Wednesday, December 31, 2014

The right thing. For him.

I understand. Why some people don't love life. They'd rather be dead. Because there's so much pain and disillusionment in their lives.  Some of 'em commit suicide. Can't necessarily say that I blame them.   I'm thankful. That I'm not in their position.  But I understand. My father was one of them. And I concede. Perhaps he did the right thing. For him. --Jim Broede 

Taking loving care.

I try to set a good example. For others. By not neglecting myself.   Helps to be a lover. And a dreamer, too.  That makes life very bearable.  No better way to pursue happiness. Than by being a lover. Which means taking care of myself. So that I'll be around to take care of my precious loved ones. Don't want them to have to live without me. Or me, without them. Guess it's a mutual thing. Best for all. If we take loving care of each other. --Jim Broede

Russian air ain't bad.

Brrrr!!! It's cold tonight. By Sardinian standards. In the 30s Fahrenheit. Or about 2 degrees Celsius.  Cold enough to snow, I suppose. Though that's unlikely. The last time we had snow here in the city of Carbonia was in 1985. Just a dusting. And it's still being talked about. Indeed, a memorable occasion. The last snow before that was in 1956. Of course, all this near-freezing stuff doesn't faze me. Being a Minnesotan. This would be a balmy night. Anyway, a cold front has moved in. From Russia, of all places. I'm used to a cold blast from Canada. But hey, this Russian air ain't bad. Nice and fresh. And it had plenty of opportunity to moderate on its way down. Through Europe.  In a few days, we expect a warming trend. With south winds. Coming in from Africa. --Jim Broede

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

On 'friendly' messages.

Some of my best friends. Aren't immune. From being ignored. For periods of time.  When they annoy me. I won't put up. With being badgered. Pushed to do something I don't want to do. Yes, I guard my independence. I can be pushed. Only so far. I respect my friends' independence. But they also have to respect mine.  And if they don't. I'm capable of getting riled.  But I don't write-off friends. Better to keep a distance. For a few hours, days or weeks. Long enough for them to get the message. --Jim Broede

The good (dictionaries) die young.

My longtime favorite dictionary. It's dearly departed. Buried recently. In the trash barrel. And hauled away.  Sorry. I did not hold a funeral service. I just let it go. To extinction. Because the dictionary had become frayed. It was literally falling apart. Maybe I should have shown more reverence. Embalmed the dictionary. Like Lenin. And put it under glass.  But I'm the kind of guy. That tells myself. The dictionary lived a useful life. Helped expand my vocabulary. Made me more literate. But it was time. For a new, updated dictionary. One that most likely will outlive me. Funny thing though. I know people who are very protective of their dictionaries. They hardly ever use it. For fear that the pages will become frayed. They want their dictionaries to look new. Even at a ripe old age.  I say, let the dictionary age fast. The good dictionaries die young. --Jim Broede

Mellow. That's what I want to be.

Maybe the word is mellow. That's what I am trying to be. My Cambridge dictionary defines the word. Pleasingly smooth, soft or developed, not too sharp, bright, new or rough. Mellow flavor. Mellow sounds. Mellow evening. Sunlight. A mellow stone facade.  That's what I want to be. Mellow.  Mellow. Mellow. --Jim Broede

Monday, December 29, 2014

So life would be worth living.

When in love, one wants to live forever.  Because it feels so good. To be alive. The saddest thing would be to die. When one is in love. If a loved one dies, it's still possible to remain in love. With the spirit. With memories. That should be good enough. If it's true love. No need to grieve. Because there's still love to latch onto. I wonder. If the inventor of love invented love so that life would be worth living. --Jim Broede

Let it be: Nothing.

Trying to live a very passive and quiet day. Without gettting excited or aroused about anything. Just to see if I can do it. And maybe even string several of these days together. To see how long I can do it. My aim: To achieve the ultimate in tranquility.  Calm. Cool. Collected. Don't know if I've ever reached such a state before. Completely relaxed. For a relatively long, long time. No stress. Of course, a certain amount of stress is good. But I keep wondering. What it would be like living with virtually no stress. For weeks. For months. Would it drive me crazy?  Because I'm addicted to stress. And to exercise. To daily workouts.  I need to write every day, too. And I'm doing that now. Without feeling stressed. Or hurried. Or badgered. Or obligated. But I'm not sure about all the physical exercise. Now that I'm nearing 80. I'm telling myself: Slow down. It's all right to be lazy. Sit. On a park bench. In the sunshine.  Read a book. Consider doing absolutely nothing. Whatever that means. Anyway, there's no reason to waste time defining nothing. Let it be: Nothing. --Jim Broede

Sunday, December 28, 2014

Everything becomes my love affair.

I love love affairs. So much so. That I have a love affair every day.  With my true love. And with life itself. No end to my love affairs. With Mother Nature. With the sunshine. With the clouds that bring rain.   With the mere thought of love. With the taste of ambrosia and nectar.  With the scent of a rose. With the caress from a sea breeze.  With the quiet of night. With the wonder of the vast cosmos.  Everything. Everything becomes my love affair. --Jim Broede

The notion of life.

I suspect.  That many of us. Including me.  Journey through life. Without knowing who and what we are. Maybe that's our mission. To discover. But we never grasp it all. Because we are complex beings. Evolving. In a state of flux. Maybe when death comes. It's not an ending. Only another phase.  A continuation. A life without end. For some, a scary thought. Depends. On whether one loves or hates. The notion of life. --Jim Broede

Saturday, December 27, 2014

Does love just happen?

I wonder if it's possible to fall in love. With life. Even in the worst of times. How does one fall in love? Tell me, is it easy? Or difficult? Or is there no particular way? Does love just happen? --Jim

On drawing the line.

Thing is. I too often connote bad and good. Based on how something affects me. Personally. And that may be the wrong way to reach an objective and proper conclusion. Good if it benefits me. When really it may be bad for the common good.  So tell me, what is the proper/right way to determine bad (perhaps evil) and good. Guess I'm suggesting that many politicians are evil. Because they oppose the common good. In favor, instead, of an individual's good. Isn't that selfish? And perhaps corrupt and evil? Hard to say where one should rightly draw the line, isn't it? --Jim Broede

Thank goodness.

I like to think about things. Anything.  But preferably good things. Positive things. Stuff that makes me happy. But even if I think about bad things. Negative stuff. It's still helpful. Because inevitably that leads me to good thoughts. About the many wonders of life. I acknowledge the existence of good and bad/evil. That's helpful. Because I need comparisons. Contrasting realities. To make me better aware and appreciative of good. In that sense, evil serves a positive purpose. Helps me grasp the meaning of life. The world. And life itself. Are full of choices. One can be programmed. Like a robot. To make certain choices. Automatically. Or one can think. And ponder. And muse. About right and wrong.  Often, there's no clear distinction. Right for me, may be wrong for another. Depends. On many circumstances. And situations. Little wonder that it can be extremely difficult differentiating between good and evil. Often I see good springing/sprouting/spiraling from what can be easily perceived as a bad and sad and tragic event. Such as the deaths of my maternal grandparents. In their 20s and 30s. If that hadn't happened, it would not have set in motion a series of events that led to me being born. I became the recipient of life. Because of the early deaths of others. Thank goodness. For me. --Jim Broede

Friday, December 26, 2014

Don't worry. Be happy.

