. Instead, they seem to prefer to lose baseball games. Maybe that’s the way they make money. Makes me wonder. If losing is more profitable than winning. –Jim Broede

No blind allegiance.

I’m living dangerously. In my conservative Republican neighborhood. By never flying the American flag. Instead, I regularly hoist the flags of Italy and Sardinia. Even on the Fourth of July national holiday. That could get me reported to Republican authorities. Rousing suspicions that I’m less than a super patriotic American.  A security risk. Really, I’m loyal to my Italian true love. I fly the flags in honor of her. Like a true romantic idealist. But hey, my congresswoman is none other than Michelle Bachmann. The most lunatic of the lunatic fringe Republicans.  She’s already questioned the loyalty of Barack Obama and other political progressives. Under the Patriot Act. Yes, that’s right. We Americans have a Patriot Act. With edicts like those imposed in some totalitarian countries.  Bachmann has called for identifying and cleansing America. Of those deemed less than patriotic. And here I am. Daring not to repeat the Pledge of Allegiance. At public gatherings, or anywhere. Yes, based on the principle that I am not always totally supportive of American political and economic ways. I might even flee America under certain circumstances. If the likes of Bachmann ever became president. It’s bad enough that she’s been elected and reelected in my congressional district. With the help of many votes from my neighbors. Shameful. Shameful. Makes one less than totally proud to be an American.  The USA. Less than a perfect country. A nation originally established with a slave economy. A nation known for racist ways. Apartheid. Even in my lifetime. And for the maltreatment, if not full-fledged ethnic cleansing, of the native American population.  The wrongs continue in America. Not the least being the ever-widening gap between the rich and the poor. An obliteration of the middle class. Of course, I’m still free to raise a fuss over all this. To speak out. But I’m fearful. That may not always be. Yes, my pledge of allegiance. Happens to be conditional. On America doing the right things. No blind allegiance. –Jim Broede

Makes one wonder. If it's all a sham.

Imagine. A family. That qualifies as billionaires. Many times over. Buying the Chicago Cubs baseball team. For almost $1 billion. Then gutting the team. Making it one of the worst in major league baseball. In last place. Season after season. With one of the lowest payrolls. Telling the fans. That austerity is good. To please put up with losing for a while longer. Because losing will eventually return dividends.  In higher picks in the annual draft of amateur baseball talent. In trades of the best remaining older veteran talent on the team for young and talented prospects. Yes, Cubs fans being told. Keep the faith, baby. Some day, Nirvana will arrive. The Cubs will win the World Series again. A feat that hasn’t happened since 1908. Seems like forever. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.  Makes one wonder. If it’s all a sham. Or the real thing. –Jim Broede

The right blend: Exercise and love.

Walking two Siberian Huskies. It’s easy. And a pleasure.  The  dogs’ owner warned me. It’ll be a challenge. Because they pull hard.  They were born to pull dog sleds. But I encountered absolutely no difficulty. Polly and Stinky didn’t mistake me for a dog sled. At most, it was a mild pull/tug. Of course, I took them out individually. For several miles. They haven’t been accustomed to daily walks. Confined to their yard. By so-called invisible fences. That’s why I volunteered to take the dogs for walks. I’ll do it regularly. Because I routinely walk 10 miles a day.  Might as well have company. Better it be with dogs. Rather than people. I like dogs. Though I prefer not to be a dog owner. For now. Preferring my two cats.  Loverboy and Chenuska. They are more than adequate loving companions.  Meanwhile, I see all sorts of dogs in the neighborhood. Some of whom crave for daily workouts. And don’t get beyond their yards. Indeed, a shame. That especially goes for the Huskies. But that problem is being resolved. For a while, I was walking Jack. A neighbor’s Irish setter. But Jack has found a new home. On a farm. Yes, a blessing. Still another neighbor’s dog. Sasha, a mixed breed. She’s been getting her daily walks. With me. For  two years now. I’ve become a companionable dog walker. Without having the responsibility of being a dog owner. A good deal. For the dogs. For me.  The last time I owned a dog. Must have been at least 10 years ago. Beloved Dottie. A German shorthair/black lab mix. Looked like the shorthair. She walked with me. Every day. For thousands of miles. Maybe halfway around the world. Still, I imagine she’s with me. In spirit. Lived for 17 years. The vet attributed her longevity. To exercise. And loving. A nice combination. Probably works. On humans, too. –Jim Broede

My badge of honor.

I like to alienate certain people. Especially political conservatives. It’s a winning strategy. Keeps me from feeling alienated. Having achieved what I wanted to achieve. Making the other fella feel alienated. Perhaps to even lose his temper. While I keep my cool. It’s a game. Being played. I may not come off as likeable. But that’s all right. I don’t want to be liked by political conservatives. That’s why I alienate. Intentionally. Being disliked in lunatic fringe conservative circles. That’s a high compliment. To be worn as a badge of honor. –Jim Broede

Alas! True full-fledged humans.

Ending the reign of the gilded rich. Makes as much sense. As the end of slavery. Think about it. From the innate moral sense. Unbounded monetary wealth. And slavery. Both crimes. Against humanity. They are wrong, wrong, wrong. We human beings. Must learn to think and act like human beings. And eventually learn to do the right things. For the common good. For the benefit of all. Not merely the few. I am an optimist. Some day, we semi-humans will evolve.  Alas! Into true full-fledged humans. –Jim Broede

My kind of guys.

Maybe nobody should have the inherent right to be obscenely wealthy. Wouldn’t bother me if billionaires were banned from society. Let’s make it illegal to be a billionaire. Punish billionaires. By taking away big chunks of their money. So that they become no more than paltry millionaires. That would solve many of worldwide economic problems. Such as having too many poor people. Let’s redistribute the wealth. In imaginative and humane and decent ways.  Yes, even in spirituals ways. The way that philosophers like Jesus might do it. But better yet, the way Karl Marx might do it. Personally, seems to me that Jesus and Marx worked on similar socialist-leaning wavelengths. My kind of guys. –Jim Broede

A life full of rewards.

