Escape. To happiness. In dark times.

I'm divided. Over getting out and about. And staying home. And merely imagining. That I am going places. Really. It's easy. Transporting my mind. Without having to move. Physically. Maybe that's the lazy man's way. But I don't think so. Better to cultivate one's imagination. So that pretend seems almost real. Maybe that's the way to stay out of anxiety. Out of depression. With a vivid imagination. That brings escape. To happiness. In the darkest hours. --Jim Broede

Shameful self-aggrandizement.

My problem. Being overly aware of myself. I should learn to go through an entire day. Without thinking of myself. Better to focus on others. And the things and events around me. Maybe I've never lived a day. In which I forgot myself. Totally. Maybe that makes me an out-of-whack human being. I should spend significant portions of my life. Focused on something other than myself. I'm too self-centered. Too self-absorbed. I know it. Yet I persist. In staying that way. I put myself at the center of the universe. Time to face the truth. That makes me a very imperfect being. I relish being imperfect. A form of self-aggrandizement. Shameful. Yes, I am shameful. --Jim Broede

A dancing gazelle. I am.

Movement. Movement. When setting my body in motion. Am I dancing? Walking. Gliding. When does movement become dance? Perhaps dance is no more, no less. Than state of mind. One can dance. On ice skate. Or do pirouettes in a wheel chair. Or better yet, do nimble ballet steps. With the gods. In a dream.  Can't dance. I say. But really, I've been dancing my way through life. Moving. Moving. Wherever spirit takes me. A dancing gazelle. I am. --Jim Broede

Learning to embrace the wonders.

I am practicing. The art. Of positive writing. And positive thinking. To get me out of a funk. Out of anxiety. Out of a worrisome world.  I refuse to be inundated. Or overwhelmed. By the risks and perils of life. Instead, I am an adventurer. An awed explorer. I set aside my fears. Learning to behold and embrace the wonders. --Jim Broede

Transcending. To the plateau of love.

Silly. To think ahead. To life after death. Or to nothingness. Doesn't really matter. What will be, will be. The important thing. I am alive. Able to appreciate and savor the moment. Even bad moments. Are easily turned around. Transcended. My whole life. Keeps evolving. Into goodness. And the experience. Of pure love.  That is my salvation. Always will be. Reaching the lofty plateau of love. --Jim Broede

The sweetness of being.

I opened my eyes.  In bed. This morning.  And saw the light of day.  And color. And things. Knowing. I am alive. And conscious. Able to grasp. The goodness of life. Without having to think. Of insanity. Elsewhere. And sadness, too. Instead, I am blessed. To be in my own Shangri la. Away from turmoil. Silly. Silly. To worry about stuff. When it's so much easier. To embrace the moment.  To savor the sweetness of being.  --Jim Broede

From the loving part of the world.

I can hardly believe the news. The nastiness. Going on. All over the world. Except in my relatively peaceful and tranquil bailiwick. Can all this stuff be true? That I hear about. That I read.  People cutting off other people's heads. For kicks. For the hell of it. To bring about what they proclaim will be a new world order.  With religious overtones. In the name of their precious god Allah. And they're luring young recruits. Fifteen year old girls from Scotland. To their cause. Yes, they're being plucked out of the so-called godless and consumer-oriented western world. To form something called a caliphate. It's insanity. Thankfully, I see it from a distance. From my safe haven. Where I create my own world. Granted, with a little bit of anxiety. Pretending that it is I. Who lives in the real world. Full of love. While flitting back and forth. Between Minnesota and Sardinia. And in constant touch. With my beloved amore mio. Who, incidentally, is about to celebrate her birthday anniversary. On Sunday. Happy birthday, dear Cristina. May we always be blessed. To live in the loving part of the world. --Jim Broede

With my spring chicken.

Makes sense. To feel blessed. To have reached old age. Beats the alternative. Dying young. Before one gets there. I'm told. Life has stages. Like seasons. But these seasons come only once.  Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. There's something good. And fascinating. About 'em all. Even winter. When I flee Minnesota. For a while. To spend life's winter. With my spring chicken (amore mio). Yes, makes perfect sense. To feel blessed. --Jim Broede

My cleansed and funny mind.

Reminding myself. Tonight. That I feel good. Because I'm thinking good. My mind feels cleansed. Yes, a thorough cleansing is needed. From time to time.  Not only from the conscious mind. But the subconscious, too. Occasionally, my mind becomes cluttered. With unnecessary stuff. Not merely negative thoughts. But senseless things. With no real meaning. I save the meaningful thoughts. The ones that inspire me. Or make me laugh. That's a big part of the good life. Humor. There are moments. When life shouldn't be taken seriously. --Jim Broede

The finer things of life.

Most nights. I turn on MSNBC. To listen/watch the liberal-slanted political news. But that doesn't always buoy my spirits. Because of the nature of politics. Doesn't matter whether it's liberal or conservative.  It's full of cheating and lying. Virtually no objectivity.  No sense of fairness.  Politics. The scum of the Earth. No television for me tonight.  Instead, music of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven.  Reminders. That I am in love. With the finer things of life. --Jim Broede

No more anxiety.

I am a positive thinker. I am a positive thinker. I am a positive thinker. Can't say or write it often enough. Compelling myself. To believe it. With repetition.  Or with whatever other means I can devise or imagine. That's how I overcome/cope with my anxieties. Negative thoughts are taboo. Banned. Outlawed. When falling asleep at night, I am to be focused on happy and optimistic thoughts. Sweet dreams only. No nightmares. The moment a bad thought dares approach the boundaries of my realm, it is to be obliterated, pulverized, smashed to smithereens. I am to become a Pollyanna, an excessively or blindly optimistic person. --Jim Broede

Something to worry about.