Too often, I worry about things. Stuff that I shouldn't worry about. All my life, I've been trying to worry less and less.  Because it rarely does any good. To worry. Most of the time, it wasn't worth the effort.  Because I had no power to change the course of events. Certain things happen. Whether I worry about it, or not.   I know worry warts. People who worry virtually all the time. Some have worried themselves to death. The cause may have been listed as heart attack. But really, it was constant worry. I'm not in the clear yet. Probably never will be. But I'm far more focused on being happy. Than worrying about things that might make me sad. --Jim Broede

Hurrah for Jerry Brown.

I love it. California Gov. Jerry Brown's decision to appoint two laymen to his state's Supreme Court. They have no judicial experience. It's customary to appoint experienced judges. Because that's tradition. The way it's alway been done.  But seems to me that one doesn't need judicial experience or temperament to make good decisions. I want objective and intelligent people making the supreme decisions. That doesn't require a judicial background. Too many judges are politicians. Disguised in judicial robes. They're partisan and closed-minded. More like trained seals. Than empathetic, fair-minded human beings. --Jim Broede

With the spirits. With my soul.

Too often. I see people mismanaging Christmas. Trying to do too much. Too much obligatory social stuff. Instead of finding solitude.  Better to take a walk. Alone. Or with a loved one. Along a seashore. Or into the woods.  Maybe at night. To see the stars. In the vast cosmos. Wondering. Wondering. Feeling the good vibes. Emanating from the distance.  I avoid the throngs. Even close family. On Christmas.  Afterall, I've already taken care of my social requirements.  Many times over. On days that aren't Christmas. I've paid my social debt. Now it's Christmas. Time to commune. With the spirits. With my soul. --Jim Broede

Thursday, December 25, 2014

Another reason. To be in love.

A nice way to spend Christmas. Walking along the Mediterranean Sea at Portoscuso. On the west shore of Sardinia. Another one of the good ideas from my Italian true love. The scent of sea air. And the feel of warm and soothing sand. A breeze. Cool for Sardinians.  Wonderfully mild and caressing for me.  Puffy clouds. But sun breaking through, too.  Afternoon arrival. We stayed until sunset. Another reason. To be in love. With life. --Jim Broede

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Can one care too much?

It's nice to  be caring. But I wonder if one can care too much.  Certainly, caring can be an emotional drain. Theoretically, one can have too many loved ones.  Requiring a great deal of loving, and caring. Personally, I truly care about only a limited number of friends and acquaintances. Because if I cared intimately about everyone, I'd go crazy. Couldn't handle it all.  Therefore, I allow myself not to care about everyone. Only a  select few.  That's the nature of life. I'm aware of human tragedy.  Occurring all over the world. On a daily basis. But I turn it on and off. Pretty much at will. Best not to be too close to certain situations and certain people.  To distance one's self. To more or less ignore stuff. I suspect that  people in certain walks of life  are in danger of caring too much. Doctors and clergymen, for instance. I'd avoid those professions.  Lovers, too, can be emotionally overwhelmed. By caring for an Alzheimer-riddled loved one. --Jim Broede

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

My love affair with Sardinia.

I'm sitting in Piazza Matteotti.  In the heart of my adopted city Carbonia. In Sardinia. Outside UniCredit Banca di Roma. Waiting for my Italian true love. To complete complicated paperwork. Which will qualify her for an Italian government subsidy/rebate. To help pay for her just completed kitchen remodeling. Maybe up to half of the cost. In increments. Over the next 10 years. Believe me. Seeing will be believing. Because it's a procedure that must wind through the intricate Italian government bureaucracy. I'm not sure it's worth the time and effort.  To qualify. But my true love seems willing to jump through all the hoops.  For which I give her credit. For perseverence, gumption and faith. Anyway, she's coming out of this with a marvelous modern kitchen, Italian-style.  She's happy with the kitchen. And that's what counts most. Happiness. And I'm happy, too, because she's happy. Happiness is contagious here. Happy, too, that I'm in Piazza Matteotti. Named after a famous Italian socialist of the 1930s. Which is nice. Because I like leftist political gurus. Happens that Carbonia's main street, Via Gramsci, also is named after a leftist from the 1930s. Antonio Gramsci, a communist. Carbonia and Sardinia have a rich leftist history. Even today, communists get elected to the City Council. Carbonia is a relatively new city. Founded in 1938. As a model corporate town. For the purpose of mining coal.  Initially, 12,000 miners were brought in. Fortunately, the coal mines have been closed. For decades.  But not forgotten. There's a museum. Commemorating the mining. One can still tour the deep mines.  As I have. And my daily walks around town often take me to the sprawling mining property. Where I see the machinery and artifacts left over from the mining days. Of course, mining has a sad history. Many miners having died from black lung disease. Indeed, mining is still a perilous industry in many parts of the world. Including the U.S. Mining is a little safer than it used to be. But still, there are better and safer ways to make a living. And better for the environment, too. If one turns to other cleaner forms of energy. Not the least being solar and wind.
Some Sardinians wish that the coal mines were still open. If for no other reason than the jobs.  The economy is bad. And unemployment rates  have soared in recent years. Ever since Alcoa, the American aluminum manufacturer, closed its plant outside of Carbonia. That meant the loss of thousands of jobs. Hard to say what the future holds. For Carbonia and Sardinia.  But there ìs talk of revving up the tourist industry. With big hotels. And with focus on the wonderful Mediterranean seaside. Sardinia has 1,200 miles of coastline. Ranging from jagged cliffs to easily accesible sandy beaches. And a mild climate to boot. I stay here in the wintertime. Off and on. For four years now. And I have yet to see snow or a freezing temperature. On the coolest days, I need no more than a sweater. And if it gets too warm, I can sit in the shade beneath a palm tree or an umbrella pine. All this gives me an understanding. Of why Sardinians love Sardinia. Despite the economic problems. Still feels like paradise. --Jim Broede


Monday, December 22, 2014

To be with her. Alone.

We are going to spend the Christmas holiday alone. My Italian true love and I.  Without the usual family social obligations. I can't think of a better way to spend a holiday.  Exclusively with my true love. Just the two of us. Too many holidays are ruined.  Especially Christmas. By going through rituals.  Obligatory stuff. I much prefer solitude. With my most precious loved one. Perhaps staying at home. But if she wishes to go to church, I will go, too. To be with her.  Alone. --Jim Broede

A right to know everything.

I trained myself. Even when still in elemenatry school. To think of all business being public business. l was in favor of sunshine laws. Forever, it seems. Meetings should be open. Certainly, all public government meetings. And I even tried to force my way into private meetings. Based on the premise that the public has a right to know. Virtually everything. Of course, that got me into trouble. Because certain people think that government  operates better under a cloak of secrecy. And my preoccupation, when I was a writer for newspapers, was to unearth the secret stuff.  Even if it jeopardized so-called national security. Really, security is more threatened by secrecy than by openness.  People have a right to know everything. --Jim Broede

Emotional pleasure.