Maybe I’ve been rewarded. For tending to dear sweet Jeanne. When she had Alzheimer’s disease. I retired earlier than I would have. To initially become a full-time care-giver. Retirement turns out to have been a blessing. A proper way to live. Anyway,  Jeanne went into a nursing home for the last 38 months of her life. And that allowed me to become an 8-10-hour-a-day supplemental care-giver. As well as Jeanne’s protector and advocate at the nursing home. I finally was able to care for Jeanne and still get daily respite. Another blessing. Because that made me a reasonably rested and much better care-giver. Jeanne died in 2007. After a 13-year bout with Alzheimer’s. And lo and behold, several months later, I met my second true love. An Italian. And we’ve been cultivating the relationship ever since.  Back and forth. In Minnesota. In Sardinia. Little wonder. My life feels like a continually rewarding experience. – Jim Broede

Life...with a bare-naked mind.

Sometimes I say things. Wished I hadn’t said. But I let it stand any way. In writing. Because I know no shame. Funny, isn’t it? Because that was me. At the moment. I could pretend. That I hadn’t said it. That I’m really not so stupid. More honest than dumb. Don’t know if that’s a blessing. Or a curse. Maybe neither. Does it really matter?  I’m merely feeling my way. Through life.  Which means. I’m naked. I expose. My mind. Imagine that. Going through life. With a bare-naked mind. –Jim Broede

My theme song. I hum it.

More and more. I accept what happens. In the entire world. Even the worst of tragedies. Without remorse. Without lamenting. Is it that I have learned acceptance? Maybe so. Recognizing that I can do nothing about it. Bad stuff happens. And I can’t change the outcome. So I get on with life. Without being particularly bothered. I shift my focus. On what I can control. Sometimes, not very much. Maybe my attitude. To not worry. And to be happy. My theme song. Can’t sing. But I can hum. –Jim Broede

Like an airliner on auto-pilot.

I’m thinking. The course of my day. Maybe it just happens. Evolves.  Without any forethought. Without planning. Maybe that’s the way life is supposed to be. Could be I’m programmed. Like a robot.  I like to assume. That I’m independent. Born with free will. I choose. Exactly what I’m gonna do today. I make my own decisions. But sometimes I wonder. I don’t stop to think. I merely do. Automatically.  As if I’m going through motions. That require no thought.  For instance, when I’m out for a walk. Should I go to the right? Or the left? Turns out. I make an unconscious decision. And not always the same one. Maybe I’m no more than an airliner on auto-pilot. Fortunately, I don’t end up in the bottom of the Indian Ocean. –Jim Broede

Too cold to sweat.

I’m learning. Not to sweat the small stuff. And believe me, almost everything that bothers me is small stuff. Ridiculously small. Such as whether the Chicago Cubs win or lose a baseball game. Whether it rains or shines.  Whether or not someone does me a favor. This kind of stuff shouldn’t matter. Yet, I’ve been known to allow it to matter. Even to the point of  becoming stressed. I’ve been too much of a wishful thinker. Wanting everything to fall into place. To go perfectly. In other words, to go my way. Maybe I was planning on a balmy sunny day. Instead, it’s cold and drizzly here in Minnesota.  And I wanted my Cubs to win their third straight game. Instead, they blew a 3-run lead in the ninth inning, and lost. But I’m taking it all in stride. By recognizing that this is small stuff. And maybe I owe a thanks to the weather gods. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. For doing me a favor. At least something went right. It's too cold to sweat. –Jim Broede

Acceptance.

Reason to celebrate. The Chicago Cubs finally won consecutive baseball games.  For the first time this season. Imagine that. Two in a row. Fantastic. Cubs fans find solace. In strange ways. A three-game winning streak would be joyful. Four straight? Pure bliss. Five in a row? I can’t find the words. They haven’t been invented yet. Of course, making it all the way to the World Series. Impossible. Yes, I’ve learned acceptance. –Jim Broede 

A price. For the pleasure of living.

Someone with the pseudonym tbad posted yesterday. On the Alzheimer message boards. Sounds like a woman. But can’t be sure. Cares for an 85-year-old mom. Watching. Watching. Watching. The steady decline. Indeed, that takes a toll on care-givers. Words she uses. To describe her feelings. They include:  Heartbreaking. Stressful. Anger. Fear. Frustration. Anxiety.  So here’s my advice.

I’d start. By asking myself. Why am I stressed? And do I need to be so stressed? I’d try to put life in perspective. In positive ways. First, that maybe mom has been blessed. To have lived to 85, and counting. Albeit, recent years haven’t been as good mentally as the first 80. But there are trade-offs in life. Perils come with old age. But maybe that’s better than dying young or in middle age. Personally, I’d accept that price. I’m 78, and counting. My father died at age 38. Mother lived ‘til 88. But had to endure some ravages of old age. But still, I’d prefer her course. Rather than dad’s.  Furthermore, it was nice (for me) having her around. For a relatively long, long time. She was mostly in love with life. Dad wasn’t. He committed suicide. But I learned acceptance. And learned, too, to fall in love. In many ways. With two true loves. Imagine that. Two true loves. In a single lifetime. My wife died after 38 years of marriage. Of Alzheimer’s. But now I have an Italian true love. I live with her in Sardinia (a Mediterranean island paradise) in the winter. She comes to me, in summertime, in Minnesota. When we aren’t together in the flesh, we still connect. On Skype. And in spirit.  Life is good.  Little wonder. I’m in love. With life. I’m imagining living forever. In the spiritual realm. Because I want to. Of course, I could become stressed. Over the rigors of life. I could opt out. At any time. Like my dad. Instead, I choose to be happy. To savor it all. To even find solace during down periods. Life and love. They come with prices attached. I’m willing to pay. For the pleasure of living. What about you? Is it time to count your blessings? –Jim Broede

A precious moment alone.

Imagine that. At the moment, some 7 billion people inhabit planet Earth. But I cultivate close relationships with – well, maybe 20. That’s all. My limited world of friends. My inner circle. I  more or less go about ignoring the other 7 billion. I isolate myself. Like now. I’m alone. In my cocoon. Writing. Thoughts. Such as this. And it feels good. Living in isolation. Separate from the rest of the world. Gotta admit. It’s my favorite time. Because I’m unencumbered.  Really, a moment to treasure. Being alone. In solitude. –Jim Broede

Language won't be a barrier.