I’ve been in a state of anxiety much of my life. Relatively mild anxiety. Able to get it under control. And deal with it effectively. But occasionally, I lapse into a more serious type of anxiety. Allowing me to imagine. How people fall off the cliff. Into depression. That must be a scary feeling. Because anxiety and depression go hand in hand. They exacerbate each other. And climbing back to normalcy, ain’t easy. Easy for me. To coax depression-riddled Julie to pick her self up. By the boot straps. While I watch from the sidelines. She’s the one that has to do the real work. Can’t say. That some day. I may be where Julie’s at now. I’ve never been there before. To that depth. Most everyone, I suppose, has bouts of depression. Or grieving. Or melancholia. Or a dozen other names we attach to the malady. So far I’ve been able to nip depression in the bud. But I’m told (by the so-called experts) that old age can bring on depression. Sounds credible. I’m getting up in years.  And I’m feeling anxious about it. Mildly. So far. But maybe danger lies ahead. Can’t be sure. Makes me wonder. If that’s something to worry about. --Jim Broede

Better than being lonely.

Hard for me to accept. That I am a very low life form. Yes, a human being. Of course, I pretend. That humans are very, very intelligent. Superior to any other form of life. That makes me feel blessed. And fortunate. That I'm not a mere cat or dog. Or a low-life vermin. But I suspect that there are infinitesimal layers of intelligent life. And we humans are on a very low plateau. So low, that higher forms of life wouldn't even bother trying to communicate with us. Meanwhile, I'm speculating. That after death, I'll be elevated. Rising to the next level of intelligence. And that after a life span on that level -- I'll keep ascending. Forever. That seems like a neat and orderly way to go. Maybe the creator, himself, is at the very top of the pyramid. Not sure if he allows others to share the top with him. But if he's a nice guy, he'll make room. Better than being lonely for the rest of his life. --Jim Broede

Coping with life and death.

I need occasional reminders. To not get too far ahead  of myself. When I begin to feel out of sorts. Or a little insecure. Or anxious. Worried. That usually means I'm thinking about tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month. I'm in serious trouble if I'm thinking ahead to next year. I'm happiest. When focused on today. On what I'm doing now. Means being  fully absorbed in the moment. The one that I'm actually living.  Not on a future. With a potential for being bleak. I'll deal with the future. When the future becomes now. So far, I've always found ways to cope. With the perils of life. That's a good sign. Come to think of it. The only time when coping becomes impossible. Is when I'm dead. And even death is probably a form of coping. --Jim Broede

Without the least bit of shame.

I've become a hatchery. For dumb ideas. Because I allow myself. To think of every and everything. No idea is too dumb for me. I test everything. That emerges. In my noggin. Ideas simply blossom. Out of nowhere. And that doesn't frighten me. Because it seems so natural. That I have become a hatchery. For dumber and dumber ideas. They come. Without the least bit of shame. --Jim Broede

Suddenly, I'm feeling prehistoric.

I wonder. Why do I want to live forever? Maybe I don't. After giving the matter thought. As I get older. I begin to see the ramifications. Of everlasting life. For me, that is. Fine. If  the human species survives. Forever. But even that may be a bad idea. Maybe humans evolve. Into something far better. For superior. Some evolutionists. Think that we humans emerged. From the sea. That we were fish. That learned to take to the land. Through evolution. And that so far, we've become glorified apes. And who knows? What we might become. In another billion years. And here I am. Today. An example. Of  the current stage of evolution. That will some day be considered prehistoric. --Jim Broede

The first and only sleep writer.

I could spend the whole day. At my desk. Writing. For 24 hours. And I suspect. It would be a relaxing endeavor. I don't do it. Only because I want more balance in my life. But still. I find time. Daily. To write and write and write some more. Not stories. But thoughts.  I'd like to be known as a thoughtful writer. Capable, for instance, of writing impulsive love letters. To my amore mio. At any time of day or night. I get up. At 3 in the morning. To write. Because it's better than sleeping. Sometimes, I wonder. If I could write in my sleep. I've heard of sleep walkers. But not sleep writers.  Maybe I could become the first. Imagine that. Jim, the world's first and only sleep writer. --Jim Broede

The power of positive writing.

Writing. It's my best form of therapy. A way to control my mind. Let's say, I'm having a bout of anxiety. I swing into action. By writing about what may be causing my anxiety. Perhaps in an analytical way. That helps me understand the root of the problem. And how to deal with it. In an effective manner. That makes me feel less anxious. If I'm feeling sad. Maybe for good reason. I can still switch gears. And write about something that makes me happy. Yes, a change of focus. That's all it takes to get me on to a positive track. I may set off a chain reaction. Writing about 10 things that tend to make me happy. I'm encouraging my depression-riddled friend Julie. To try this approach. To put positive thoughts. Down on paper. Or on the computer screen. Forcing the mind to see a way out of her funk. It's a way to talk to one's self. And to take better control of one's life. With the power of positive writing. I talk to Julie. To plant ideas. To get her out of depression. Sometimes, it works. Other times, it doesn't. I tell Julie, too. That she could take the initiative. By writing. Every day. About what's on her mind. And then picking  and choosing. Between negative thoughts. And positive thoughts.  Grasping the thought most likely to make her day. Yes, positive writing is my salvation. No reason why it can't be Julie's. --Jim Broede

An aging Methuselah.