Sometimes I don't know what to write about. But still, that doesn't stop me from sitting down at my desk. And writing. Anything that comes to mind.  Like right now. Guess it's just that I have a sense of obligation. To write, write, write.  It's a nice pastime. Maybe even more enjoyable than walking. When I walk, it's more a physical pleasure. Though there's also mental pleasure. But when I write, it's mostly mental pleasure. That's what I'm seeking most in life. A combination of mental and physical pleasure. Combined, it adds up to emotional pleasure. --Jim Broede

My love preference.

Life is good. Of course, bad things happen. But still, life is good. In that one can find happiness. Despite world turmoil.  And personal pitfalls. Yes, I know, not everyone finds happiness. For very long, that is. I suspect they find short-term happiness. Happy moments. Maybe that makes it worth having lived. Even the disadvantaged fall in love. Maybe that's the greatest source of happiness.  So many things to love. Especially other people. But one can also love lesser things. Such as money. But I prefer my Italian true love. --Jim Broede

In my vivid imagination.

I don't particularly relish the thought of growing old. I'd rather stay relativey young and vigorous and mentally with it. Forever. Meanwhile, my philosophy is to savor every day. In my present state of being. Which is nice. Even if I'm having a bad day. Because I still feel good. Physically and mentally. Of course, I always wish to feel this way. Not so sure that I wish for physical life to last forever. Rather that it be as a bodyless spirit. With the ability to feel alive and conscious.  And in love, and able to move about in any part of the cosmos.  That's my concept of the ideal life. The way it would be designed if I were the creator. In a sense, that's what I am now. In my vivid imagination.  --Jim Broede

Sunday, December 21, 2014

A romantic way to go.

Maybe I would choose to die before my time. If, let's say, I had Alzheimer's. And it was getting progressively worse. If I still had the capability to think rationally. And to love. I might wish for a fatal heart attack. While in the arms of my beloved. That sounds like a good and decent and romantic way to go.  --Jim Broede

The slow-paced Italian way.

When I go walking. From 1 to 4 p.m. I have a great deal of privacy. I encounter hardly anyone. Because my  city of Carbonia (in Italian Sardinia) pretty much shuts down. Businesses close for three hours in the afternoon.  For a long lunch/respite break. They reopen around 4. And close for the night around 8 or 9.  Restaurants and pizza parlors may stay open longer. It's another indication of the laid-back life. In Sardinia and the rest of Italy. Unlike America. It's rare for Italian stores to stay open 24 hours. Italians want time off. It's a slower paced, more leisurely lifestyle. Which I heartily endorse.  I have no trouble adapting to the Italian way. --Jim Broede

Saturday, December 20, 2014

The cure. With rare exception.

Physical aches and pains. They have to be worked out. With old-fashioned exercise. Ninety percent of the time, that's better than rest. That's been my discovery. During a lifetime of a daily exercise regimen. If my leg has a cramp, I keep walking. Until it goes away. I operate under the principle of no pain, no gain. Same goes for a bout of tendonitis. Or neck stiffness.  Or a sore shoulder or back. Or a painful joint. Motion. Movement. That's the cure.  With rare exception. --Jim Broede

No more Mr. Nice Guy.

Hurrah for Obama. He's found his nerve. His gut. He's doing what he should have done long ago. Taking presidential action. On matters that he can control. Immigration reform. Global warming. The economy.  America is starting to look like a rose garden  again. A decent country after all. If Republicans choose to roll back Obama's initiatives, they'll pay a price. In the 2016 elections.  Because Obama is doing the popular and right things. Despite Republican opposition. Finally, Obama is saying, to hell with the conservative Republicans. Let's get things done the right and decent and progressive way. No more Mr. Nice Guy when it comes to dealing with the intransigent Republicans. --Jim Broede

Friday, December 19, 2014

An inherent desire.

The best way to die. I've been thinking about it. If I had a choice. I want my cause of death to be officially listed as old age. Which means that an exact cause was difficult to ascertain. Not really worth an autopsy to find a specific medical reason. Anyway, that probably would mean that I had an opportunity for a full life. Might have wasted it. But still, I was given a fair chance to make something of it. I'm in no hurry to reach the infirmities of old age. I'm no spring chicken. But I'm still agile. Thinking conscious thoughts. Funny. And serious. And I'm still walking 10 miles a day. And I'm trying to live as a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a writer, a lover, a dreamer. In no particular order of priority.  I'm in pursuit of 'em all. Mostly motivated by an inherent desire to be a lover.  --Jim Broede

Thursday, December 18, 2014

For the sake of despoiling.

Despoiling for the sake of despoiling. Happens all the time. Making a place less attractive. Especially by taking things away from it. By force.  Many of the graves had been despoiled. Industrial waste is despoiling the environment. Here in Sardinia. And all over Italy. I see monuments and statutes and walls  and kiosks. Despoiled by senseless graffiti.  Graffiti reaching almost everywhere. Granted, some walls have artistic graffiti. But that's the exception. Maybe I shouldn't even call it graffiti. More like wall art. But most of the stuff is horrid. To be done away with. Instead, it mostly remains. Because it's too expensive to clean up. Though the city of Carbonia, where I'm living this winter, made a token effort yesterday. Sending out a crew to remove graffiti from a city historical kiosk. With a steady blast of a chemical spray. It worked. Effectively. But don't bet that the graffiti won't occur again. On the same kiosk. After all, the world is full of despoilers. People that despoil merely for the sake of despoiling. --Jim Broede

People in dire need.

A black man, speaking Italian, approached me today. Here in Sardinia. I asked him if he wouldn't rather speak English. Without first inquiring whether he knew the language. Chances are overwhelming that if he's black and in Italy, he speaks the queen's English.  Which he learned in Africa. Probably in Nigeria or Ghana. And that he's a refugee/immigrant.  Anyway, Chris John Elboghomben gave me a big smile. As English flowed off his tongue. He's a street vendor, selling knick-knacks. A beggar, too. Trying to survive. Trying to raise enough money for food. And for his 200-euro-a-month room rent. In Sardinia's capitol city, Cagliari. Indeed, it's a tough life. But a better option than staying in his native Nigeria.  Fourteen months ago, Chris John boarded a ship in Libya. Taking him to Sicily. Then on to Sardinia. Where the economy is bad. Even for Italians. Earlier in the day, I spotted an elderly woman. Wearing a babushka. Sitting on the sidewalk. On my city's main street. Begging for alms. I asked if she knew English. So I could learn more. No she doesn't. But her presence spoke loud and clear. People in dire need. Everywhere. Look around. --Jim Broede

On being unfair to the unfair.