I wouldn’t mind being a Russian. And living in Russia. Of course, this is pure speculation. Because I’ve never been to Russia.  But I’ve read a lot about Russia. And I’ve spoken to Russians. Mostly here in America. I’d have difficulty in Russia. Because I don’t speak Russian.  That would be a handicap. But if by an act of magic, I could speak Russian, I’d go to Russia. For an extended stay. It would be fascinating, I’m sure. The world would be a much better place. If we all spoke the same universal language. In the spiritual realm, however, there must be a universal language. Not a spoken word. Instead, spirits read each other’s minds. Therefore, I’ll  have no difficulty communicating. With Russian spirits. Language won’t be a barrier. –Jim Broede

An imaginative particle of dust.

Today. Now. I’m imagining being a microscopic particle of dust. Lost in a cosmos. Vast and sprawling. Almost beyond description. Composed of billions and billions of galaxies. Of which. I reside in one. The Milky Way. My galaxy. So big that it would take 50,000 years. Traveling at the speed of light (186,000 miles per second). To cross. Makes me feel lost. And insignificant. Though I can dream. Of some day becoming a grain of sand. Relatively immense.  Compared to a mere speck of dust. But still. I’m aware. Alive and conscious. And able to fall in love. With this thing called life. How can that be?  I yearn. To explore. All of creation. I want more than a few seconds. Give me forever. Eternity. Please. Even if it be. Only as an imaginative particle of dust. –Jim Broede

Two dogs...and a man. Walking.

I can’t resist. Taking other people’s dogs for walks. Dogs that need to be walked. But aren’t. Because their owners keep them confined. To tiny yards. Two Siberian Huskies. Live such lives. Instead of getting out. To pull sleds. They were born. To pull. To exert themselves.  But Polly and Stinky hardly ever venture out. Beyond their tiny yards.  Therefore, I have offered to come to their rescue. And take them for walks. The owner says I might be sorry. Because they pull, pull, pull so hard. Mistaking me for a sled. To be pulled across the frozen tundra. But I tell the owner. I’ll give it a try. I’ll take that chance.  One dog at a time. I’ll find a way. For the sake of Polly and Stinky. For my salvation, too. It hurts me. When a dog isn’t treated like a dog. Hey. Dogs want to be dogs. Let them be dogs.  Yes, Polly and Stinky. When you are on the leash. Pull. Pull. Pull me to your heart’s content. We’ll manage. One way or another. Living life. The way it’s supposed to be lived. Naturally. Pulling. Pulling. For each other. Happily. Joyfully. Being our true selves. Two dogs…and a man. Walking. Walking. Walking together.  –Jim Broede

Please, no protection.

A good editor would protect me from myself. Here in my blog. But I don’t want to be protected. I’d rather be me. Imperfect. And a fool. Of course, I’m not always a fool. Only a part-time fool. Hard to tell. When I am. And when I’m not. It’s a fine line. If I feared becoming a fool, I’d hide away. And never go naked into the world. As a writer, I make plenty of mistakes. In the way I put things. I’m evolving. Trying to become more comfortable with myself. Bad editors make me uncomfortable. They stifle creativity. I’ve had good editors and bad editors. But never a perfect editor. Which means I have to protect myself, to some degree, from every editor. Especially those who would try to protect me from myself. Maybe I need protection. But still, I don’t want it. –Jim Broede

A lesson. In humility.

I have a price to pay. For being a selfish Chicago Cubs fan. The creator wants none of my selfishness. For desperately wanting the Cubs to win. Every game. To rout the opposition. To disgrace other teams. All for my personal satisfaction. Yes, that would make for many sad fans of the other baseball teams. Therefore, the creator has decided to give me my come-uppance. Aggravating defeat after aggravating defeat. Heartbreaking losses.  Season after season after season. No matter how much I beg. For a championship. It will be denied. Forever.  To teach me a lesson. In humility. –Jim Broede

The work of a loving creator.

Look at it this way. If you buy into my theory of everlasting life. For everyone. Good or bad. Well, then tragedies aren’t so tragic. All those South Korean high school students that perished when a ferry boat capsized. They are really survivors.  In another dimension. In a spirit realm. Still very much alive and conscious. Except most of you don’t believe it. Even some of the most devoutly religious. Yes, admit it. You have serious doubts about an afterlife. That maybe it’s merely wishful myth. I’m not religious. And I believe it. Because I’m spiritual. I hear Christians bemoan the death of many good young people. Long before their prime. They wonder how the creator could allow that to happen. The simple explanation. The creator designed creation for continuing and ever-lasting life. For everyone. Moving from one passage to another. Automatically. No conditions attached. Indeed, the work of a loving creator. –Jim Broede

I tell her, women age faster.

I like to matriculate with 90-year-olds. Yes, the older the better. Makes me feel young. Teenagers make me feel old. But smarter. That’s a nice trade-off.  My wife was nine years older than me. No problem with that. Made me feel good. And younger. My Italian true love is younger. But I tell her, with a fiendish smirk, that she’s really older. When counting in woman years. That women age faster than men.   –Jim Broede

Everything I wanted to be.

Maybe I’m wrong. About the nature of life. My assumption. That I will live forever. In one form or another. If I’m wrong, so be it. Doesn’t matter. Because I’ll never know. I will have come. And gone. In the blink of an eye. A snap of the fingers. But I will have been. A dreamer. A lover. And more. Everything I wanted to be. –Jim Broede

In the image of the grand creator.

I refuse to grow old. I refuse to submit to the wear and tear of time. I believe in an afterlife. In continuous aliveness and consciousness. I do not fear tomorrow.  The future. In an everlasting now. I accept ups and downs in the life cycle.  Alternating sadness and happiness.  The end of physical existence, too. But not an ultimate end. Rather a new beginning. In a spiritual realm.  And even something more profound and dramatic. Beyond the spiritual. Always. Always. Another horizon. To explore. More proof. That all conscious life was created in the image of the grand creator. –Jim Broede

Today...and tomorrow, too.

