I'm replenished.

The nicest thing about living alone is having the time to think. Without interruption. Tonight, I’m playing Bach. And thinking. About my Italian true love. About life. About solitude. About whatever comes to mind. It’s comforting. To feel alone. Doesn’t make me lonely. Because I’m always with spirits.  With my cats, too. With music.  And here I am, too, writing.  Anyway, I have appreciated solitude all my life. I like to be off by myself. Even when I’m living with people. Gives me opportunity to replenish myself. I feel very replenished tonight. –Jim Broede

In an entertaining game of life.

Incredible. Incredible. Incredible. That’s what comes to mind tonight. As a contemplate the fact that I exist. And that I’m aware of it. That I’m conscious and alive. Able to convince myself that I really exist.  Beyond a reasonable doubt.  Of course, maybe I’m fooling myself. And I don’t exist. That I’m merely someone's dream. Or a figment of someone's imagination. Still another possibility. I’m a sophisticated robot. Made to think that I’m alive. When really, I’m being operated by my inventor/creator.  By remote control. And we’re all robots. In an entertaining game of life. –Jim Broede

By willy-nilly happenstance.

The circumstances had to be just right. For me to be born into this world  A million things had to occur. In just the right order. Over a period of many, many years  Over centuries.  If one of a million events had been altered, I’d probably not exist. For one thing, my mother had to meet my father. And they would have to decide to procreate. At a very particular time. Not a day sooner. Not a day later. And their parents, too, had to come from different parts of the world. To the same city and country. So that they’d meet, and procreate. Anyway, I keep wondering. Was I meant to be? By design? Or was it an accident?  Yes, maybe I’m here by willy-nilly happenstance. –Jim Broede

Loving every day, every month.

Used to be that January was my least favorite month. But then I thought that was silly. Decided instead that I love every month. In fact, every week. Every day, period.  Each month is unique. When I’m in Minnesota, January generally ranks as the coldest month. Nothing wrong with that. It’s a plus. To experience the crisp, cold and clean air.  Nice to shovel snow. Because it’s a way to improve my upper body strength. Furthermore, snow is beautiful.  By golly, here it’s the final day of January 2014. Tomorrow, it’ll be February. Another wonderful month. Only thing to lament. It’s far too short. Generally, only 28 days. But then, that gets one to March a little faster. And I love to march into March. –Jim Broede

I've found the secret.

I’m a lover. Of life. But I do understand. How some people fall out of love. And choose to take their own lives.  Maybe that’s because I have many of the same genes as my father. He committed suicide. When he was a relatively young man. At 38. I suspect he was in love with life, too. In his own way. But some how, some way, his life went awry.  Out of control. He became an habitual gambler. Yes, he liked to take chances. He loved to win. Maybe that’s how he got his kicks. His pleasure.  But gamblers lose, too. And that ain’t pleasure. Especially if it’s money. Maybe dad was in love. With money. With the security and pleasure that it brought.  Possibly, dad was in love with the wrong thing. Instead of with the boundless spiritual wonders of life itself. Yes, being fully alive and conscious. That far better than being monetarily rich. Dad’s ultimate goal was the ecstasy that comes with a big win. On a bet. On a gamble. He was willing to risk it all. To take a chance. To risk even life itself.  In his screwed up search for real happiness. Anyway, here I am. His son. Thinking I’ve found the secret. That he was looking for.  I cherish being alive and conscious. And truly in love.  With life itself. That's all it takes. After all, that's everything. –Jim Broede

No hiding from me.

I know racists. They are easily identifiable. Because I have a keen sense. I pick up the negative vibes. Always. When I am in the presence of a racist.  They can’t hide from me. No matter how much they try. I’ve had this ability. Ever since I was a youngster. I grew up with racist relatives. Oh, not all of ‘em qualify. But many do. Too many. I know where racists flock. For instance, many of ‘em are Republicans. Especially those of the conservative ilk. Little wonder that black Republicans are few and far between. Black people can tell a racist from a mile away. I’m white. But I can tell from two miles away. Maybe it’s the stench. My nose sniffs them out. The U.S. House of Representatives is full of racists. The Senate, too. But more so in the House. No surprise that Republicans control the House. The racist Republicans abhor Obama. Solely because he’s black. Privately, they use the N-word. Publicly, they use other euphemisms. Such as thug.  Most won’t admit being racists. But occasionally, an honest racist emerges. Openly acknowledging his racist and Nazi-like tendencies.  But the worst kind of racists are the subtle ones. The born liars. They hide behind facades. But I have penetrating eyes. A penetrating mind, too. No way can a racist hide from me. –Jim Broede

Savoring it all.

The most active and gratifying and fulfilling years of my life. Have come. Since I retired. Sixteen years ago. I write more. Exercise more. Travel more. Think more. Yes, it’s amazing. Thank gawd. I’ve lived long enough to retire. So that I can truly live. I’m lucky. Blessed. Because I’ve lasted this long. It’s not that I wasn’t active, gratified and fulfilled before retiring. I was. But life keeps getting better and better and better. Because I keep becoming more and more and more alive. More aware of the now. Today. The moment. Savoring. Savoring. Savoring it all. –Jim Broede

Yes, I'm crazy. Wonderfully crazy.