How we relate to other people. I think about it. Often. And I observe, too. That convinces me. That there's lots of racial bias. By whites. Toward non-whites. As for the reasons. That's hard for me to figure out. Maybe it's that people have been brought up to be biased. It seems to be so natural. To be biased toward people that don't look like us. Simply because they are another color. Many whites think of themselves as superior. And blacks as inferior.  Meanwhile, I think of biased whites as inferior.  And unbiased whites as fair and open-minded.  I'd like to be more fair and open-minded. Even to bigots. But then, maybe that's going too far. In my attempt at being fair. Sometimes, it's all right to be unfair. To certain people. Especially those that are being grossly unfair. --Jim Broede

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Reason to stay for a long while.

Going for my daily walks. In Sardinia. They're always special.  I like it. When I'm stopped by someone. And asked. In Italian. For directions. Maybe that means I look like an Italian. But I can't fake it. They soon learn. That I'm a foreigner.  The other night. I passed two middle-aged women. Toting baggage. Heading home, I assumed. From a trip. Already a mile from the train station.  I turned around. Asked them. In English. If I could help them carry their stuff.  I gave a lifting motion. To demonstrate what I meant. They got the message. And thanked me. But no. They were already near home. Hope I left a good impression. As a helpful and gentlemanly Americano. Every day, I walk down via Gramsci, the town's main drag. Now lined with white-tented booths. Hawking merchandise. Including crafts. Much of it with Christmas motifs. Expensive German-made vacuum cleaners included. My amore mio is in the market for a new vacuum cleaner. She has an old Hoover. Which needs an overhaul. And I'm thinking about buying her a new one. For Christmas. But these fancy German ones cost about 800 euros. Equivalent to Cadillac cars. I'm Mr. Cheapo. I checked it out. I can get an easy-to-use upright vacuum for less than 100 euros. That's good enough. In America, I can go to Wal-Mart and buy a neat vacuum for $60. I told that to the three Italian salesmen. One of which spoke decent English. He became my captive audience.  For a few minutes. I was the salesman. Tried to sell them on the merits of going cheap. They also learned a lot about Minnesota. And the charm of living in a climate of blustery snow and cold. They know, too, that I'm appreciative of Sardinia. For it's balmy winter weather.  And for delightful natives. Next, I ambled down to the fresh produce booth. Bought a kilo of tomatoes and a kilo of mandarin oranges. All homegrown. Cost less than 3 Euros. I would have paid more in America.  Really, the cost of living here ain't bad.  Another fine reason to stay for a long while.  --Jim Broede 

No longer a stranger.

I'm used to listening to chatter. In Italian. From the workmen remodeling our kitchen.  In Sardinia. So when Fabio, the electrician, spoke a few words in English, he gained my rapt attention. 'You speak English,' I said. He replied, 'Yes, a little bit.' To me, a little bit is a whole lot.  Fabio and I became engaged. In conversational English. 'You speak good English,' I said.  Really good. Without an Italian accent. Fabio complained. That he had little opportunity to practice. Though he said that his wife speaks even better English. I tell Italians that I'm a lazy Americano.  Because I learn Italian very slowly. Partly because my dear Italian amore mio speaks  English. With a beautiful and sensuous accent.  Anyway, Fabio made my day. Because he's braver than I. He speaks English. More and better than I speak Italian. Made me feel a bit ashamed. Deservedly so.  Sometimes, I suspect that my amore mio thinks it's just as well that I don't speak much Italian. Because I rarely shut up. Except when it comes to speaking Italian. I have such a limited vocabulary. If I spoke fluent Italian, I'd say too much. About personal stuff. Because that's my way. I do that to draw out people. Even strangers. I'm curious. And want to know significant and personal stuff about virtually everyone. I told Fabio about my amore mio, and how we met and fell in love.  She would just as soon that I not disclose the personal to virtual strangers. But hey, Fabio is no longer a stranger. Because he's an English-speaking Italian.  More than just a little bit. --Jim Broede

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

The happy state of loving.

Vittorio is grieving. Rather than loving. Which means, he isn't taking very good care of himself. Grievers usually don't. Lovers do. Vittorio has lost 30 pounds. Lamenting. Since the death of Claudia, his wife and true love. At least she was. While still alive. Vittorio has to become a full-fledged lover again. It should be a continuing love. Of dear Claudia. Death should not be cause to stop loving one's beloved. Unconditionally. Love should be forever. Even if Vittorio some day goes on to a second true love.  There still should be a love connection to the first love. To Claudia. Vittorio should ask himself. What would Claudia want him to do? With the rest of his life. I suspect it's to be a lover. Forever. To love life. To take good care of himself. And to pick up the love vibes. From Claudia's vibrant love spirit.  As a lover, she wants Vittorio to thrive. By staying in love.   And he won't do that by staying in the painful state of grieving.  Better to be in the happy/pleasant state of loving. --Jim Broede

Evrerything is a treasure.

It's a dark and rainy day. In Sardinia. But still. I have my sunshine. My Italian true love. She helps me feel alive and conscious. So do other people. Strangers. I see them. Teeming with radiant life.  All I need do. Is go for a walk.  With an umbrella, of course.  I am capturing. Precious moments. Even the darkness. The rain.  All of creation. Everything is a treasure. --Jim Broede 

Committed. To finding a way.

Vittorio is sad. Has been. For a long time. I understand why. His dear wife Claudia. Died. A little  over a year ago. Breast cancer. She was in her 40s. Wish I could talk to Vittorio. To buoy his spirits.  But he doesn't speak much English.  About as much as I speak his language. Italian. So there's a language barrier. Which I regret.  Wish I were multi-lingual.  But that won't happen. So I have to find a way around it. Alas, I know how. I have an Italian true love. She can serve as translator. Putting my words into Italian. And putting Vittorio's words into English. My true love is a dream come true. In so many ways. Yes, I know. It would be better. If I learned Italian. So I could speak for myself. Without a go-between. But that won't happen. Takes too long to master another tongue. To become fluent. Maybe if I had started young. It would be a different story. A better result. Therefore, the next best thing is to be practical.  Anyway, my true love knew Claudia.  She was a friend. Turns out, we're having our kitchen remodeled. Here in Sardinia. And one of the workmen happens to be Vittorio.  A skilled bricklayer/mason. I asked Vittorio today. In broken Italian. If he's happy. No, he isn't. He made that clear.  That's a beginning. I want to understand. Vittorio.  I want a dialogue. I have the skills. The words. To help people become happy again.  Now I must get meaningful words. To Vittorio. I'm committed. To finding a way.  --Jim Broede

Maybe I'm a mere fake.

My Chicago Bears are in a funk. They are a bad football team.  That happens. There are good teams. And bad teams. Mediocre teams, too. The Bears are bad. Dysfunctional. Oh, they've won five games. And lost nine. Maybe some fans would call that adequate. But for most Bears fans, that's considered very bad.  Because the team lacks lustre. Lacks get up and go. Lacks desire. It's as if the players don't care. About winning or losing.  Of course, that could be considered good. Because the players may think there are more important things in life. Than winning or losing. I'm a Bears fan. But I've learned to accept losing. Doesn't bother me all that much. Maybe it gets a little annoying. But I get on with life. Precisely because there are more important things.  Wonder if that makes me a true Bears fan. Maybe I'm a mere fake. --Jim Broede

Monday, December 15, 2014

The wonders of life and love.