Proceed with caution. Danger ahead. That’s a sign I’m supposed to heed. Or so I’m told. Because I’m no longer young. At 78. That’s considered old. Maybe I have another 10 years. If I’m lucky. Yes, there’s peril ahead. If I think about it. Used to be. I could assume. Maybe another 30, 40 or 50 years ahead. And know there’s a good chance. Of course, no guarantees. That’s the nature of physical life. People tell me. Act my age. Don’t know what that really means. Don’t want to be that kind of actor. Rather be. Who I am. A romantic idealist.  A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. A writer. A world traveler. Right up to the end. There’s no stopping me. I’ll continue to walk 10 miles a day. Or bike 30 miles. I’ll defy the odds. And live forever. Certainly. As a spirit. My mind is set. Don’t tell me I’m too old. Because I have today…and tomorrow, too. –Jim Broede

All it takes. To make one's day.

The ability to make something. Meaningful. Out of nothing. Merely by using one’s imagination. That’s a gift. A blessing. Maybe that’s the essence…or the secret…of the good life.  Makes one a creator. Yes, a god, of sorts. Life ain’t hum-drum. That’s for sure. I try to give free rein. To imagination. A trivial event. Suddenly becomes profound. Awe-inspiring.  A sound. A smile. A sunset. That’s all it takes. To make one’s day. –Jim Broede

Slowly. Slowly. Losing my faith.

Doesn’t matter whether the Chicago Cubs win or lose.  Because it’s only a baseball game. Not a life-or-death situation. That’s what I keep telling myself. As if I really believe. That it doesn’t matter. Unfortunately, it does matter. Deep down. In my psyche. In my heart of hearts. I’m a Cubs fan. Addicted. To my baseball team. Used to be that it mattered very, very, very, very much. Now it matters only a single very much. A sign of progress. In my quest to become a recovering Cubaholic. It should be easier. Because the Cubs have become a pitiful baseball team. Pathetic. Downright inept. A disgrace. Oh, still somewhat loveable losers. But less loveable than before. I’m trying hard. To convince myself. To no longer love the Cubs. May take a while yet. But I’m working on it. Mightily. Cubs fans deserve better. Don’t they? Enough is enough. Shouldn’t allow losing to matter any more. Yes, learn acceptance. The Cubs will always be losers. That’s their fate. Sadly, I’m losing, too. My longtime faith. In the Cubs. Ever winning a World Series again.  Better to get on with the rest of life. –Jim Broede

Into harmony. With all of creation.

No. No. I’m really soft-hearted. Not hard-hearted. Because. I have qualms of conscience.  Every time I’m hard on someone. Oh, I try to pretend. That it’s tough love.  But I’m not so sure  there’s such a thing. Maybe all love has to be soft. Gentle, too.  Soothing.  Tender.  The concept of love. Fascinates me. I’ve become an explorer. In the world of love. Paradise. That’s where love abounds. In spiritual form. Imagine a non-physical love. A difficult concept for some physical beings. One has to be elevated. Into another dimension. To a lofty, idyllic plateau. So much more meaningful and satisfying than physical love.  A spiritual orgasm. Peaceful. Tranquil. Brings one into harmony. With all of creation. –Jim Broede

Savoring it all.

Maybe I am hard-hearted. When I try to console the heartsick. Because. In a way. I tell them to get over it. Relatively quickly. To get on with life. In happy and joyful ways. That can be cruel. After all, they have a right to grieve. For as long as they want.  But still, I aggravate.  Especially the devout. The deeply religious. They’ve just lost a loved one. I know what it’s like. I’ve lost the dearest, sweetest woman. My wife for almost four decades. But here’s the difference. I’m not religious. Instead, I’m spiritual. I believe in a creator. I believe in an afterlife. For everyone. Good and bad people alike. One doesn’t have to pass a religious test. In order to be saved. Life just happens to be on-going. In spiritual form. Deeply religious people are supposed to believe that, too.  But I’m not so sure that they all do. Some have serious doubts. So they lament. The loss. They are fearful. That there’s no afterlife. Nothing. They find it difficult to imagine a loved one in a spiritual paradise.  Thriving in another dimension. But that’s exactly what I encourage them to do. Imagine. Imagine. Imagine beyond the slightest doubt. Be happy. Be joyful. Get on with life. Savoring it all. –Jim Broede

So many reminders. To be thankful.

John McCain. Bless his soul. But thank gawd. That he never got to the White House.  President McCain. Indeed, a scary thought. He’s out to protect America. From the perceived enemy. By armed conflict. He’d bomb Iran. He’d send in troops to confront Russia in Ukraine. He’d occupy Afghanistan forever. All in the name of Mighty America. Fearsome America. The world’s Standard Bearer. McCain, the super American patriot. Self-proclaimed staunch defender of the greatest nation on Earth.  Guess that makes me unpatriotic. I’d do none of that stuff. Can’t even imagine picking Sarah Palin as my running mate.  So many, many  reminders. To be thankful. That John McCain never became president. –Jim Broede

Another random thought.

I’ve made 6,720  postings. Since ‘Broodings’ debuted. Almost 7 years ago.  A reflection. A pondering. A comment.  I rarely miss a day. Maybe 20 in all. When I haven’t posted. Perhaps I was traveling.  Out of touch. No access to a computer. Then there’s the rare day. When I have nothing to say. Better to just let life flow. Naturally.  Going  naked. Into the world. Nothing to hide.  Especially when it comes to thoughts.   That’s the way life should be. Full of bare-naked thoughts.  Imaginative stuff. Venturing. Beyond the horizons. To discover. For curiosity sake. My dearest friends. They know me. To varying degrees. Strangers, too. Know things significant. Sharing. Sharing ourselves. Maybe that's the best part of life. The camaraderie. Yes, just another random thought. --Jim Broede

The grandest of designs.

I believe in a creator. And I believe in a spiritual dimension. Which we all have access to. Even so-called non-believers. I prefer being spiritual. Rather than religious. There’s a difference. I’m leery of organized religions. I’m independent. A free-thinker. On my way to becoming a free spirit. I believe in an afterlife. In a non-physical spiritual realm. It’s a natural progression. For everyone. No prerequisites. Doesn’t matter whether you are ‘good’ or ‘bad’ or a believer or non-believer. Life is a continuous, ever-lasting flow.  Yes, designed by a truly loving creator. This allows all of us to get it right. Eventually. One couldn’t ask for a better grand design. --Jim Broede

An insult...and a diabolical smirk.