If I were healthy. Physically. Mentally, too. I could stand living. As me. For a long, long time. Maybe 1,000 years. It would be fun. I could be happy. As long as I didn't have an  incapacitating physical ailment. Sure, I dream of being spirit. With no physical limitations. But I can tolerate physical existence.  There's something nice about it. When one is well. Physically. And mentally. Maybe even as an old man. If there really was a Methuselah. And he lived to 900 and something. Makes me wonder. What he looked like. At various ages. Could he have passed for a relative young 750 when he was 900? --Jim Broede

Time to intervene.

Maybe I should do as Julie does. Take to my bed. For extraordinarily long stretches. For full days.  Not to be seen sometimes for three days. To not even get up to eat. Makes me wonder if she even goes to the bathroom. Anyway, if I mimic Julie and stay in bed for days on end. Maybe that would help me. To better understand. How Julie feels. Maybe I'd be surprised. And feel well-rested. But I doubt it. I'd want to get out and about. I'd be tired of being in bed. But still, Julie persists. She stays and stays and stays. That isn't a normal way to live. In bed virtually all of the time. Therefore, it's easy to conclude. Julie ain't normal. So, what are we concerned observers to do about it? I'll tell you what I'd do. If I were in charge. I'd take Julie to a hospital. For evaluation. And treatment. For complete physical and mental exams. Wouldn't matter how much resistance she'd put up. Julie isn't capable of making her own rational decisions any more.  It's time to intervene. --Jim Broede

How does Julie find sadness?

I feel good about myself. When I write. Maybe that's why I write.  To feel good. I am encouraging my mentally downtrodden friend Julie. To write, write, write endlessly. But she won't do it. Because it's too difficult. Maybe a sign that she doesn't want to be happy. All she has to do. Is pick up a pen. Or go to the computer. And put down words. That come to mind.  Naturally. I'm sure. They would be significant words. With meaning. Enough to stimulate her mind. I'd read them. To better understand. What's going on in Julie'e mind. I allow people to see into my mind. Because I want to. So they can learn. How I find happiness. I'm curious about Julie. I want to know how she finds sadness. That would be helpful. In finding a cure for her sadness. --Jim Broede

The ones in need of care.

Maybe I'm better off. By trying to save myself. First. Rather than saving others. Because then I'm still around. To attempt to save others. To show empathy. And concern. And understanding. Only then do I qualify as a legitimate caregiver. If I can't care for myself, how am I do care for others? I know so many would-be caregivers. That are failures. Because they haven't adequately cared for themselves. They have fallen by the wayside. They are the ones in need of care. --Jim Broede

My latest whim: To be a puppeteer.

The most excruciating experience. Can be watching someone else die. Someone that could be saved. But has no desire to be saved. Because he/she has lost the desire to live. Due to a blend of anxiety, grief, depression. One tries to pull them out of their funk. To inspire them. To rebound. And to fall in love again. I'm told. That it's best to show empathy, kindness, understanding. All the usual therapeutic motions. And to allow the sufferer to bottom out. To the point. That they finally recognize. That they really want to live. And get well again. Some do. Some don't. Too often, it's up to them. Unless, of course, an observer to all this becomes a puppeteer. A puller of puppet strings. Come to think of it. That's what I want to be. A puppeteer. And a teller of stories with happy endings. Then life no longer need be full of excruciating and sad experiences. --Jim Broede

Living. In grand style. To the end.

The ideal life. In my old age. I could make it happen. If I can survive. Healthy. Into my 80s. I'd change my residence. Every three months. A quarter year in Sardinia. With my Italian amore mio. Then three months. Back here. In Minnesota. Followed by another three months in Sardinia. Then back to Minnesota again. A perfect way to live out the rest of my life. Before I drop dead. Knowing that I lived life. In grand style. Right up to the end. --Jim Broede

Putting life and death in perspective.

I don't feel right. Don't know exactly what it is. Maybe it's the heart palpitations. I've had them off and on. All my life. It's supposed to be a benign condition. But because I had angioplasty in January. I'm bothered. Worried. Probably not any more than I worried. Decades ago. When I went through frequent bouts of palpitations. But now I'm more aware. Of my heart condition. Fact is. I now qualify as an 'old man.' Because I'm nearing 80. That's when the customary 'old' begins. I'm thinking. That maybe I am supposed to feel old. So I take more notice of any aches or pains. Thing is. I keep trying to push myself. Like walking 10 miles a day. To prove, maybe, that I'm really not so old, after all. Maybe that's a mistake. I should slow down. Do less. I should act more my age.  An old man. I don't relish the idea of dying. Never have.  In my younger days, though, I could easily speculate that I still had half of my life ahead  of me. I can't do that any more. Hard to think that I might even have another 10 years left. That seems like too little. But I know, realistically, that the odds aren't good. That I will ever see 90. Or 85, for that matter. Every time I go to the doctor, I begin to wonder. Will they discover that I have a serious illness? As if heart disease isn't enough. Best bet is not to think all that much about it. And just get on with living. As if I was 39. Though it helps to speculate. To dream. About life after death. In another dimension. Or about reincarnation. Anything I can imagine. Is a possibility. Maybe that's how we humans cope. With the thought of our demise. I prefer that word. Over death. I have the advantage. Of being able to write about stuff like this. That helps me put life and death in an acceptable perspective. --Jim Broede

Far easier than dying.