I suspect that the creator meant for space (the cosmos) to be explored. But not by human beings. At least not in physical form. Instead, exploration of space will be left to the spirits. Because spirits have no physical form. No body. Hopefully, that’s what survives after our physical death. Our souls/spirits finally escape physical restraints. Giving us (as spirits) the opportunity to not only leave our solar system, but our galaxy, too.  We’ll be able to literally move light years away. In an instant. Because spirits live outside of time. Yes, I’m crazy. Wonderfully crazy. With an imagination that knows no bounds.  –Jim Broede

A man of moderation.

I eat many, many kinds of foods. But in moderation. That includes some foods not recommended by doctors. The important thing, of course, is that I do it all in moderation. For instance, if I indulge in potato chips, it might be 10 or 15 baked chips as an appetizer before supper. My daily calorie intake keeps me at a relatively svelte weight. Don’t know if there’s a perfect diet. One is cautioned (by doctors) against too many fats, too many carbohydrates, too many of lots of things. But I don’t worry about it. Because I legitimately portray myself as a genuine man of moderation.  –Jim Broede

Goes to show, I have a heart.

I have a cardiologist. Saw him today. For the first time in seven years. For a routine check up. He verified that I have a pulse. And a heart. And that I’m in pretty good condition. Of course, in life, there are no guarantees. Even healthy people drop dead. Meanwhile, it’s nice knowing that I can afford all kinds of good medical care. A general practitioner.  All kinds of specialists, including a cardiologist. I have Medicare. And supplemental insurance for anything not covered by Medicare. Seems to me that everyone should be entitled to health care at least as good as mine. Yes, I mean everyone. Even the poor and destitute. Little wonder. I’m for socialized medicine.   Goes to show, unlike many Republicans, I have a heart. –Jim Broede

Living to the utmost.

I’m a better thinker at age 78. Than I was as a young man. Because I have more experience. And a bigger vocabulary. Therefore, I can use more and better words. In expressing my thoughts. So far, I’ve had a lucky life. Good health. No apparent signs of dementia. Yet. Of course, if one lives long enough, the ravages of old age invariably creep in. But many old folk have learned to live in the moment. To truly savor what’s left of life. .Living to the utmost. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking about the blessedness of being alive and conscious. –Jim Broede

Believing in the preposterous.

We are in the age of mass communication. So very, very many sources of information. Maybe we are being inundated with too much. We feel overwhelmed. Confused. Not knowing right from wrong. So we allow ourselves to be swayed by sound bites. By news blurbs. And that’s how we choose up sides. On political, economic and social matters. And political power brokers know it. They spend obscene amounts of money to sway public opinion. It’s handled the same way that merchandisers sell their products. Whether it be toothpaste or snowmobiles or breakfast cereal. There are enough ignorant people to buy almost anything. They’ll even believe that Barack Obama was born in Kenya. And that he’s Muslim. And a communist, too. Tell a lie often enough, and many stupid Americans will believe in the preposterous – in bold-faced lies. –Jim Broede

Where has all the hardiness gone?

Minnesotans. I’m ashamed of ‘em. Because they’ve shut down today. Why? It’s 14 below zero at the moment. Wind chill of 37 below. Schools are closed. So are many businesses. Wimps. That’s the new true nature of Minnesotans. It’s a grand and glorious day. Brisk and clean air abounds. The sun is shining. And I hardly see anyone in town. Minnesotans are hiding. Indoors.  When they should be out and about.  Savoring the outdoors. I’ll walk 10 miles. My usual daily tour. Of course, I’m dressed for it. No reason to let the weather defeat me.  I have no desire to be a typical Minnesotan. I’m no sissy. I’m a tough hombre. Minnesota was settled largely by hardy Scandinavians.  Where has all the hardiness gone? –Jim Broede

Putting acting to a test.

A good actor can pretend to be happy. Even when he isn’t happy. Makes me wonder if good actors are able to avoid depression. By playing the role of a happy man. Actually living the part.  In a pretend way that feels real. Maybe acting would be good therapy for people in depression. Worth a try, isn’t it? By the way, I’m a happy man. And I ain’t pretending. I’m willing to play a manic-depressive. Just to determine if I have any acting ability. –Jim Broede

Reason for deep, bountiful breaths.

I have things to do in the next few days. Requiring me to get out and about. Though I’d rather stay in. Because the low temperature tomorrow is supposed to be 20 below. With a high of minus 10.  But hey, I’m a Minnesotan. I’ll keep my appointments.  And conduct business as usual. I’ll make the best of it. And focus on the good thing about arctic air. Near-perfect air quality. On a scale of zero (the best) to 500 (the worst), the crisp frigid air index scores 9. Reason to take deep, bountiful breaths. –Jim Broede

An optimist. And a dreamer, too.