Ted Cruz. The Harvard-educated U.S. senator from Texas. He’s a rare bird. One of the very, very few people that I would label an ass. Meant in a crude and vulgar way. But hey, a rose is a rose is a rose. And an ass is an ass is an ass. Therefore, Ted Cruz is Ted Cruz is Ted Cruz.  A genuine, unmitigated ass.  I might qualify, too. For calling anyone an ass. I’m pointing three fingers back at myself. Cruz is a very hateful human being. Yes, granted. He’s human. And there are all sorts of humans. The most hateful, the most spiteful being represented by Ted Cruz.  Amazes me that he was duly elected to the Senate. But then, Texans are Texans are Texans. Better than calling Texans the lowest insult of all.  Anyway, I’ve heard Ted Cruz hurl insult after insult after insult at his perceived politically progressive enemies. So here’s to you, Ted Cruz. My heartfelt insult. You pompous ass. Delivered with a diabolical smirk.  –Jim Broede

A lofty dream vs. a mere wish.

Wishful thinking. I practice it. Maybe in the wrong way. Always to benefit me.  Even when a wish benefits others. Still, it benefits me. In round-about ways. Maybe that’s why some of my wishes don’t come true. They are totally selfish wishes. I’m trying to avoid wishing. To see what happens. Maybe that’s a devious way. To get my wishes.  By fooling the wish granter. If there is such a being. I suspect there is. Oh, not necessarily the creator.  But one of his assistants. Or a lieutenant. Or a crony. Often I disguise my wishes as dreams. A wonderful dream for this and that. Achieving a lofty dream seems more worthy than obtaining a mere wish. –Jim Broede

My consolation.

This is typical. To be expected. My Chicago Cubs go into New York. To play the New York Yankees. And I’m imagining. The Cubs sweeping a doubleheader. Moving their record to 6-8. Instead, reality sets in. The Cubs lose both games by scores of 3-0 and 2-0. Yes, the Cubs don’t score so much as a single run. In 18 innings of baseball. Don’t even come close to scoring. All I want. Is a consolation run. A Cubs player touching home plate. But the baseball gods deny me. Even a token comfort. As a Cubs fan, I accept losing. Though I dream of the Cubs winning. Reaching .500 some day. Even this year. I don’t wanna wait until next year. I want now. No, not a division title. Or a World Series championship. Just a team that wins as many games as it loses. I’ll settle for mediocrity.   And consider it stunning success. A gift from Nirvana. But Cubs fans are denied. Even a few crumbs. We were born to be starved. Never to taste cake. We watch others feast. The 162-game baseball season is only three weeks old. Reality has already set in. The Cubs record is 4-10. Imagine that. Only six games below .500.  The only remaining question. Can the Cubs avoid losing 100 games?  I’ve altered my dream.  I’ve set the new goal. If the Cubs finish 63-99. That will be a blessing. My consolation. Reason to be grateful. –Jim Broede

Accepting the dark side of life.

I wonder.  About the darker side of life. Maybe it ain’t so bad. After the sun sets. The tranquility of night. A flickering candle. Romance. Dinner. A sip of wine.  Falling asleep. By the Mediterranean seaside. Waking. Before dawn. To the soothing sound of rolling surf. Moonlight. Glistening off the water. Yes. Yes. Accepting the dark side of life. Easiest thing in the world. –Jim Broede

Come rain or shine. Or snow.

No. No. This can’t be, I tell myself. I finally mutter. Yes. Yes. I have to accept the fact. I live in Minnesota. And it snowed. Overnight. In mid-April. The temperature has barely nudged 40. All week. Freezes overnight. My lake. Still a solid cake of ice. Of course, I shouldn’t complain. After all, I’ve spent four of the past five winters in the Mediterranean island paradise. Yes, balmy Sardinia. With my Italian true love. But this winter, she came to visit me for a few weeks. And I decided to endure. A true winter. A tough hombre. I.  Forgot. Winter is slow to leave.  Winter hangs on. Into spring.  Maybe even into summer.  I’ve learned my lesson. Looking forward. To next winter. Going where I belong. With my true love.  In paradise.  No sense. In making the same mistake two winters in a row.  But really. I’m not distraught. I’m joyful. Happy almost all the time. Because.  Truth be told. I’m in love. With life. Come rain or shine. Or snow. –Jim Broede

Please, Julie, take care of yourself.

Taking care of one’s self. That’s essential. Especially for care-givers. My friend Julie. She doesn’t always take the best care of herself. Because she puts others first and foremost. Including her dementia-riddled father. He’s in a nursing home. Julie castigated herself the other day. For taking a nap. Yes, fell asleep. For two hours. And felt guilty about it. Says she should have been tending to her father instead. No. No. No, I tell Julie. You should be tending to yourself.  If you become overly tired. Exhausted. That ain’t good. Makes you a less-effective care-giver. For others. Maybe even incompetent. You may even do your dad more harm than good. By showing up beleaguered and bedraggled. If you want to be at your best for others – well, then take care of yourself. Too many care-givers don’t do that. They end up needing more care than their patients.  Some literally work themselves to death. Yes, they become the first to die. Makes no sense. If Julie dies or becomes incapacitated before her aged father. That’ll be a sad and unnecessary tragedy.  Julie would have been better off. By taking proper care of herself. First and foremost. Then everyone would have benefited. Including Julie. And her beloved father. Julie. Julie, I plead. Please. Please. Take care of yourself.  –Jim Broede

On being not-so-nice.

I really should be nicer. Than I am. Don’t know what possesses me. But sometimes, I don’t act very nice. It’s as if the devil made me do certain not-so-nice things. Though I’m skeptical. That there’s a devil. Maybe it’s one of my many strange impulses. To test the bounds. By being not-so-nice. Especially to mean-spirited people.  To Republicans. To racists. To scalawags. So difficult. Getting through life.  By being fair and nice to everyone.  An impossibility. But I do find that niceness is contagious. Nice people tend to make me more nice. –Jim Broede

The last name I'd want for myself.