So many ways to commit suicide.  Ways that don't get classified as true suicides. Because they look like natural deaths. I suspect the choice of many. Is anxiety. Yes, people that worry themselves to death. I suspect that's the way my mother went. She was a worrier. In a constant state of  high anxiety.  Of course, she lived to 88. Which would seem to refute my premise. Of suicide. But if she had quit worrying. Maybe she would have celebrated her 101st birthday. On Feb. 20. My friend Julie. Worries far too much, too. And flits into depression. Worry probably has shaved years off her life already.  But it's not too late. For Julie to turn things around. By searching long and hard. For happiness. Making living far easier than dying. --Jim Broede

One dream after another. Forever.

Talking about death. That's one way to cope.  With averting anxiety. Doing what comes naturally. Trying to understand the ramifications of death. One really doesn't know. For certain. Venturing into the unknown. That can be scary. But thrilling, too. Like the explorer. Who discovered the Grand Canyon. Maybe one becomes awestruck. With death. Maybe there's absolute nothingness. As if one had never been born. No memory. Of anything. Eternal sleep. Or does one dream. Of being alive and conscious again. One dream after another. Forever. --Jim Broede

The humor. In dying.

I have to learn to accept my mortality. Without going into anxiety. Accepting the fact. That I am going to die. Eventually. That's why I get nervous. When I go to doctors. Knowing that sooner or later. They will discover something. That will lead to my demise. My death. Of course, there's a plus side. Discover a potentially troublesome condition in the early stage, and it's possible to nip the problem in the bud. Thing is. That only delays death. I have to learn acceptance. And not jump to premature conclusions. That hasten my death. But that's far easier said than done. Everything becomes easier. If I learn to accept death. That it could come at any time. And that worrying about it, does me no good. And quite possibly grievous harm. So, how do I go about. Controlling my anxiety. My fear. Of dying. Maybe it's that death isn't the worst thing that could happen. Death may be entry into another form of life. And consciousness.  I can look at it as an adventure. Makes me wonder if that was on my father's mind. When he committed suicide. Or was he wishing for a return to absolute nothingness. To the end of time. Maybe for him. Better that than eternal unhappiness. Eternal anxiety. As I approach age 80. I know. I am running out of time. I am thankful. That I have lasted this long. When reading the obituaries. More and more, I notice. Most of the deaths. Are of people. Younger than me. More reminders. Of my impending death. Now I'm starting to see humor. In all of this. In dying. --Jim Broede

A taste of their own putrid medicine.

Unfortunately, when I take on politicians. I'm forced to descend. Into the gutter. Because that's where most politicians reside. Especially the ones I want to fight. So I resort to gutter tactics. I counter gutter politics with gutter language. With insults. Of course, I don't particularly like the dirt and grime in the gutter environment. When I'm in Rome, I do as the Romans. Which doesn't bother me. Because the Romans are mostly nice people. And when I'm in the gutter, I start acting like the gutter dwellers. Yes, that's shameful. Doesn't make me proud. But that's the way it is. Otherwise, it wouldn't be a fair fight. I force the politicians to taste their own putrid medicine. --Jim Broede

He's either lying. Or he's stupid.

I love America more than Rudolph Giuliani. Of course, that's easy. Because Giuliani is a goofball.  A politician. Who doesn't know how to measure love. He thinks it's good enough to merely proclaim love. To simply go through the motions. To pretend that one is a super patriot.  Because he's a conservative Republican.  Believing in America uber alles. Unconditionally. Just like Hitler did. Only that was in behalf of Deutschland. I abhor such declarations. Because they are political. That ain't love. At least when it comes to country. I can love another human being. Unconditionally. But not a country unconditionally. I draw a line. Because too many countries can be inhumane. And when that happens. I renounce my love. Until my country shapes up. And meets humane standards. For me, that's the real test of true love of country. Of true patriotism.  It comes conditionally.  Thing is. I stick around. And oppose nonsense. The rants of a Giuliani.  Who proclaims that he's a better lover of America than Barack Obama. Now that's a preposterous statement. Giuliani is either lying. Or he's plain stupid. --Jim Broede

Reason to marvel.

I have more physical aches and pains. Than I used to. And if I strain a muscle. Takes longer to heal. I'm chalking it up to age. People are starting to call me 'old man.' I take it in a humorous vein. But seriously, I'm getting older. Every day. And it has me a bit concerned. Don't like the idea of a deteriorating body. Especially if the mind starts to go, too. Anyway, I'm going on the premise. Use it, or lose it. Therefore, I make a concerted effort. Daily. To exercise. Both my mind and body. Even if that causes me pain. Another credo. No pain, no gain. Used to be that I had to really exert myself. To cause pain. Now all I have to do is think about growing old. Causes me mental anguish. But hey, it's reason to marvel. That I've come this far in life. --Jim Broede

My specialty: Happy thoughts.

I allow myself to think. Virtually any thought. Good or bad. But mostly fascinating. Routinely dismissing bad thoughts.  Embracing the good ones. And often cherishing the fascinating stuff. I'm able to be selective. If a thought bothers me. Such as a fearful thought. I try to convince myself. That there's nothing to fear.  Usually, I'm able to do that. Thing is. I have a vivid imagination. Maybe that's why fear occasionally enters my thought process. But I also can use my imagination to put a rein on fear. Creating schemes that overcome fear. Simply because it's not good to be fearful. Often, I'm able to ignore my fears. That's a solution. Maybe not the best. But it's adequate. Gets me by. Meanwhile, I tend to be happy and upbeat and positive. Comes as no surprise. To me. Because I specialize. In happy thoughts. --Jim Broede

Beauty...in one's inner nakedness.