I have far more unread books than read books. Because I’ve collected books. All my life. More books than I can read. I have the intent to read everything. Knowing full well I won’t. Unless I live forever. Yes, another reason to wish for an eternal life.  So I don’t run out of time. To meet all my goals. Some days, I’d rather write. Than read. Acknowledging that I can’t do everything. I also listen to music. Virtually every day. Classical music. If I had lived 200 years ago, I’d have hardly ever listened to music. Especially classical music.  Another reason for me to be thankful. That I live in an age of technological advances. Causes me to wonder though. What am I missing? If I’m not around  in 200 years?  Notice. I use the word ‘if.’ Makes me an optimist. And a dreamer, too. –Jim Broede

Pondering through the night.

I may go weeks, maybe even months, without a single conscious dream. And then I may have a flurry of dreams. Virtually every night. For a week or two. Some dreams involve people I know. But many are full of strangers. I tend to like those sorts of dreams. Because I like to ask questions of strangers. I do that often when I’m awake. Especially when I travel. Because I’m curious.   In my dreams. The questions come. Both ways.  Seemingly routine questions. Sometimes, I can’t remember all of ‘em. But I wake. Knowing I’ve had pleasant dreams. That I’m really being myself. Wondering. Always. If it’s my soul/spirit or my physical being. That’s pondering. Pondering through the night. –Jim Broede

Joyful tears.

I’ve just read a magnificent novel. By Paul Auster. Titled, ‘Timbuktu.’ Auster is brilliant. His imagination knows no bounds. He takes a homeless man. And his companion, a pet dog. They bond. The man is the teller of the story. For the first half of the novel. Until he dies. Then the dog becomes the protagonist. It’s the dog’s story. Auster dares to get inside the dog’s mind. As if the dog understands what’s going on. Looking at life from a thinking dog’s perspective. By the way, Timbuktu isn’t the dog’s name. Turns out that Timbuktu is the homeless man’s name for the spirit world.  For heaven. For Valhalla. For paradise. In the end, the dog commits suicide. So he can be in Timbuktu.  Brought tears to my eyes. Joyful tears. For being lured into this wonderful tale.  –Jim Broede

Fully appreciative of true freedom.

I try to look beyond a face. Beyond a physical being. Into one’s soul. Or spirit. Maybe soul/spirit are one and the same.   We all come and go. We leave the physical dimension. But it’s possible that the soul/spirit lives forever. In a non-physical realm. I sense it. That I have a soul/spirit. And it doesn’t look anything like me. Because it’s invisible. In the physical sense. I can feel spirit. But I can’t see it. That’s all it takes. Feeling.  To know that spirit exists. There is no physical proof. Doesn’t have to be. Same goes for true spiritual love.  It’s totally spirit.  Completely devoid of physical expression. That’s a difficult premise for physical beings to grasp. Too easy to assume that spiritual love requires a physical act. It doesn’t. Instead, it’s expressed spiritually, period. Could be that my soul/spirit is locked in a physical vessel for good reason. As a learning experience. To better understand what it’s like to be in a physical world. It’s restrictive. Sort of like being in prison.  Lacking a degree of freedom.  Once released from the physical shackles, a soul/spirit soars majestically. To the great beyond.  Fully appreciative of true freedom. –Jim Broede

To fit in to the facts of life.

I don’t necessarily care about facts. Because facts are facts. And generally, I can’t do anything to change the facts. Oh, I can change a few things. Like the usual time that I get up in the morning. Or the time I go to bed at night. I could even reverse the order. But I merely choose to let life flow. And follow my natural inclinations. Really, turns out that most facts don’t matter. I just have to learn to adjust. To fit in to the facts of life. –Jim Broede

No desire to be a billionaire.

The meaningful redistribution of wealth won’t come. Because the rich don’t want it to come. Or so I suspect. I’m told that 85 billionaires control more wealth than the poorest 3.5 billion people of the world. Can’t say that’s good or bad. But it doesn’t seem right. I’m assuming the statistic is true. That it’s reality. And there isn’t much I can do about it. So I better get on with my life. And wonder. Am I one of the 3.5 billion poorest people? If so, I gotta admit, I’m happy.  And I have no desire to be a billionaire. –Jim Broede

A wonderful way to live forever.

My two cats are a vital part of my life. Funny thing. When cats were first introduced to the household over 40 years ago, I was adamantly opposed. We had dogs. And I thought there was no room for cats. But I was overruled. By my wife Jeanne and our two children. Lo and behold, I’ve lived with cats ever since. Up to five at a time. They’re indoor cats. And almost human. In some ways, they are more sacred to me than some friends and acquaintances. Loverboy and Chenuska (Little Black Lady) and I keep each other company. We  converse. Talk to each other. At the moment, Loverboy is on my desk. Helping me write. Inspiring me to say good things about him. That he is, as his name implies, a genuine lover boy. Another thing. I sense that cats (and other animals, too) have souls. Spirits. That linger on. After death. I’m assuming that our souls end up in other forms of physical life. Not necessarily here on planet Earth.  But in another world. Maybe in another galaxy. That would be a wonderful and adventurous way to live forever. –Jim Broede

The day when all goes right.