If offered a choice. Between two weeks in Rome or two weeks in a little Italian Alps village of Sutrio. I'd not hesitate for a second. Give me Sutrio. That's my nature. I like idyllic places. Off the beaten track.  You can have the tourist traps. And the splendid architecture. I like the quiet and subdued and scenic environs. A place to relax. In unhurried fashion.  A walk in the woods. Or along a babbling brook. And opportunity to mix with the locales. To learn their ways. Often crafts handed down from generation to generation. And they like where they are. With no desire for big city life. They might not even have television or radio. Living relatively isolated from the rest of the world.  When I made my first trip to Italy seven years ago. To formally meet my soon-to-be Italian true love, we both arrived on the same day. In Venice. And then we traveled. To the North. Into the Alps. For week-long stays at Marlengo and Sutrio.  We've become world travelers. Together. But more often than not, we seek out the places that few people have discovered. We'd rather be the early discoverers. Before the blemishes. So nice. To know that there are so many paradises. Remaining to be discovered.  Not only on the outside. But within our own souls.  The wonders of life and love never cease.  --Jim Broede

A reward. After it's all over.

Alzheimer care-givers. After it's all over. You'll need rejuvenation. A reward. A vacation break.  And I highly recommend several weeks in Sardinia.  No need to traipse all over Italy. Instead, focus on this island in the Mediterranean Sea. Some 120 miles west of the Italian boot. Better to locate in one place. And take little day trips or a weekend excursion. You'll get a nice feel for Sardinia. Better that than spreading yourself too thin.  Relax. Enjoy the food. And the 1,200 miles of coastline. Much of it  jagged rocks and cliffs. But hundreds of miles of sandy beaches, too. And crystal clear water. I'm here now. And most every winter. Living with my Italian true love. Mid-December, and the weather seems akin to the North Shore of Lake Superior. In mid-summer. Anyway, all of you deserve a reward   After it's all over. --Jim Broede

Living and acting. Like Italians.

Maybe once or twice. In all my time in Italy. Have I passed a vehicle on the highways. And then, I suspect, it was only a pokey foreign driver. Not an Italian. Italians don't believe in speed limits. They are fast and furious. On the road, that is. Which goes contrary to the stereotypical Italian image. Italians are usually portrayed as laid-back. Slow. Methodical. In no hurry to get things done.  They even close up shop. From 1 to 4 in the afternoon. Virtually everything shuts down.  Imagine that happening in America. Won't happen. Because Americans try to stay busy. Twenty-four hours a day.  Making money, money and more money. No time for a break. But on the road, Italians are a different species. They always seem to be in a hurry. And aggressive. They sneak in. Ahead of each other. Trying for a two-second advantage at every turn. I pretty much stay 10 miles over the speed limit. Knowing I can get away with it. But Italians zoom at double and triple over the limit.  At little risk of being arrested. The caribineri have better things to do. Than to curb speeders. After all, they're all Italians.  Living and acting. Like Italians. --Jim Broede

Nothing wrong with Paradise.

Ah, Sardinians. When you are being criticized, you are being praised. Critics don't know it. But they are heaping plaudits on your Sardinian island mentality.  An Australian exchange student, on the Internet, meant to be critical, when he wrote:

'Everything they do is crazy patriotic for this island. They speak Italian but they make a point of speaking Sardinian even if it's just the words 'aju' (come on) and 'eja' (yes) to the point where I've barely heard anyone at school respond to a question with 'si'. They pride themselves on being themselves, they choose to go to Cagliari or Sassari, the two big universities.  The equivalent of the Southern Cross tattoo, either the 4 moor (their admittedly bad-assed flag) or a nuraghe (ancient towers), at least one of these will be on everyone who has a tattoo. They talk up 'la sardita' (sardinian-ness) so much that often they forget they are a part of Italy...Until Italy does something well like win a big soccer match. They all aspire to serve their (expletive) island. And that's it! First question they ask me, every time: 'Oh, sei australiano? Ma ti piace la Sardegna? E bella, no? (Oh, you're Australian? Do you like Sardinia? It's really beautiful, isn't it?) They are all (expletive) obsessed with their traditions, their dancing, this one event called the sartoglia...Like obsessed. Which is okay. But at every public festical, political rally all there will be is a group of traditional Sardinian dancers because that's what works. None of them want to leave the island. For them the whole world is Sardinia. And even when they go travel around Barcelona, Luxemburg, London, wherever else...They always say Sardinia is better...All that is okay I guess. I mean it's their home and they are proud to be part of a group of people with such strong traditions. Yet all the Sardinian people I've met who've gone on exchange have had their horizons expanded or something. Literally, every single one of them has said something along the line of 'I have to (expletive) escape this island.' If that's not indicative of some deeper problems I don't know what is.'

Now that sums up exactly what I like about Sardinians. They are being themselves. Please pardon them for that. After all, that's an attribute. It's all right to feel a bit superior. I'm an Americano. Which is nice, too. But I wouldn't mind being an honorary Sardinian.  I like the island. Especially it's 1,200 miles of Mediterranean coastline. I like Sardinian ways. I'm comfortable in Sardinia. In the wintertime, even more comfortable than I am in Minnesota.  My Italian true love. She's really a lifelong Sardinian.  Anyway, if told that I could never leave Sardinia, I'd adjust. Quite well. Nothing wrong with living in Paradise. --Jim Broede

Sunday, December 14, 2014

For a purpose. Not yet known.

My life is a journey. With so many twists and turns.  Makes me wonder. If I'm being guided. With gentle shoves. This way. Or that way. Or if there's a natural flow.  Maybe at times. I resisted. Went upstream. Against the flow. Deviated off course. Maybe never to get back on the original course again. Or maybe I find my intended way again. With divine guidance. Never imagined I'd end up in Sardinia. Or other spots I've landed in. Scotland. Iceland. Kashofen, the little village in Germany. Home of my paternal ancestors. I suspect. I'm being drawn/summoned by spirits. For a purpose.  Not yet known. --Jim Broede

A double blessing. I deserve it.

What is love? Ain't an easy question to answer. I've been pondering the difference. Between loving and grieving. Generally, I think of grieving as painful. And love as pleasant. I've had two true loves in my lifetime. One has died. But when I think of dear sweet Jeanne, it's never painful. Always pleasant. Even the bad times. When Jeanne had Alzheimer's, and was dying. I remember only the pleasant stuff. The romps in a wheelchair. Face to face contact. An unexpected smile.  Oh, so many fond memories.  Yes, I grieved for a while. That was painful.  But there's no more pain. Because I'm thinking of Jeanne in loving ways.  She's still very much alive. In spirit. Helps me get on. With the rest of my life.  As lover. Not a griever. Nothing wrong with having two true loves in one's life. A double blessing. I deserve it. --Jim Broede 

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Lovers merely keep on loving.