I'm supposed to respect privacy. More than I do. Or so I'm told. By some people who fear going naked into the world. Thing is. Some people are embarrassed. By their inner nakedness.  Seems to me that stifles their being. Therefore, I encourage them to open up. Almost forcing the issue. By writing about them. In public forums. I respect their privacy. To a degree. Often giving them pseudonyms.  Or using only the first name. But they may still  be recognizable. To friends. And associates. If I wrote short stories Or novels. So-called fiction. I'd use them. In creative ways. As characters. In good ways. In bad ways, too. To tell the story. I know all kinds of people. Some constructive. Others destructive. I wish them all the best. Unfortunately, not every life turns out to be glamorous. But nearly all the time. I find beauty...in one's inner nakedness. --Jim Broede

The unhappiest find happiness.

I wonder about people who continually refuse to be happy. Instead, they dwell on whatever it is that make them lament. They prefer living in a funk. Take my sister, for instance. She spent most of her life in a state of agitation and depression. Flagellating herself. I suspect it all started with our father's suicide. When she was 9 years old. Could be she was always in search of a father figure. Maybe that's why she entered three abusive marriages. She became submissive. To her husbands. In search of a father figure. Don't know for sure. It's speculation on my part. I suspect, too, that she had suicidal tendencies. Like father. But she was choosing a slow form of suicide. Punishing herself. Via low self-esteem. With unhealthy practices. Drinking to excess. Chain-smoking. Not really caring if she lived. The good news. About 10 years ago, in her 60s, she decided it was time to truly live. And turned her life around. Sort of picking herself up. By the boot straps. She quit smoking. Quit drinking. Cold turkey. Maybe it was an event. She fell asleep  On the couch. In a drunken stupor.  Cigarette in hand. Burned the house down. Fortunately, she escaped. And just like that. In a snap of the fingers. She decided it was time to get things right. She had bottomed out. On Feb. 20, she celebrated her 76th birthday. I would never have guessed. That she would live this long. She's still in reasonably good health. Albeit, in a wheelchair. Having lost a leg. Due to circulatory problems. But she has a remarkably clear head. And she seems to have found happiness. If not a father. Yes, makes me wonder. About life's strange twists. Give it time. And some of the unhappiest people find happiness. --Jim Broede

About life and existence.

The fact. That I am aware of my existence. Able to get up. In the middle of the night. To contemplate/ponder the meaning of life. That is amazing. And that I have a layman's grasp. Of the cosmos. Of the possibilities of billions of galaxies.  And an infinitesimal number of planets. With life forms. And that we humans. Have enough technical knowledge. To send a spacecraft beyond our solar system. And to land space probes on Mars. Sending back video pictures. And that humans have set foot on the moon. Yes, amazed. Awed. The proper word hasn't yet been invented. And here I am. Griping. Just the other day. About feeling inundated. And perplexed. When bombarded. With too much information. Too much knowledge. Really, I don't mean it. I have too little knowledge. About my existence. And the meaningfulness of it all. But that's why I exist. Why I am alive and conscious. Why I am able to carry on conversations. Not only with myself. In the middle of the night. But with other physical beings. Some of whom I dearly love. Not only in physical ways. But spiritual ways, too. I am flabbergasted. Momentarily. But that doesn't stop me. From finding words. To express what I feel. About life and existence.   -Jim Broede

I'm available.

A good day. Occurs when I'm completely and fully absorbed in the day. In the activity of the moment. It's as if I'm wearing blinders.  Focused on what's ahead of me. I may even lose track of time. Maybe that's as close as one gets. To living outside of time. In a domain where time is meaningless.  Hard to imagine such. But I'm trying. To imagine the creator of the cosmos. Living outside of time. If so, is he able to observe his creation? And make fixes. Fine tuning.  Maybe the creator created time. For the purpose of having a beginning and an ending. For his creation. Playing it safe. Just in case he botched the job. Maybe this was merely a trial run. And the creator plans on starting all over. Sooner or later.  With a more perfect model. If so, I wonder what changes he has in mind. And will he ask any of us for advice? I'm available. --Jim Broede

A timely spiritual existence.

Wondering. What it would feel like. To live outside of time. Not sure if I could adjust. To the sensation. Maybe it would be equivalent to death. Timelessness means no beginning and no end. One would no longer be able to measure life. I've often wished. To live outside of time. But that could be a curse. One would have to live without a yesterday or a tomorrow. Maybe the only way to feel genuinely alive is to exist inside the framework of time. As a functioning physical being. But better yet. As a non-physical spirit. With essentially the same functioning capacities as one has in the physical life form. The ability to move about and to be cognizant. Able to see and comprehend the physical world. Able to communicate. Without the usual physical limitations. Plus the opportunity to live forever. Inside of time. Indeed, I could readily adjust. To such a timely spiritual existence. --Jim Broede

Crazy...in delightful ways.

The difference. I told a compatriot today. Is in our individual definitions of crazy. It's perfectly fine. To be my kind of crazy. I see us all as crazy. Mostly, nicely crazy. Good crazy. My compatriot's perception of crazy. Is a shameful sort. Reason to be embarrassed.  I live in an insane asylum. That is my definition of the world. A gigantic insane asylum. Full of crazy people. And you know what? I like much of what I see.  Around me. Not everything, of course. But enough to make me happy. And to acknowledge the truth. We're all crazy. Fortunately, many of us in delightful ways. --Jim Broede

On living a glamorous life.