Chicago Cubs fans are supposed to be unhappy. Because the Cubs lost out to the New York Yankees. In the signing of a highly-touted Japanese pitcher named Tanaka. But I’m not unhappy. And I’m a diehard Cubs fan. The Yankees have committed to paying $175 million over 7 years. For Tanaka’s services. It’s a gamble. Because Tanaka has never thrown a pitch in the major leagues. He may become a Hall of Fame pitcher. Or he may be a bust. I suspect there are better and safer ways to spend $175 million to improve the Cubs. On multiple free agents, for instance. With a far bigger potential return than the Yankees will get from Tanaka.  Oh, he’ll be a big attendance draw. Initially, at least. Even if he doesn’t win very many games. Last year, in a Japanese league, he finished with a won-lost record of 24-0. With an earned run average of barely over a run per game. And he’s only 25 years old. But throwing fast and artful pitches is hard on an arm. It ain’t natural. Lots of things can go wrong. And often they do. Most Cubs fans know that. We’re just waiting for the day when all goes right. –Jim Broede

Aren't all dreams strange?

I broke out of my usual pattern tonight. Maybe because of the severity of the cold.  It’s supposed to dip to 17 below overnight. Anyway, I came in from my walking regimen, at about 6, Made supper. Ate three hours ahead of schedule, Then showered. Went to bed before 8.  With the TV still on in the living room. And I had put the cats in their room, too.  Finally got up. At 11. And here I am. Writing. Just before midnight. I was having a dream. That I was having dinner. A social engagement. At the home of a longtime  editor friend, Ben, from the St. Paul paper. Along with two other writer associates there. And I noticed that Ben’s wife wasn’t with us. But dining instead in another room. With someone else. And I wondered why they weren’t with us. And apparently it was that she was dining with someone with dementia. And it would have been too disruptive to have them with us. And I began to object. At that point, I woke up. Have to think about it. I wonder if I would still have had the dream. If I had followed my usual pattern. And not  gone to bed so early. Maybe the dream will resume when I go back to bed. A strange dream. But then, aren’t all dreams strange? –Jim Broede

Alone, but not really alone.

I’m never alone. Because I live with animals. And spirits. They keep me company. When I’m not with my Italian true love or friends. Come to think of it, I’m always with friends. Because my two cats, Loverboy and Chenuska, and all sorts of spirits, are my friends. Including the creator himself. But still, I choose to isolate myself. For periods of time. Maybe a few minutes, or a few hours.  I shut out everything. And escape to true solitude. It’s as if I’m the only being in the world. Momentarily. It’s a thrilling experience. Because still, I’m not alone. I’m with me. Alive and conscious. Gives me a feeling of what it must be like to be god, the creator. That’s why he created. A world. I’m at my creative best. When I’m alone, but not really alone.  –Jim Broede

The deeper he sinks.

I like it when politicians step into quicksand. And sink, sink, sink. When their true colors emerge. Seems to me that’s happening to Chris Christie. A guy that very much wants to be president. Because he loves power. Loves the game of politics. When played dirty and ruthlessly. Mostly behind the scenes.  Christie was able get away with it. As long as he intended to play the game exclusively in his own backyard. New Jersey. But now there’s more focus on Christie. Because he wants it all. The most powerful office in the world. The grand prize. President. And he’s stumbling and bumbling. He’s stepped into quicksand. And the more he struggles to get out, the deeper he sinks. –Jim Broede

A blend of togetherness & solitude.

It’s important. That I have  moments of solitude. Even when living with my Italian true love. Same goes for her. That’s something we have in common. The need for solitude. We relish being together. Flitting back and forth. Between Sardinia. And Minnesota. And traveling together. In Europe. Italy. Iceland. Scotland. Different parts of the U.S. But we are separated, too. We know how to live alone.  To be alone. In solitude.  Yet, we are connected. Daily. In thought. In spirit. On Skype. On the telephone. By email. Yes, even in solitude. I replenish myself. In solitude. But also in her presence. It all adds up. To a remarkable balance.  To wonderful, fulfilling life.  A blend of togetherness and solitude. –Jim Broede

I'd try to emulate Obama.

For a while, I was disenchanted and disappointed with Barack Obama. With his performance as president. But I’ve reconsidered. He’s doing an admirable job. Because he’s not allowing the role to consume him. He’s taking time off. To spend with his family. And a handful of friends.  He knows better than to spread himself thin.  He has a distaste for mixing with politicians. Especially Republicans. He probably would like to avoid people, period. And not have to socialize. I like that. It’s an attribute. Of course, Obama can mix socially. And make a good impression. With intelligent conversation. A necessary part of being president. But if Obama had his druthers, he’d withdraw. Into a cocoon. Virtually every day.  I suspect he does that now. To a limited extent. To recuperate and rejuvenate. If I were a politician, I’d try to emulate Obama.  And avoid politics as much as possible. –Jim Broede

Better than a two-bit politician.

I want to be me. Nobody else. Plain and simple. I have no desire to be a millionaire. Or a powerful, influential politician. I can settle for less. Just being conscious and alive and healthy. Of course, I’d like to live forever. And maybe I will. In fact, I’m banking on it.  Assuming (with the help of my imagination) that someday I will be a conscious, thriving, ambient spirit. That’s where I’m headed. It’s a vital part of my being.  That’s why I’m satisfied being me.  I’m on a path to fulfillment. Because I will be a loving spirit. Certainly, that’s far better than being an unhappy millionaire or a two-bit politician. –Jim Broede

A way to play god.