I call myself a lover. Because I am. Having two true loves in my life. Which is an incredible feat. One died. Almost eight years ago. Yes, my dear sweet Jeanne. My wife. For 38 years. We are still connected. Spiritually.  A second true love entered my life. Seven years ago. An Italian. She's with me. Very much. In the physical realm. Perhaps at the behest of Jeanne. From the spirit domain. She's watching out over and after me.  Seeing that I'm happy. In very loving ways. Right here on Mother Earth. I am happy. Because I am a lover. I practice love. Daily. A genuine love. For life. For someone dear and precious. That is my sustenance.  The very stuff that makes me a lover. A romantic idealist, too. I know a handful of true lovers. They aren't exactly like me. Heaven forbid. Thankfully, they are being themselves. Unique and true lovers. In their own ways.  We lovers don't grieve. We merely keep on loving. --Jim Broede

Enmeshed in soulful creation.

I am very much alive. And with it. At an Italian open air market.  On a mild and sunny Saturday morning. In my city. Carbonia. On the island of Sardinia. In the Mediterranean Sea. No other place I'd rather be. Than weaving through the narrow lanes of the open market. Sniffing and gazing. At the fresh produce. Cheeses and olives. Fresh fish, too. A wonderland. True paradise. I have bought a thick loaf of bread. Hand-sliced. And doughnuts. Some creme-filled. I bump into people. Italians. Italians. Italians everywhere.   I hear the sounds of voices. Melodic.  Words. That sound like sweet music.  Yes, I am alive. Conscious. Enmeshed in soulful creation.  --Jim Broede

Always armed. With another query.

Questions. Questions. I'm always asking questions. Seeking answers. So many questions go unanswered. Makes me wonder. If always. There will be far more questions. Than answers. Maybe that's good. Desirable. To go through life without all the answers. Then one must proceed on faith.  Or is it ignorance? I'm inclined to find a temporary or tentative answer. To everything. Following my instincts. In what seems like a natural flow of life.  Fearlessly. Always armed. With another question. --Jim Broede

Friday, December 12, 2014

Is it so?

Several friends. Have been devastated. Over the years. By the loss of loved ones. And they've had trouble getting over it. Almost as if they are in a perpetual state of grief. I'm tempted to pose a question. Do they still  revere and love the sanctity of life? To the point of getting on with life. Joyfully.  Seems to me that life is the ultimate blessing. To be alive and conscious. And able to pursue happiness. Despite the setbacks/losses. Occasional or otherwise.  Makes me wonder. If there's so much to life -- that even when a dearly loved one dies, there's still something sacred to savor.  Perhaps a spiritual connection. That makes life wonderful and fulfilling. Tell me, dear grieving friends, is it so? --Jim Broede

Truth be told. I'm stupido.

I encourage my Italian true love to become an elite translator.  To never hesitate. When I'm with her. And the conversation happens to be in Italian. To take advantage of every pause. To translate. For me. The gist of the conversation.   So that I can participate. Even in the most routine and mundane Italian gabfests. By adding my two euros worth. That is, if she thinks it's worthy. I trust her. In being my voice. Really, it's probably a good way to learn Italian. By picking up words. In meaningful ways. When it comes to learning a language, I claim being lazy.  Better that. Than admit the truth. That I'm stupido. The Italian for stupid.  --Jim Broede

A good sign.

I take and revere Italy. Any way I can get it. Even without speaking much Italian. Wish I could master the language. As well as I speak and write English. But that won't happen. Not at my ripe age. Maybe if I were younger.  Yes, I find excuses. And blame too much on age. But still, I walk 10 miles. Daily. And I write. Daily. And I travel.  Cavort, too. While flitting back and forth. Between Minnesota and Sardinia. Sometimes, I settle for observing life. But mostly, I participate. It's a little like talking and listening.  One must strive for a delicate balance. Fortunately, I have a bilingual Italian true love. A very good confidante -- and translator.  Where I'm weak, she's strong.  Helps, too. That where she's weak, I'm strong.  We balance each other. That makes for a good relationship. I'm an American. But I'm feeling like an Italian. That's a good sign. --Jim Broede

Give it time.

My neighbors. Rick and Julie. Back in Minnesota. Are starting to learn to live. Focused primarily on each other. For a change. It hasn't been that way. For a long time. Six years or more. Because they've cared for Julie's Alzheimer-riddled parents. In their home. Julie's mother died. Almost two years ago. But her father Ron still lives. In a very good five-bed residential care center.  He gets lots of daily one-on-one stimulation. Mentally and physically. Which means Rick and Julie can get away. For extended vacations. Two weeks. Maybe more. Without having to worry about Ron. Though Julie will continue to worry. To some degree. But still, it's a good sign. That she's willing to travel. To focus. On what's been neglected. For far too long. Neglect of one's self. And one's other vital relationships. That's always a danger. For Alzheimer care-givers. Rick and Julie are even talking about coming to Sardinia. To paradise. For well-deserved respite.  Yes, care-givers, another sign. That life gets better. Give it time. --Jim Broede 

Takes three to hug a palm tree.

Palm trees.  Here in Sardinia. And all over the South of Italy. I adore them. But the palm trees have been devastated. In recent years. By a beetle. Tens of thousands of palms lost. But there's hope. Of saving trees. With special treatments.  Where I reside. In the city of Carbonia. The sick trees have been trimmed. And treated. Given haircuts, so to speak. The fronds trimmed. All the way to the trunk. And new growth has sprouted. Palm trees aren't native to Italy. They've been imported. Initially by rich landowners. For their palatial estates.  Carbonia's main street, Via Gramsci, is lined with the stately palms. Some 40 feet tall.  Planted when the city was founded in the 1930s.  Takes three people with linked arms to wrap around and hug the most magnificent trees. --Jim Broede

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Free of organized religion.

I have faith. Not in religion. But in life. In the spirit. There's a big difference. I'd much rather be spiritual than religious.  The spirit elevates. Makes one soar. Religion is too restrictive.  Too heavy. Too many rules. Not enough freedom.  With the spirit, there are no shackles. One is free. That is what I want to be. A truly free spirit. Free of organized religion.   --Jim Broede

In words, pictures and graffiti.

More and more, the bad graffiti in italy is becoming covered by good graffiti. Genuinely artistic stuff. I see it on walls. In my little city, Carbonia. In Sardinia. The scribbled slurs. Have been replaced. By colorful and imaginative artwork. Including tributes. To soulful musicians. Such as James Brown. A wall that I walk past every day, has a likeness of Brown and a saxaphone player.  Of course, there's still too much bad graffiti. Which now appears for the first time  on the city's kiosks. Telling the story of Carbonia's rich history in Italian and English and pictures.  And graffiti. --Jim Broede

A place of beauty, Italian-style.

Kitchen remodeling, Italian-style. It means complete destruction of the old kitchen. The walls. The floor. Everything comes crumbling down. One starts from scratch. Yesterday, it sounded like jackhammers. Reverberating. I walked into what had been the kitchen. Now a pile of rubble.  Like the aftermath of an earthquake. I had expected a more passive and quiet transition.  The kind that occur in America. But this is Italy. Where construction is solid. Concrete. Mortar. Bricks. Stones. Built to last. For a long, long time.  Therefore, to clear the way for a genuine remodeling, it takes hammers and chisels and pounding, pounding, pounding. Bricklayers, too. And stone masons.  Yes, a two-week project. Masterminded by my Italian true love. Our kitchen will be a solid place of beauty, Italian-syle. --Jim Broede

Happiness on my path.