Don't need all that much. To make my day. Merely sit down at the computer. And write a thought. On how to glamorize my life. For instance. By looking to my right. Out the sliding glass doors. To a sea of white. A carpet of snow. As far as one can see. Over the deck. Across the yard. Atop the frozen lake. A fine backdrop. For the skeletal leafless trees. As I listen to classical music. For meditation. Played softly. As I nibble on a cinnamon scone.  And sip a cold glass of milk. Still in my pajamas and a flannel robe. Knowing it's time to open the door to Loverboy's room. So that a loving cat. Can come to my lap. And purrfectly say, 'Good morning.' Yes, I am convinced. Beyond a doubt. That I am living a glamorous life. --Jim Broede

Being aware of it.

Boris may not know it. Yet. But he's had an interesting and fascinating life. Merely being born. In exotic St. Petersburg. Can be construed. As glamorous. Some day, Boris may think of it that way. And here he is. In Minnesota. A Russian transplant. In America.  Even his name, Boris. Gives him distinction. I could write about Boris. About seemingly little things. In his life. Now it's up to Boris. To give it all. Meaning. To recognize. That he's been blessed. By circumstance. Not the least. Being that he is Boris. And I am blessed, too. For having crossed the path of Boris. And of being aware of it. --Jim Broede

Turns out. Boris is Russian.

I was at a medical clinic today. For a routine procedure. Involving ultra sound. The technician told me his name. Boris. 'Sounds Russian,' I said. Sure enough. He was Russian. Came to the U.SA. 20 years ago. Speaks like an American now. He came from St. Petersburg. My gosh, I thought. How wonderful. To have grown up in such a fantastic and historic city. Asked him if he liked St. Petersburg. No, he didn't. Confessed that he didn't like anything about Russia.  And I thought, what a shame. I've never been to Russia. But I'm sure I'd like it. Especially St. Petersburg. I told Boris. I have a dream. Of going to St. Petersburg. Some day. Where I'll meet and converse with Russians. Possibly named Boris. --Jim Broede

Too much to think about?

Maybe ignorance prevails more. Today. In the so-called modern era. Than it did in old times. Long ago. Because we are inundated with information. More than one can handle. And deal with. I can pick and choose. From multiple options. When it comes to forming my beliefs. Propaganda abounds. I don't have to think for myself. I can let Fox News or MSNBC control my mind. With sound bites. And not pursue meaningful thought.  Easier to feel entertained. Rather than informed. If I lived in isolation. On a desert island. Or in a cocoon. With maybe a true love. Or a friend or two. It would be easier to focus on a meaningful relationship. Including the spiritual. Perhaps the modern era spreads me too thin. Could it be that I have far too much to think about? --Jim Broede

When ignorance was bliss.

Occasionally. I think too much. About what might go wrong. When that happens, I slap myself in the face.  And start thinking about the stuff likely to go right. Makes me wonder. Why I have negative thoughts at all. Maybe it's that I observe. And tune in the news on radio and TV. And read newspapers. Full of reports. Of so many things that went wrong. Wars. Political skirmishes. Natural disasters. Makes me yearn. For times long ago. When there was no mass media. And one lived in relative isolation. When ignorance was bliss. --Jim Broede

Equal treatment for the mentally ill.

I'd like to bring back mental institutions. Sanitariums. Where people are kept for weeks. Maybe months.  To solve their mental health issues. Places where they would get intensive daily therapy. Mental institutions were abandoned. Decades ago. In favor of community-based, out-care treatment. Which often seems insufficient. Too many things can go wrong. Too many people get worse. Not better. They need relatively long-term treatment. In an institution-setting. Where the care is complete and thorough. I'd also make it easier to get the mentally disturbed committed. To treatment. Against their will, if necessary.  I wish there were a full-fledged mental institution in my community.  I'd work hard. To have my dear friend Julie volunteer to go in. But if she didn't, I'd try to make a case for her to be committed. Involuntarily. For her own good. Of course, that would raise hackles. With lovers of individual freedom. Claiming that even nut cases should be allowed to be nuts. As long as they do no harm to others. But I could argue that Julie is doing harm. To herself. And that indirectly does harm to her loved ones, and friends. Anyway, the mentally ill will always be with us. And they deserve to be treated better. Just as well as the physically ill. They have physical care hospitals. And opportunities. For extended stays. The mentally ill deserve equal treatment. In mental care hospitals. --Jim Broede

Give me a 'no mercy' mouse-killer.

My dear cat Loverboy is far too nice. He needs a vicious streak. A killer instinct. When it comes to dealing with mice, he's far  too docile. Doesn't earn his keep. Apparently, he thinks mice have a right to life. Of course, I disagree. When they come into my house. I want them out. Pronto. And if they don't leave on their own. I bring in lethal force. Caught two mice in traps last night. I had Loverboy on mouse patrol. But that was useless. Wouldn't surprise me if he became pals with the mice. Yes, he is a true loverboy. Even loves my enemies. Years ago, I had a cat named Buchta. Could just as well have been called Kid Vicious. When Buchta spotted a mouse, it was doomsday.  He'd sit up all night. Waiting for the mouse to venture out of hiding from behind the washing machine. The mouse didn't stand a chance. Loverboy's mate, Chenuska, was put to sleep this winter. After attaining the ripe age of 20-something. She wasn't feeling good. Being ravaged by the effects of old age. Sooner or later, I'll recruit a new companion for Loverboy. But the last thing this abode needs is a Lovergirl. Give me a 'no mercy' mouse-killer. --Jim Broede

No sense. In inviting trouble.