I’d like to write short stories. About people I know. Making them the protagonist.   Not sure where I’d take each story. Or each protagonist. I’d just let the stories develop. Unfold. Naturally. Not sure if the endings would be happy or unhappy. Or maybe somewhere in between.  The nice thing about it all, as a writer, I could play god. Do with them whatever I want to.  They would be under my control. To be fair, I’d need to cultivate a sense of where they really are going. Or is it the way I wished they would go?  Might make quite a difference. I wish everyone a happy ending. But in real life that doesn’t always happen. –Jim Broede

Better at 30 below than 90 above.

Walking. On a sub-zero, arctic-air-filled day. Isn’t all that bad. Believe me, it’s a delight. Because most sub-zero days are sunny. And calm. Virtually no wind. After several miles, my feet may start getting numbingly cold. Because I wear exceedingly lightweight  walking/jogging shoes. With a single pair of socks. But that’s a problem easily solved. By stepping indoors for 15 minutes.  I’ll walk 10 miles today. My usual daily tour.  I’d do the same. Whether it’s 30 below, or 90 above.  Odd thing. I’m more comfortable in 30 below than 90 above. –Jim Broede

Let's take politics out of politics.

I keep wondering why politics have to be so political. Let’s settle our political differences. By sitting down.  Talking and listening to each other. Like ladies and gentlemen.  Let’s have give and take. Compromise. Seems to me that honest people full of goodwill can reach reasonable solution to almost any political problem. Of course, I’ve been accused of being a naive dreamer. With no or little grasp of the game of politics. Could be. But then, it doesn’t hurt to be a dreamer. To imagine a perfect world. In which politics have been taken out of politics. –Jim Broede

When hell becomes heaven.

So easy for me to imagine being a Russian.  At this very moment. Because the temperature range in Moscow  today is supposed to be 1 degree below zero and 1 degree above zero.  Fahrenheit. Here in Minnesota, we’re  expecting 12 below tonight and high of zero  tomorrow.  Russians and Minnesotans know true winter. And some of us love the briskness. We’re hearty people who know how to enjoy life. No matter the temperature. Others don’t. Take the Germans. In World War II. And the French. Under Napoleon. They were stupid enough to invade Russia in mid-winter. Only to meet defeat. Because they froze their asses off. Couldn’t take the cold. We Minnesotans and Russians were born to withstand hell freezing over. And still think we are in heaven. –Jim Broede

Loving: In soothing & savoring ways.

I had a nice time watching/listening to football games over the weekend. Because I wasn’t emotionally attached to any of the teams. If my favorite team, the Chicago Bears, has been involved –well, then it would have been a different story. I would have been emotionally involved, Jubilant. Ecstatic. That is, if the Bears had won. But I would have been dejected. Stressed. Maybe even downright morose. If the Bears had lost. The outcome would have mattered. To me, personally and emotionally. I’m saying all this. Because I wish to make a point. I see advantages and disadvantages to being involved emotionally in all sorts of matters. Most of all, I like the emotion of love. It’s often gratifying. Satisfying. But I could live without many of the other more stressful emotions.  That often occur while watching Bears and Cubs games.  Because I care too much. But when it comes to love, seems to me that I love to just the right degree. In soothing and savoring ways. –Jim Broede

Feeling almost like god.

Can’t think of anything more fantastic. Than the fact that I exist. Knowing that I’m  alive and conscious. A thinking being. Able to communicate with others.  Able to feel the emotion of love. And pleasure. Yes, pain, too. And sadness. But most of all, happiness. Incredible. Incredible. Incredible. How can this be?  I ask myself that question. Virtually every day. My gawd. To wake up from my sleep. And to know that I am. In a world that I can comprehend. With the help of others. That know more than I. Amazing. Amazing. Amazing. So much that I don’t know, too. But I’m able to discover something new. Every day. Merely by feeling my way. With my eyes. My ears. With language. With my mind. I’m in a world. Where I can see my Italian true love. Daily. On Skype. Or I can be with her. In the flesh. Traveling thousands of miles in less than a day. Fantastic. Fantastic. Fantastic. Indeed, I am alive. I am I. Makes me feel almost like god, the creator.  –Jim Broede

A sad state of affairs.

I have slight qualms of conscience. Over the thread posted below this one. About Chris Christie, the governor of New Jersey. Poking fun at him.  Partly because of his rotund appearance. Being fat. Yes, I shouldn’t do that, I know. But still I do it. I could just as easily erase that thread. And pretend I never wrote it. But there it is. I’m letting it stand. Because sometimes I’m downright judgmental. About people I dislike. Especially mean-spirited politicians. Usually, Republicans. I should be nicer. Even to my perceived enemies. I was taught to love my enemies. But that’s a virtually impossible task. Yes, a task. Work. Something less than pleasure. I hold Christie in disdain. Partly because he’s unfair. To his adversaries. But that’s natural. For a politician. Politics ain’t a fair game. It’s full of deceit. Lies. Retaliatory stuff. I have little respect for Christie. I’d hate to see him become president. Though there are many politicians far worse. But we Americans can do better. By electing Elizabeth Warren, for instance. But that won’t happen. The likes of Chris Christie will prevail.  Indeed, a sad state of affairs. –Jim Broede

A better roadblock than president.