I tend to be leery of anonymous people. Makes me wonder. Why they don’t identify themselves. I’m proud to let people know who I am. Right off the bat. I have a name. When I write to someone, I sign my name. And I have no hesitancy handing out my calling card.  With a clear identity. Romantic idealist. Spiritual free-thinker. Political liberal. Lover. Dreamer. Writer. Instantly. You have an idea. Who and what I am. You learn that I have little, if anything, to hide.  I’m not afraid of people knowing too much. And generally, I want them to reciprocate. Tell me something significant about themselves. Their name, too. So very many people that post on the Internet have the same name. Anonymous.  That’s the last name I’d want for myself. –Jim Broede

Going with the natural (sleep) flow.

I highly recommend getting up in the middle of the night. After a few hours of sleep. For the sole purpose of thinking. That’s when my mind is most clear. It’s least clear just before I go to bed. Especially after a busy day. Used to be that I wanted to sleep through the night. Uninterrupted. Because I had to go to work in the morning. But since retiring, I’m more flexible. With my sleep patterns. I can get up at 3 in the morning. And go back to bed at 6. And sleep until I’m well-rested. Don’t have to hurry. Instead, I go with the natural flow. –Jim Broede

A way to practice forgiveness.

I’d hate to live with a perfect being. That would be a pain in the butt. I like imperfections. Especially in my friends.  The imperfections. Make them unique. My devoutly religious friends tell me that the creator is perfect. But I don’t buy that. I’ve always been hostile to the notion of the perfect creator. I know better. The creator makes mistakes. But I forgive him. That also allows me to make mistakes. If the creator  can blunder – well, then I have the same right.  That way we both can practice forgiveness. Acceptance, too. –Jim Broede

Good for the soul.

Sometimes I don’t want to be accommodating. Instead, I refuse to please others. Maybe that’s selfish. But so be it. Thing is. Doing others favors can do more harm than good. Even for friends. Occasionally, I have to make a decision. To enable or to not enable. A favor isn’t always a favor. Anyway, I’ve discovered something. Don’t always mind being selfish. Catering to my own whims. Rather than others. I have to be true to myself. Even my bad self. Though I look at being self-indulgent as not necessarily bad. After all, I deserve to treat myself like royalty. Occasionally. It’s good for the soul.  Really. –Jim Broede

A simple solution.

I decided to start counting the things a friend tells me she has to do. Already the list is at 101, and counting. No way can she get everything done today or next week or next month or next year. So, here’s the big question: What’s she gonna do about it?  Well, a good start is to recognize that she won’t get everything done. Tackle only the absolutely necessary stuff. Put off everything else until another day. And meanwhile, don’t fret about what doesn’t get done. Instead, get on with life. Unburdened. And happy. Sounds like a simple solution, doesn’t it? –Jim Broede

Cause for elation.

I have a losing mentality. That is, when it comes to baseball. Because I’m a lifelong Chicago Cubs fan. Losing, and adjusting to it, has become a solemn ritual. I find ways to find positive aspects. To losing. For instance, the Cubs have played four three-game series so far this season. They’ve lost all four. But have yet to get swept. They’ve consistently managed to salvage one game in each series. Which means that they have 4 wins and only 8 losses so far. Things could be worse. They could be 0-12. Which always is a possibility. For the Cubs. A few years ago, they opened the season 0-14. Anyway, there’s another bright spot. If I remember correctly, five of the Cubs losses this spring have been by one-run margins.  Close enough for the Cubs to have won. With a little bit of luck. And more baseball savvy, of course. Going back to last season, the Cubs have lost nine straight series. If and when the Cubs finally win a series, diehard Cubs fans such as me go into a celebratory dance. Often mistaken for a disease called St. Vitus  Dance.  Meanwhile, Cubs fans take notice. Of  other things. That another team in our division, the rival Milwaukee Brewers, just won their ninth straight game. An incredible feat. The Cubs have yet to win two games in a row. And may not. For the rest of the season. But for Cubs fans, winning even one game.  Occasionally. That’s cause for elation. –Jim Broede

Imagine this.

My imagination. Maybe that’s my most precious possession. Or attribute. Or talent. Or blessing. Don’t know what to call it. Other than I don’t ever want to surrender it. I prize my imagination. As much as my soul. I’d fight to the death to keep my imagination. Gives me a sense of freedom. The ability to go anywhere. To reach lofty plateaus.  To think anything. Even achieving the impossible. Gives me strength. In mind. In spirit. Makes me feel alive. And happy. I am what I am. Largely because of my imagination.  A romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. A writer. Without an imagination, I wouldn’t be any of these. True life. True meaning. Almost everything. Stems from my imagination. –Jim Broede

What if life was ever-lasting?

An afterlife, it seems to me, comes with no religious overtones. It just is. One doesn’t have to believe in god/creator.  No prerequisites. One automatically moves from physical to a non-physical (spirit) existence.  Doesn’t matter whether you are St. Theresa or Hitler. Good or bad. The life flow continues. One might argue that Hitler should pay a penalty for his crimes. But put in the perspective of continuing flow of life for everyone,  Hitler really didn’t take away life. The six million Jews still exist. And thrive. In the spiritual realm.  Maybe a reason for them to forgive Hitler. Yes, Yes. Yes, I know this is an odd way to look at life. But think about it. What if all human life is on-going?  Never ends. I really wasn’t murdered. Because I continue to live. Granted, in another dimension. But I still exist. Able to get on with life. With a totally new perspective. –Jim Broede

Faster than the speed of light.

I believe in an afterlife. Because it’s imaginable. Anything that can be imagined is possible. That’s my theory. I can even imagine walking on water. We humans have been blessed with imagination. That knows no limits. For a purpose. So that we know what can be achieved. Even the seemingly impossible. My beloved cats Loverboy and Chenuska can’t do that. Or so I assume. Because they lack imagination. Imagine landing men on the moon. Fantastic stuff. Once upon a time, that was merely imagination. But now it’s become real. More than a dream. More than a figment of imagination. Real. Real. Real. Some day being able to travel faster than the speed of light. It will happen. Because the human mind can imagine it. As for afterlife, I can imagine conscious existence after death. As a spirit. As a non-physical being. Maybe that’s how I end up zipping 1,000 times faster than the speed of light. –Jim Broede

The benefits of foreign education.