I am able to take pain. Mental. Physical. When knowing that it's temporary. Yes. Healing pain. Throughout life. My pain has been temporary. Because I overcome. For my own sake. For my right to be happy. And in love. I am not to be deterred. Though the time may come.  When I can no longer overcome. But I'll handle the situation. Only when I have to. Until then, everything is theoretical.  No sense. In inviting trouble. --Jim Broede

The caring problem.

I guess. About what's going on in people's minds. Sometimes, I don't want to know. Better to steer clear. Better to know my own mind. But still. I am curious. About people. Especially strangers. Because I come from a distance. From a sideline. As an observer. Without having to care.  Other than for curiosity's sake. When I begin to care. That poses a problem. --Jim Broede

Ever-changing.

I wonder. How many of us. Don't know who or what we are. I suppose that's all right. Because we are in the process. Of evolving. I know who I am. At the moment. But I'm changing, too. I'm not static. If I remember correctly. The philosopher. Martin Buber. Surmised that conservative personalities always want to know. Exactly where they are. At all times.  Liberals, meanwhile, are in  a constant state of flux. And that makes them comfortable. They're in one place today. Another tomorrow. Ever-changing. Adapting. To the life situation. --Jim Broede

I am. What I was meant to be.

Once upon a time, it was difficult for me to believe anything. I was skeptical about everything. Religion. Philosophy. Science. Thought for a while I'd go through life without any firm beliefs. About truth. About the meaningful stuff of life.  And then I decided to make my own truth. To start believing what I really wanted to believe. About the essence of life. Without absolute proof. Based mostly on faith. Not what I was told to believe. By others. Rather what I inherently wanted to believe. From within my being. I let my instincts take over. When it comes to ascertaining the truth. I know with certainty. Beyond any doubt. That I was meant to be a lover and a dreamer. Therefore, that became my mission. Almost without trying. It was to be my destiny. And I was to just go with the flow. And let it all happen. Naturally. Without resistance. And sure enough. Love and dreams have taken over my life. I am. What I was meant to be. --Jim Broede

In eternal bliss.

I know very little about so-called string theories. But I gather. Maybe stupidly. That some string theorists speculate that life may exist in many, many dimensions. Maybe even in a non-physical dimension. Where spirits thrive. Yes, a spiritual dimension. Which goes against physical science. Or more precisely, beyond physical science. Don't know if there's anything to it. But I speculate that human knowledge is in the infancy stage. And there is much yet to learn. Therefore, I am permitted to jump to conclusions. Instinctively.  And declare. Yes, beyond a doubt. There is a spirit world. And that is where I will go. Some day. And thrive. In eternal bliss. --Jim Broede

My soulful imagination.

If I let my imagination run rampant. It results in good stuff. Almost all the time. Though it's also possible to trigger bouts of anxiety. If negative thoughts creep in. But that's a price worth paying. For the overwhelming good and positive thoughts. I've trained my imagination. To be fanciful. To bring me pleasure. And peace of mind. My imagination. Cavorts. With spirits.  So easy. Because I am part spirit. My soul. Embedded. In my flesh. Exists. As evidence. Of a spiritual dimension. Beyond the physical. Makes me wonder. Which is the real me. The spirit or the flesh. Nothing wrong. With being both. For the moment. Makes me happy. Pleased. That I am indestructible. My soulful imagination will never let me die. --Jim Broede

The secret.

The world is full of so many mentally disturbed  and hateful people. And I wonder. What to do about it. I have no solution. Other than to try to avoid the sick and hateful people. Because there's not much else I can do.  Other than focus on the nice and loving people.  And ignore all the bad ones. And to be thankful. That I'm a lucky guy. For mostly being in the right place at the right time. Every day is a reasonably good day. In and around my cocoon. Maybe that's the secret for attaining a happy life. Hiding out. In one's cocoon. --Jim Broede

Into a perfect balance.

I tell my amore mio. We have something in common. We always want to feel very, very good. Physically. And if we don't, it throws us off track. Mentally. That's the problem with being a physical being. We are too aware of our physical existence. All it takes is a stiff neck, a headache. A sore muscle. A little bit of fatigue. And we immediately go into the discomfort mode. Maybe even into a mental funk. Best bet is to ignore the minor aches and pains. And get on with life. And, above all, get adequate rest. Last night, I felt tired. At 10 minutes to nine. So I did the wise thing. Went to bed. Now I'm up. At midnight. Trying to get into a writing rhythm. Really, I should just go back to bed. Maybe listen to some music. And pretend I'm floating on my back. Maybe aboard a drifting cloud. I find myself. Trying to relax my mind. First and foremost. When I should really start with by body. My physique. That will put my mind at ease. We live in a physical world. More so than in a spiritual world. Maybe some day the balance will shift in the other direction. For now, I'll try to blend the two. Nicely. Into a perfect balance. --Jim Broede

The case for matter over mind.

I've always preached mind over matter. But now I'm wondering. If it should be matter over mind. We are physical beings. Primarily. So our mission should be to adapt. To the physical world.  Maybe that's how to achieve peace of mind. If we ignore the physical. We do it. At peril. To the detriment of the mind. Thus, it's important to get more than adequate physical rest. That should be one's priority. First and foremost.  Then everything else will fall into place. In neat order. --Jim Broede

Like I had god-like status.

Really, doesn't take much to make me happy. Merely being alive and conscious. And feeling good. Physically. That always puts me in a positive mental frame of mind. Makes me feel blessed. Physicality. That's a significant part of my life. Obviously. Because this is a physical world. If I could be a spirit. And continue to be alive and conscious. And still able to move about. And commune with other spirits. Well, that would be splendid. Ample reason for me to be happy. Especially because I would not have to fear physical demise any more. I'd have a new-found sense of freedom. Like I had god-like status. --Jim Broede

Leaving the rest of the world be.