Chris Christie is too fat to be president. The guy must weigh over 300 pounds. Leaves his health in doubt. Of course, with me, it doesn’t help that Christie is a Republican. Though I like some of his brash ways. But my best guess is that he’s a vindictive guy. Capable of punishing people who don’t support him. With political shenanigans. He’s also capable of causing  traffic jams. Merely by standing in the middle of a road. He’s so rotund that nobody will be able to drive around him. –Jim Broede

Where there is only pleasure.

Sometimes my lovely and charming Italian true love thinks of her job as work. I tell her that’s wrong. She’s a teacher. Of English and English literature. And every moment should be pleasure. Of course, it isn’t. But hey, I’m a romantic idealist. A dreamer and lover, too. Therefore, I try to push life to the limits. Don’t always succeed. But I’m always pushing. Closer and closer to the ideal. I even manage to fool myself.  Into thinking that success is around the corner.  Maybe it will all be achieved when I become spirit. In a realm where love of life abounds. Where there is no work. Only pleasure. –Jim Broede

Precious moments of true love

Seven years ago today. My dear sweet Jeanne died. After a 13-year bout with Alzheimer’s. After 38 years of marriage. The bottom dropped out of my life. But really, it opened the door. To the rest of my life. I got on. Cultivated a second true love. A lovely, charming Italian. I’ve traveled the world. The Italian Alps. Venice. Rome. Edinburgh. The highlands of Scotland. Iceland. France. Germany. I live with my true love in Sardinia, an island paradise in the Mediterranean Sea. And she lives with me in Minnesota. Back and forth. Life is good. Always has been. Always will be. As long as I am an alive and conscious being. Even the moments of sadness. I relish it all. Because my life stems from precious moments of true love.  –Jim Broede

Meeting strangers along the way.

Getting people to talk. More than they may want to. That’s a skill. That I cultivate. Approaching strangers. And having them volunteer all sorts of information. Even personal stuff.  And I do it. By setting the example. Maybe by pulling out my calling card. Early on. Which identifies me. As a romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. Yes, I’ve defined myself. Now it’s time for the strangers to reciprocate. To tell me something significant. Invariably, they do.  It’s an intriguing way to meet people. Sometimes, we maintain contact. Because my card has my email address. My phone number. My blog address.  Right away. Strangers know I’m a curious fellow.  A writer, too. I write every day. About life. And love.  I love being alive. So I can meet strangers along the way. –Jim Broede

Focus on the 'respectable' goodness.

I have friends/acquaintances  overly concerned about what people think of them. They worry too much about their image. They want to have very, very respectable images Which, I guess, is all right. Nothing wrong with that. Unless one remains bothered. Thing is. There are all sorts of stupid and ill-informed people that constantly misjudge others. I tell my friends, don’t lose sleep over the lack of ‘proper’ respect. Don’t take offense. Instead, put things in a better, more proper and positive perspective. Understand that credible, intelligent associates/acquaintances/friends very much respect you. They are the people that count. The others really needn't count. Write them off. You don’t need their approval, their respect. They are the lesser beings in your life. Focus, instead, on people that not only respect you, but love you. Cherish you. Adore you. See you as a decent human being. Maybe you spend too much time worrying about the opinions of lesser folk. Focus on the overwhelming ‘respectable’ goodness in your life. –Jim Broede

Lies that masquerade as truth.

The Koch brothers. They’re rich. And evil. Because I perceive them as evil. Of course, evil is in the eye of the beholder. The same as beauty. And I see the Koch brothers as ugly. As representing everything bad. Maybe I’m wrong. But still, I’m willing to make a judgment. A choice between good and evil. The Koch brothers are billionaires. Made their money by polluting the environment. And now they are trying to pollute the minds. Of voters. In senatorial districts. In which incumbent Democrats are in close races. They are spending wads of money. To try to defeat the Democrats. So that Republicans gain control of the U.S. Senate. The Koch brothers know that money is power. And many American minds can be brainwashed. By 30-second sound bites. Yes, that’s my definition of evil.  Lies that masquerade as truth. –Jim Broede

My unlimited imagination.

I try to set no limits on my imagination. Yes, the greatest gift one can have. The imagination. It would be a shame. Not to use the imagination. To the fullest. But really, come to think of it, maybe the imagination needs limits. Because I can imagine bad/negative stuff. I could even imagine being unhappy. When it’s more pleasant to  be happy. If I imagine being sad, when I’m really happy, that’s all right. It makes my happiness even more profound. Sort of like life feeling so much better when one contrasts life with death. Or lightness with darkness.  I know my preferences. And I make choices. Sometimes, by turning my imagination on and off.  Makes me feel in control. By imagining that I’m in control. Even when I’m not in control. Oh, my wonderful, wonderful imagination. No limits. No limits. No limits. –Jim Broede

A very pleasant surprise.