Every two months, I open my New York Times, and find a special 8-page section. Called ‘Russia Beyond the Headlines.’ It’s a paid advertising supplement. Written by Russians. In the English language, of course. I always read it. From beginning to end. Partly out of curiosity. But also because it gives me a Russian perspective. Yes, about Russia beyond the headlines. I’m willing to listen to virtually anyone. Even to lunatic fringe Republicans. In an effort to learn about what makes ‘em tick. You know what? I find that these Russians make far more sense than lunatic Republicans. Another thing. When I’m living with my Italian true love, in Sardinia, I discover that oftentimes Italians have a better grasp. On truly meaningful living. Than do many of my American compatriots. Same goes for the Germans, the French, the Brits.  I’m fascinated.  By so-called foreigners. They broaden my horizons. They make me a better and wiser and more fair-minded and decent human being. –Jim Broede

Disheartening, isn't it?

I lived in the old Jim Crow South for three years. In the 1960s. In Florida. In the cities of Lakeland and Vero Beach.  When it was the accepted way to deny blacks their basic civil and human rights. It was a gawdawful time. Even for a white guy like me. Because I never was part of the White Establishment. Of course, it could have been far worse. For me. If I had been black. In physical appearance, I could still pass for White Establishment. If I kept my mouth shut. Even closed-mouthed blacks didn’t have a chance. I’m not so sure about how much the South has changed since then. Despite the enactment of the Civil Rights Act 50 years ago under Lyndon Johnson.  The once heavily Democratic South has become the heavily Republican South. Primarily, to preserve the old ways. A more subtle form of Jim Crow. To keep the White Establishment in control. More or less. In fact, the Republican’s so-called Southern Strategy has spread. North. To states controlled by Republican-dominated legislatures. Where elections are being designed (rigged) to discourage turnout of anything but White Establishment voters. By making it more difficult to vote. In devious and even open ways. Severely limiting voting hours. By requiring voter picture IDs. By reducing the number of polls. By creating gerrymandered districts. On and on it goes.  Just like in the old days of the Jim Crow South. Only now, it’s spread. Across the nation. I marvel. At the audacity of it all. Jim Crow lives. When Jim Crow really should have been dead. Long, long ago. Rather disheartening, isn’t it? –Jim Broede

On treating the mean meanly.

I rub some people the wrong way. Abrasively. Fact is, I want to. They deserve to be antagonized.  Because they are stupid. And mean-spirited. Time for them to get a taste of their own medicine. Oh, I’ll forgive stupid people. But not the mean-spirited ones.  Amazes me. The number of nasty spirits that abound on Planet Earth. Tune in on Congress. There they are. In every nook and cranny. Mean-spirited politicians.Oh, not everyone. There are exceptions. A kindly spirit. Here and there. Anyway, I draw a line. No longer tolerating mean spirits. Treat them as scum. No sense in being nice. Might as well treat the mean meanly. –Jim Broede

Imagine. Life without bounds.

Aging ain’t all that bad. As long as dementia doesn’t set in. My consciousness keeps expanding. Because I have more words. With which to express myself.  Makes me more aware. Better able to communicate. Not only with others. But more importantly, with myself. When I was 16, I lacked the vocabulary that I now possess. Used to be, when I muttered thoughts, the right words eluded me. Still do. But not as often. Furthermore, I’ve learned not to waste words. To think and write in shorter sentences.  That leads to good results. Namely, a more meaningful life. When I was 16, it was difficult grasping the concept of love.  Can’t say that I fully grasp it now. But I’m better at it. In some ways, I don’t recognize the being I was at 16.  Almost a totally different person. If I lived another 100 years, or better yet, forever, I’d probably keep evolving. And not recognize who I am now. I’d be far more conscious. Far more aware.  Able to sit at the right hand of the creator. And carry on an intelligent conversation. Imagine that. Life without bounds. –Jim Broede

Happily. I only have now.

Thinking about happiness tonight.  Generally speaking, I’m happy. Because I’m not constantly wishing for more. I’m satisfied with now. I’m alive and conscious…and feeling well. And I’m capable of cultivating a loving relationship. I can be with my Italian true love. And alone, too. But I have the ability and wherewithal to connect with my true love. At any time. Merely by just thinking of her. Like now. And sending her a loving  thought or two. Add it all up. And it comes to the good life. Of course, life comes to an end. Sooner or later. But I can pretend that it doesn’t.  And that’s good enough to keep me happy. For now. And that’s all I ever have. Now. Now. Now. The past is gone. And the future never arrives. I only have now. –Jim Broede

Some politicians know no shame.

Take something that’s good. Bad mouth it. Over and over. Eventually some people will start to believe. That good is bad. Just because they’ve been told so. A hundred times. Yes, bad mouthing is an effective political tool. People can be swayed. To accept a lie as truth. They’ve been told many, many times that the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare) is bad.  That it should be repealed. Because it’s bad, bad, bad. A sacrilege to the American way. Yes, people are easily duped. By political sound bites. Full of misinformation. Outright lies. Unfortunately, one sees bad mouthing used in many political campaigns. Republicans and conservatives are adept at it. They attempt to bad mouth Obamacare to death. But this time it ain’t gonna work.  Obamacare will survive. And thrive. Because most of us will see the truth. And the malicious deception. But some will still believe the bad-mouthed stuff.  That Obama is a Muslim. A communist, too. That he wasn’t even born in the USA.  Bad mouth. Bad mouth. Bad mouth. Some of the atrocious lies will stick. It’s immoral. It’s deceitful. It’s obscene. But still, it’s a basic tool of American-style politics. Some politicians know no shame. –Jim Broede

I know the enemy.

Difficult for me to give American conservative politicians the benefit of the doubt. I don’t trust any of ‘em. I suspect they are a deceitful, lying bunch. Ready to sell their souls. In order to meet their objectives. When I look deep down, underneath.  I see racists. The worst side of the American fabric. Of course, this makes me judgmental.  And there’s always the possibility that I may be wrong.  But hey, that’s the way I see it. Right or wrong. Doesn’t surprise me that they are clustered in the Republican Party. And that many of ‘em hail from  the tier of Southern states. From the old Confederacy. Boils down to this: My greatest fear/concern isn’t a foreign or terroristic threat to America. Instead, it’s the threat from within. A takeover by the lunatic fringe conservatives.  Because they know how to cheat. And to manipulate the system. And they have big money behind them. From the Koch brothers and other billionaires. Give the Republicans credit. They have become experts at rigging the system. By gerrymandering congressional districts. By putting up legislative roadblocks to voter turnout. By stacking the Supreme Court with conservative ideologues.  An endless array of political maneuvers. Meanwhile, liberal/progressive politicians are too kind. Too meek. They too often turn the other cheek.  They are too trusting. But hey, that’s not me. I know the enemy. I wish more Americans did. –Jim Broede

A masterpiece.