I tend to romanticize life. Nothing wrong with that. To view life the way I want it to be viewed. Like one is living in a glamorized story. Where one can pick and choose the storyline.  By interpreting one's life. In a pleasing way. Even when seemingly bad things happen. One can still give it a poitive twist. Sad. Sad. That Jeanne had to die from Alzheimer's. But good. That Jeanne lived a reasonably long life. And that we had many, many good years. Together. Good, too.That I can imagine Jeanne living in a spiritual realm. From which she can influence my life. In the physical world.  Jeanne wants me to be happy. And she can make things happen.  Things that seem like coincidence. But also can be by grand design.  Jeanne is there. From afar. Yet, so close. She continues to put happiness on my path. It's there. To be grasped. To be embraced. To be savored. Every day.  --Jim Broede

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

For a spirit, all things are possible.

Volunteers are lining up. To go to Mars. Knowing full well that it would be a one-way trip. No return.  And that they would die. A few weeks after landing. I won't be among the volunteers. But still, I have aspirations for going to Mars. After I physically die. And become spirit.  I'd not only try for Mars. But for Jupiter and Saturn and Venus. All sorts of celestial places.  Even out of our solar system. And beyond the Milky Way, into other galaxies. My imagination tells me it's possible. It would be a shame. To have such a vast cosmos. Without an opportunity to see it all. Up close. I know, of course, that such a voyage is impossible. For a physical being. But for a spirit, all things are possible.  --Jim Broede

The world as I see it.

Peace and tranquility and good health. With all that, I can make for the good life. Seems to me, that most people would want the same. Though there are others who want other stuff. They'd even settle for war and turbulence.  Which, by the way, makes for poor health. And short lives. Makes me wonder. Why all people can't live in perfect harmony.  Guess the world wasn't designed that way. Which means there's a flaw in the creator's creation. Or maybe, as I've speculated elsewhere, there isn't a creator. And the world always was, and always will be.  Though the world may take different forms. Through evolution of the species. Maybe even for the better. With endless time, I'm assumimg that all things are possible. Helps, of course. That I have found peace and tranquility and good health. In my little niche. --Jim Broede

Monday, December 8, 2014

Absolutely no doubt.

I have no doubt. There will be a cure/prevention for Alzheimer's. Some day. Maybe not in my lifetime. But it's only a matter of time. However, if it's not Alzheimer's that claims physical  life, it'll be something else. Meanwhile, I'm not ruling out living forever. In spirit form. It's possible. Because I think it's possible. That's all it takes. Belief in anything that can be imagined. I cannot believe in living forever as a physical being. But as a living and thinking spirit, I have absolutely no doubt. --Jim Broede

The wonders of the future.

Marvelous. That's the way I feel. After transitioning. In less than 24 hours. From snowy and cold Minnesota.  To sunny and mild Sardinia. An Island in the Mediterranean Sea. Yes, a quick turn-around. Possible these days. From one side of the globe. To the other. By hopping aboad a jetliner.   In Minnneapolis. Landing eight hours later. In Amsterdam. Then a two-hour flight to Rome. Followed by a one-hour hop to Cagliari. And an hour drive to Carbonia. And presto. I'm at home. Nestling with my Italian true love.  In what seems like a mere blink of an eye.  When my mother was born. Exactly a century ago. In 1914. Such an achievement was only a dream. Now it's real. And maybe in another century, we'll fly to the moon in less time than that. I don't rule out anything.  Even a trip to Mars. Another reason to live forever. In order to experience the wonders of the future. --Jim Broede

True love in the kitchen.

My Italian true love is abandoning her kitchen.  For two weeks. Because it's being remodeled. Which means, I have the opportunity to take her out to dinner. More often than usual. Or to fetch already prepared meals. At the delicatessen. Though we are also able to improvise. With a hot plate in the living room.  In Italy, the kitchen is a big part of life. Almost like a living room.  I like that. As well as many other Italian ways. Remodeling has becomer a big part of my life. In Minnesota. When my true love comes over. To enjoy the summer.  She's a teacher. Of English and English literature. But she has many other talents. She could easily become an interior decorator.  She's done wonders with my house.  Where I also fly the Sardinian and Italian flags. --Jim Broede

Taking a walk, Italian-style.

Going for a walk. In my small city. In Sardinia. Can be hazardous. For the less agile. Fortunately, I'm able to navigate an obstacle course.  In an enjoyable and athletic and aerobic beneficial manner. Many of the sidewlks in Carbonia are anything but flat.  The decorative paving blocks tend to heave and crack. Because of massive and far-reaching roots from magnificient and towering umbrella pine trees.  It all adds to the charming character of Carbonia. I'd not trade it for anything. Of course, this wouldn't happen in an American city. For fear that the city would be sued. After someone trips and breaks a leg. I'm not sure what happens in Carbonia. Maybe Italian cities are immune from lawsuits. Or maybe Italians are as athletically adept as me. Or walk very, very carefully. --Jim Broede 

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Reason not to celebrate.

I'm old enough to remember. December 7, 1941. Only 6 at the time. In Chicago. My mother had me out. For a walk. In the neighborhood. To see the Christmas decorations. With snow on the ground. Maybe she pulled me. On a sled. When we returned. My father was listening to the radio. Intently. He delivered bad news. I didn't quite understand the significance of it all. Until I was older. But I knew my parents were alarmed. Downright upset. So it must have been some pretty serious stuff. Little did I know. That 60 years later. There would be an attack. Even more significant. On 9/11.  Coincidentally, the same day as my birthday. But I don't celebrate. After all, it's a day of infamy. --Jim Broede

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Loving memories.

I still think about Alzheimer's. A whole lot. But the Alzheimer experience isn't the preoccupying thought of my life. It was. When I was a very active caregiver. For my dear sweet Jeanne. But life evolves. Changes. Always for the better, it seems. If one waits long enough. Because life is mostly wonderful. Despite the bad times. From which I have learned so much. The nicest thing of all. The bad times don't seem so bad any more. I'm still able to salvage fond memories. Loving memories. --Jim Broede

In whatever manner they choose.

Only in Italy. Can I go for a walk. Late at night. In  a small town. And encounter a religious procession. Robed priests. Carrying massive white banners. Followed by hundreds of lay people. Holding vases containing lighted candles. Weaving their way. Through a traffic snarl. To the town center at Piazza Roma. It's Nov. 4. No holiday. Just a regular day, as far as I know. But I've read. Somewhere. That Italy is 98 percent Catholic. The church bells ring. Every hour. I'm impressed. Watching. But with no inclination to join the throng. I let the religious be religious. In whatever manner they choose. --Jim Broede 

Nothing to be dreaded.