I don’t want to know everything. That’s a good reason to NOT be god, the creator. But then, maybe god doesn’t know everything. Why assume that he does? I was taught in Sunday school that god is all-knowing. Didn’t seriously question it at the time.  But now I do. Maybe god is as stupid and dumb and as ill-informed as the rest of us. My guess is god would be very, very uncomfortable if he knew everything.  It’s possible to know too much. Think about it. I don’t want to know when I’m gonna die. Let it come as a surprise.  Maybe I don’t even want to know if there is a god. I can live without knowing. Better to merely take a calculated guess. And even if there is a god, maybe it’s just as well not knowing what sort of being he is or isn’t. Chances are, he’s not a he or a she. Maybe it doesn’t make any difference.   Oh, and the thing about dying. Maybe I won’t die. I’ll just pass on to another form of life. Could be that life -- my life -- is everlasting. Now that would be a very pleasant surprise. –Jim Broede

An albatross around one's neck.

It astounds me. That so many, many women don’t know how to deal with bad men. And get on with the rest of their lives. Instead, they insist on prolonging a bad marriage/relationship. They don’t want to let go. When it’s really over. Even when it’s a constant source of unhappiness.  They would even accept abuse. Maltreatment. Just to keep their man. Sad. Sad. Sad. What is it? Do they worship the man? The relationship should be a two-way street. With mutual respect for each other. If it’s not there – one might as well get on with the rest of life. And find another way to be happy. Maybe with another man. Or just by learning how to be independent and happy. But some women keep wishing for something that’s not going to happen. Wishing. Wishing. Wishing.  I admire some women. For getting on with life after the divorce/break up. For refusing  to stick it out. For good reasons. For their own self-respect. For the sake of long-term happiness. Because they deserve much better than what they had. Finally recognizing that the men in their lives weren't going to make them happy. That it's a losing cause. Therefore, get on with life. A man should not be allowed to become an albatross around a woman's neck. –Jim Broede

Don't throw pearls to swine.

Many a time, I have told dear friends to simmer down. To cool it.  For a few days. You are overreacting to situations that are far less than life or death, I tell them. Savor the good things in your wonderful and blessed life. It’s far more important that you have my respect than the respect of an idiot. Don’t let an idiot faze you and throw you off course. You have the respect of friends that should really count. Of course, there are idiots that don’t respect you. That’s to be expected. Because idiots don’t know better.  Forgive them. Don’t get riled. Don’t fret. Don’t lose sleep over the inept actions of idiots. Don’t throw pearls to swine. –Jim Broede

What next? America uber alles?

I draw the line. When I’m told what to think. Could be that’s what we Americans are coming to. I could be considered subversive. Or un-American.  Sort of what it was like in Nazi Germany. Deutchland uber alles. Germany above all else. Nothing stopping the likes of Michele Bachmann and Sarah Palin from gaining lethal political power some day. And telling us all, we’re required to pledge unequivocal allegiance to the United States of America. America uber alles. And if we don’t. Good bye. Leave. Or go into a concentration camp. Or face death. Because we’ve  become disloyal. Security risks. Bachmann, who happens to be my congresswoman, has been elected repeatedly. Yes, that’s  not only a scary thought. It’s a fact of life. Right here in normally liberal Minnesota. Still, we have enclaves of weirdo politicians. Of lunatic fringe Republicans. They come to office. Sometimes more than occasionally.  Look at all the Republican aspirants. For president. In the last go-around. Danger. Danger. Danger lurks everywhere. From the Republicans. From the thought police.  A similar occurrence in Germany. Not all that long ago. In the 1930s. –Jim Broede

Living happily ever after.

Andrey Kurkov. He’s a writer. A Russian/Ukranian. I discovered him. Recently. Picked up one of his novels. ‘Death and the Penguin.’ I’ll read more. I like him. His style. He’s imaginative. The protagonist is Viktor. And he’s got a pet. A penguin. Yes, a King Penguin named Misha. Obtained after the local zoo in Kiev gave away its animals to those who could support them.  Viktor and Misha relate quite well. Because both are out of their elements. Anyway, Viktor is a writer. He’s hired by a newspaper. To write obituaries about certain Kiev VIPs. Before they’ve died. And they all soon begin to start dying. It’s a complicated and mysterious plot. Leading to danger. For Viktor. He discovers his own obituary.   Not a good omen. Viktor gradually goes from a paranoid appraisal of his dangerous position. To a serene and almost childish peace of mind.  The story has a happy ending. Linked to Viktor’s relationship with Misha the penguin. They’ll both end up living in Antarctica. Away from the real perils of life. Maybe that’s what we all should do. Find  our natural elements. The world/environs that make us truly comfortable. At peace. Thereby living happily ever after. –Jim Broede

A truly artful liar.

I love it. Seeing Gov. Chris Christie of New Jersey squirm. Denying that he knew anything about the planning of so-called Bridgegate.  When we all know that he knew. There he is. Trying to be an artful liar. When it’s so obvious. He’s a natural born liar and a bully. I love it. When politicians squirm and squirm and squirm. Trip themselves up. But then, maybe Christie really isn’t squirming. Maybe he believes his own lies.  Now that’s a truly artful liar. –Jim Broede

Making a choice about life.