I’m a good judge. Of a beautiful woman. But I don’t know what constitutes a handsome man. Maybe that makes me a sexist. I have no hesitancy calling certain women beautiful. But I’m incapable of singling out a handsome man.  My Italian true love. She’s the most beautiful woman in the world. That doesn’t rule out other women being very beautiful and charming. But she leads the pack. I get my sustenance. Every day. When I either see her in the flesh. Or on Skype. I call her my vision of loveliness.  My daily treat. True and genuine beauty runs deep. It certainly does in her. So deep that I’m able to discover something more beautiful. Every time I look. It’s as if she’s a work of art. A masterpiece. –Jim Broede

She's a president I could love.

Look out, Hillary Clinton. You have a rival. That is, if you plan on seeking the Democratic nomination for president. In 2016. Personally, I’d like to see another candidate drafted. Another woman. Not you, Hillary. Instead, I’m rooting for Elizabeth Warren, the U.S. senator from Massachusetts. I’m sort of in love with Warren. For many, many reasons. Mostly because she’s an unabashed liberal. Politically. Economically. Socially. A humble college professor, too. She’s smart. Savvy. Willing to take on the big boys in the political arena. With passion. With verve. With conviction. She speaks her mind. In articulate ways. I like her looks. She has a beauty that emanates from inside. That makes her a divine woman. Little wonder. She’s a president I could love. –Jim Broede

Despite Alzheimer's.

I talk to my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron. In a soothing voice.  While sitting next to him.  On a park bench. On a  sunny spring day. A gentle breeze. Feels like a caress.  I’m describing the scene. In  my own words. Helping. Helping. Helping Ron to see what I see. And feel.  ‘Isn’t it wonderful? To be here. To savor the moment. So peaceful. So quiet.’ I ramble on. Peace and tranquility on Ron’s face.  He’s absorbing it all. Grasping the moment. Won’t remember later. But that’s all right. Bliss comes. And goes. Ron doesn’t have to remember.  That he experienced pleasant and real life. What if? When one dies. There’s nothing. No memory. As if one never lived. But still, maybe life was worth the journey. To have felt joy. Contentment, too. A brief forever. In the now. That counts for something, doesn't it? I resume my monologue. Trying to reach Ron. With good vibes. Good thoughts. ‘Can you hear the music? Is that a symphony orchestra? Listen. Listen. Listen. Maybe that’s the Ode to Joy.’  I wonder. Ron has an imagination, doesn’t he? A pretend world. Sure enough. Ron smiles. Lifts his hands. As if directing an orchestra.  Ron won’t remember that either. But Ron lived today.  He’s still mindful enough. To be reached. Despite Alzheimer's. –Jim Broede

In a state of confusion. That's me.

I tend to be accepting  of Russian ways. Putin ways, in a manner. Because I’m an American. And I’ve decided to take a less than holier-than-thou approach to life. Which, I admit, is rather un-American.  Most Americans, especially politicians, are very, very judgmental of other people. Other nationalities. Americans often think of themselves as superior. Therefore, they can dictate the ways of the world. The Russians are alleged to have violated international law. For the incursion into Crimea. And maybe soon into the rest of Ukraine. Naughty. Naughty. Naughty Russia. Naughty Putin. The Russians must pay an economic price. With sanctions. And being ostracized by the rest of the western world. Namely, the American European allies. We Americans divide the world into good guys and bad guys. And we are the very, very good ones. Doesn’t matter that we have made obscene and immoral incursions of our own. Into Iraq. And Afghanistan. And our long, long history is filled with examples of denial of basic human rights to all sorts of people. . Even in our country. We eradicated the native Americans. Committed genocide. We enslaved black people. And really never set them free. Even after the Civil War. We have denied women equal rights and equal pay.  The most powerful rich Americans often are self-righteous and pompous asses. Ready to take non-Americans to task. For being too much like Americans. Bullies and autocrats. The politically elite and most powerful rich Americans even detest our own middle class. They claim the poor deserve to be poor. And the rich, of course, deserve to become ever-richer. And if you don’t agree with that premise, you don’t deserve to be an American. So, I’m concluding, that maybe it’s better for me to be a Russian. Or at least a Russian sympathizer. Another possibility. As long as I have a revered Italian true love, and live with her much of the time, maybe I’d be better off becoming an Italian. I’m beginning to feel more at home in Italy. And I have a yearning to visit Russia. I’d love to shake the hand of Vladimer Putin. Maybe all this makes me a confused American. Which may be the equivalent of a true American. Oh, well. For now, I’ll just try being true to my confusing self. –Jim Broede

Call me Bilingual Jim.

I’ve become  bilingual. Yes, mastering a second language. No, it’s not Italian or French or German. Something far better. It’s come to me naturally. A very useful language. Called Gibberish. Don’t believe the dictionary. Which defines Gibberish as an unintelligible or meaningless language. Not true. My Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron speaks fluent Gibberish. And I respond in Gibberish. A wonderful dialogue. We truly communicate. In meaningful ways. In Gibberish. It helps. When we are looking into each others' eyes. The tonal quality, too. Conveys emotional content to our words. Gibberish can be very expressive.  When used properly. A true universal language. I keep practicing Gibberish. With Ron’s many dementia comrades. Believe me. I’m fast-becoming fluent. In Gibberish. The language has come naturally. Maybe in a previous life. I must have lived in a land where Gibberish was the native tongue. Come to think of it, Gibberish could well have been the first language ever spoken. The original language of mankind. The creator’s language. Anyway, I’m on a mission. To master a third language.  Yes, the primary language of my Italian true love. Right now, Italian sounds very much like Gibberish. A good sign. Hey, if I can master Gibberish, there’s no limit. Italian, Czech. Swahili.  I’ll master them all. –Jim Broede