To fall in love. With life. Now that's what I call an individual good. And a common good, too. Because people who are in love generally exude good vibes. To everyone. They tend to be nice people. Amiable. Positive. Happy. I suspect that love is contagious. But not contagious enough. Some people resist falling in love. As if it's a dreaded disease. Believe me. It's a wonderful affliction. Nothing to be dreaded. --Jim Broede

In laid-back Italian-style.

Readers of the New York Times are encouraged to comment. About what they've just read. To launch a dialogue. Often, that's what I find most interesting. For instance, about Roger Cohen's column. About the Italian way of life. Cohen praised it. But not all readers were so positive. Focusing, instead, on what they didn't like. Of course, that's not me. I'm in love. With Italy. And with an Italian. I'm happy. Living in Italy. When in love. One tends to wear blinders. And focus on the good stuff. Of which there's plenty. Not least being a laid-back approach to life. Keeps one happy. My true love doesn't like everything about Italy. Which gives me pause. To play the angel's advocate. Countering with the good stuff. Meanwhile, I admit not liking everything about America. And I talk about it. That's one of my inalienable rights. Wherever I go. Freedom of speech. Freedom of thought. Freedom to criticize. Yes, that's what I like most about America. And Italy, too. To be honest about it, America isn't nearly as free as portrayed. Especially for the minority population. Always has been more difficult to be free if one is black. Sadly, white people are more privileged. Especially the rich white. Money counts far more than an individual voice/vote. Don't like that. But I accept it. As fact. As reality. Can't say that the Italian political system is any better than the American. But hey, I still know how to ignore the bad stuff. And get on with life. Happily and lovingly. In laid-back Italian-style. --Jim Broede

Friday, December 5, 2014

Happy. As a blessed lark.

Flowers. Flowers. Flowers everywhere. As I stroll the quaint city of Carbonia. In my Sardinia island paradise. A second homeland. Full of blooming flowers. No less. In December. Mostly purple bougainvillea. Other colors, too. Pink. Red. Orange. White. Yellow. Ah, no snow. No cold. Not that I have anything against wintry scenes. But settle, I will. For less than a white Christmas. Or is it more? Those bougainvillea. Make me happy. As a blessed lark. --Jim Broede

Thursday, December 4, 2014

No need to wait for tomorrow.

Americans continually reinvent themselves. But Italians don't. Maybe that's the nice thing about being Italian. This was the premise. Yesterday. Of New York Times columnist Roger Cohen. In praise of Italians. I agree with Cohen. I love Italians. And Italian ways. Especially goes for my dear Italian true love. Because she dares to be Italian. Dares to be herself. Though at times I kiddingly tell her she's still living in the 17th century. And that some day, I will bring her  into the 18th century. Again, I am kidding. I have no desire to change her. Better to let her be. Her natural self. Delightfully Italian. In every which way. Really, better than American. I am American. Inclined to reinvent myself. Occasionally. But I'm learning. The grand Italian ways. Accepting life. The way it is. Making the best of it. With no regrets. Going with the flow. Lovingly. In no hurry. Better to savor what one has. Genuine life. To be loved and revered. Now. No need to put off. No need to wait for tomorrow. --Jim Broede

A blessing, too.

Yes, I'd rather be lost than found. To hide away. In a remote part of the world.  Away from most goings-on. No matter where I am. Even in a big city. I'm able to do that. By retreating to my prefabricated cocoon. Today I am in a cocoon within a paradise. In Sardinia, the seond largest island in the Mediterranean Sea.  South of French Corsica and north of Italian Sicily. Often, people confuse Sardinia and Sicily. They are separate island provinces of Italy.  To live in Sardinia. With my Italian true love. Is an honor and a privilege. A blessing, too. --Jim Broede

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

The matter of self-sacrifice.

I try to care. More about the common good. Than about the individual good. But that's a dangerous proposition. Especially in the political realm. Where too often the selfish whims/desires of the individual rank higher than the common good. Of course, some will say that the individual good really is tantamount to the common/collective good. But I don't buy into that theory. Some significant degree of self-sacrifice is necessary, by everyone,  to achieve the common good. Most of us will never be ready to make that sacrifice. --Jim Broede

No limits on my imagination.

Endless possibilities. I can imagine any and everything. A world to my liking. I wasn't born with an imagination. It had to be developed. With words. With language that evolved into thoughts. About things. Imagined. Without an imagination, I would be a hopeless creature.  Now I am able to define myself. And my dreams, too. Of course, there is more language to be learned. I possess only the rudimentary stuff. There is the imagination of a god. That's what I want to achieve. Some day.  No limits on my imagination. --Jim Broede

It's all relative.

Why does there have to be a master designer? A creator. A god. Maybe life and the cosmos always was. No beginning. No end. We humanoids seem to think that everything has a beginning and an end. Someone has to be given credit for creating all this. Why? Maybe life always existed. In one form or another. And it keeps evolving. Without end. Without a beginning. There was always something. Never nothing. Even before the Big Bang. That is, if ever there was a Big Bang. It's all relative.  Maybe it was a Quiet Pop. Or Total Silence. If no one was around at the time to hear it. --Jim Broede

True life. True love.

Oh, I would gladly live forever. If I could have the life of a god. And that's what I almost feel like. Because I am in paradise. In Sardinia. With my Italian true love. I am residing in the Garden of Eden. With no qualms of dining on the forbidden fruit. That gives me knowledge. Of love. Without love. I would be dead. Love. The essence of life.  True life. True love. One and the same. --Jim Broede

I love apple strudel.

Believe me. It's the little things that count. My true love's friend Giovanna. Baked me an apple strudel. To welcome me to Sardinia. She knows. That I love strudel. Even more than Italian pasta. I had strudel. Last night. For supper dessert. And this morning. For breakfast. While sipping my espresso.  Yes, I indulge myself. With the finer things of life. --Jim Broede

Kissing the blessed ground.

When I arrived in Cagliari, the capitol of Sardinia.  I imagined. Stepping off the plane. Onto a red carpet. To the accompaniment of festive music from an Italian Street band. But it was better than that. My Italian true love. And her friend Giovanna. Were there. To greet me. And here I am now. In the quaint little city of Carbonia. A 20-minute drive from the sea. A sparkling blue sky. My gosh. What a transition. Just 24 hours ago. I was in zero degree temperature. Now I'm in the balmy 60s. In a foreign land that seems so unforeign.  Yes, my second homeland. Indeed, I belong. I will get to my knees and kiss the blessed ground today. --Jim Broede

In no hurry to return.

I have arrived. In grand and glorious Sardinia. No more winter. No snow. No freezing temperatures. Palm trees. I am with my Italian true love. In Paradise. Where I belong. I will walk today.For 10 miles. In the splendour of Italian air. A soft breeze off the Mediterranean Sea. To be truthful. Everywhere is my paradise. Even Minnesota. In the wintertime.  As long as I am alive and conscious. And in love. With life. But I have to admit. That at the moment. Sardinia is a little better place to be. Than Minnesota. I am in no hurry to return. I will continue to make the best and most of life. By savoring the precious moments. Of which there are plenty. Just the way life should be. --Jim Broede