There was a suicide yesterday. In my neighborhood. About 10 houses up the road.  It was the boy friend. Of a woman, a widow, living in a swank recently built house. Don’t know the details. Other than he did it. In her place.  I learned all this from a concerned neighbor. Who noticed a hearse parked in the driveway. She inquired.  Directly. People seem shocked. When they hear someone has taken his own life. More so than if he had a heart attack or stroke. But it happens every day.  My father was a suicide. It’ll be 65 years ago. In April 1949. Wow! How time flies. Anyway, back to yesterday’s suicide. There was curiosity. Over how the boy friend did it. But nobody dared ask. As for my father, he went down to the basement. And hung himself. Nowadays, it’s more convenient to shoot one’s self. But my dad didn’t own a gun. Guess he was sort of a pacifist. He didn’t hunt. Didn’t kill. Other than himself. Avoided war, too. Though he was eligible to serve in World War II. Some how, he evaded the draft. Maybe because he preferred living. At the time, that is. Then thought better of it. –Jim Broede

The daring Giovanna.

Giovanna is my Italian true love’s dear friend. Therefore, she’s my friend, too. That’s the way it is. My true love’s friends are my friends. Automatically. I like Giovanna very much. Because she’s daring and bold. Not afraid to go on stage. And sing. She has a beautiful voice. And she’s joined an Italian musical group that performs Irish music. They’re good. Often taken as real Irish folk.  Giovanna sings with a brogue.  Dances, too. Sprightly Irish stuff. Giovanna always keeps me guessing. About her next exploit. The latest:  she’s turning to politics. Running for county office. In Italy, of course. Wouldn’t surprise me if some day she’s prime minister. –Jim Broede

Give me the Times, music, books.

My definition of a good newspaper: The New York Times. The good ones are few and far between. I love reading the Times. The printed version, of course. I get home delivery. Weekdays. Monday through Friday. Seldom pick up the fat Sunday edition. Don’t have time for it. The front pages are works of near-perfection. Good balance. Good selection of stories. Covered thoroughly. Far better than most newspapers. Take the Times to bed with me. To the breakfast and dinner table, too. And walk with my nose buried in the Times. I read the editorials, the columnists, the daily arts and business sections. The Science section on Tuesdays. Sports, too. Though I also go to the Chicago Tribune for sports. I’m partial to Chicago teams. Especially the Cubs.  As for television. I pretty much limit myself to C-Span. On weekends. And MSNBC in the evening. To get my dose of liberal-biased political news and commentary. Other than that, I prefer listening to classical music. And reading books. Mostly fiction.  –Jim Broede

I'll settle for the elite.

I made my living. As a journalist. Writing for newspapers. Dailies. Weeklies. The gamut.  Fortunately, I’ve lived long enough to retire. So that I can write more than ever. But not for newspapers. Instead, here in my blog. Finally, I have freedom. To write the way I please. No editor telling me how or what to write. With rare exception, I don’t like newspapers any more. Don’t like what they’ve become. Mostly, whatever it is that readers tell them to be. Newspapers started to take polls of their readers.  Asked, 'What do you want?  What will you buy?’ And mostly, readers asked for dumb-downed news. Simple stuff. In capsule form. Easily read. And entertaining.  Designed for short attention spans. The equivalent of the 30-second sound bite.  Yes, I know that’s what you are getting in my blog, too.  Capsules. But I’m trying to make them thoughtful capsules.  Mostly, in short, abbreviated sentences.  If I were writing my own daily newspaper column. This would be it. Broede’s Broodings. I’m musing. About life. And personal things. In certain ways, I don’t give a damn about the reader. Though that’s not totally true. I’m not begging for readers. But I welcome them. Even those that don’t like what I write. Don’t like my style. Or what I have to say. But keep coming back. There’s a few of ‘em. They’re interesting characters. Deserving of psychoanalysis. That’s how this blog got started. It attracted people I pissed off. On the Alzheimer’s message boards. Most of ‘em are gone now. Found better ways to spend their time. That’s all right. Doesn’t hurt my feelings. But I also have followers. Some 29 have signed up. They seem to like my approach. My blog gets about 50 or 60 hits a day. That’s a very modest sum. But I’m not out to reach the masses. I’ll settle for the very few. The elite.  –Jim Broede

A cherished moment.

Snow overnight. Windy, too. Drifts. Like ocean waves. Clean. Fresh. Fir trees. Scalloped white boughs. Bending.  Nature’s scene. Magnificent. Awestruck. By the wintry beauty. Listening. To a Beethoven trio. I see. I hear. I speak. Proof. I am alive. Conscious. Aware. In love. With precious life. Everything. Blending. Coming together. In a cherished moment. –Jim Broede

A peek at infinity.

Nothing fascinates me more than the vastness of space. Beyond our galaxy. The subject of the latest National Geographic. As a kid, I dreamed of becoming an astronomer. Unfortunately, I lack the mental wherewithal  to achieve that goal. But that won't stop me from exploring space. With my imagination. I crave to some day become spirit. So that I can move about. Anywhere in creation. To explore it all. I’m not sure what it truly means to be spirit. But I suspect it allows me to travel even faster than the speed of light. To go any place. Fantastic. I’m grateful to the National Geographic. For giving me an illustrative peek at infinity. –Jim Broede