I try to get people to go naked into the world. Without shame. Being their true selves. Without embarrassment. Doesn't matter what other people think. But maybe that's impractical. It matters. Because people are unfairly judgmental.  That's reality. The way the world and society function. I like to pretend. That I live in an ideal world.  When I know better.  I'm willing to take more risks. Than most people. Others want to play it more safe.  And I can't blame them. They would rather hide. Behind facades. Or wear masks. I wonder. If that's what I should do. Go into hiding. Retreat to my cocoon. And leave the rest of the world be. --Jim Broede

With an unshackled spirit.

Thinking tonight. That I do dance. Inwardly. With my spirit. With my soul. And with the spirits of other people. I dance. To the music of Mozart and Haydn and Beethoven. Their spirits live. Inside me. I am moved. Enamored.  By their spirits.  I don't make music. Don't compose. I don't play an instrument. Or sing. But I feel their music. The music of other souls. Maybe even when I was a baby. Certainly when I was an adolescent.  Spirits are living. All around me. They goad me on. To find meaning. In life. In love. Great artists. Are also technicians. In the physical sense. They have mastered technique. I have no desire to be a technician. I leave that to others. Better that I absorb the vibrations. And make spiritual love. With feeling. With passion. From within. With an unshackled spirit. --Jim Broede

Enough to get me by.

You'd be disappointed in me. If you saw me try to physically navigate the dance floor. I can dance. Nimbly. Gracefully. Like a lover. In my imagination. As a spirit. But as a physical being. An actual performer of the dance. I am a miserable failure. I settle for dancing. In my dreams. Sure. Tell me I can learn to dance. No. No. It is impossible. I am deficient. I can walk and run. Nimbly and  athletically. Like a gazelle. With amazing endurance. And dexterity. But to dance. That is something else. Call me deprived. But I find ways to make up for it. With words that dance. I exploit my strengths. To compensate for my weaknesses/deficiencies.  Another thing. I can't sing. But I write poetry. That dances. And sings, too. Enough to get me by. --Jim

Better to be crazy than fearful.

Read a love column. In the New York Times. Probably was appropriate for Valentine's Day. When the columnist was young. He went abroad. To Barcelona. His path crossed that of a young Spanish woman. He was immediately smitten. Based on looks and some magical vibes, I guess. Because he didn't speak Spanish. Told himself that he was going to return some day. To Barcelona. And marry this woman. To make it more likely. When he returned home. To the U.S. He enrolled in a Spanish class. Quickly learned to speak Spanish. Returned to Barcelona. Proposed to the woman. In Spanish, of course. Anyway, it worked.  She accepted. They've been married 23 years, and counting.  The columnist went on to talk about love.  And the impulsive nature of love. Prompts one to do some crazy stuff. Certainly, that's true for me. Thank gawd. I've fallen in love twice.  And I did some crazy things. To woo my true loves. And both of my loves had to be crazy, too. To hook up with me. I'm crazy. And I need a crazy woman. The columnist, incidentally, believes that  the opposite of love. Isn't hate. Instead, it's fear. The true lover proceeds. Fearlessly. Relentlessly.  In pursuit of love. And happiness. That takes over his entire being. The fearful never fall in love. Never pursue the impossible dream. Of finding true love. Maybe there's something to it. Better to be crazy than fearful. --Jim Broede

Maybe tomorrow.

Reason to mark the calendar. I had a Julie sighting today. Julie is in depression. Mostly because she's grieving. Over the loss of her parents. Anyway, people in depression tend to be reclusive. They go to bed. And hide out there. For long, long periods. I hadn't seen Julie in three days. Though I was over several times. Each day. To fetch Julie's dog Sasha. For our daily workouts. In an ideal world, Julie would take Sasha for walks. But things ain't exactly ideal for Julie. I'm trying to coax her. Into bouts of upbeat thoughts. But that's difficult. Especially if I hardly ever see her. I insisted on seeing Julie today. I kidded her. That I was beginning to suspect husband Rick of foul play. Anyway, I rejoiced. At seeing Julie alive. Even though she didn't look well. She's gaunt.  And looks tired. Obviously, going to bed is no cure-all. For depression. Meanwhile, I hugged Julie. In accord with advice. Received. On this message board. From w/e. It was good advice. Unfortunately, Julie needs more than hugs.  A good start would be a physical exam. And psychotherapy. Rick and I are working on it. Have been. Forever, it seems. Almost long enough to drive both of us into depression. As some of you know. I'm the eternal optimist. Some day, Julie will be on the road to recovery.. Maybe starting tomorrow. --Jim Broede

Feels so good. To be silly.

When accused of being silly. I take it as a compliment. My amore mio. And others. Frequently tell me. I'm acting silly. Yes, it's often an act. But it's real, too. No pretending. I was born to be silly. Therefore, I go ahead. And accept my silly role. Without shame. Without regrets. With pleasure. With relish. That makes me entertaining. And best of all. It's contagious. My friends and associates start to act silly. We go for hours. Pursuing life in silly fashion. I pursue silliness. In large part. When I'm with friends that tend to be in the doldrums. It works. They snicker. And eventually lose themselves. In laughter.  It feels so good. To be silly. --Jim Broede

Find ways to love thyself.

Maybe we are too cautious. In dealing with people in depression. By being too loving. By allowing them to wallow in their discomfort. Sometimes, I'd rather confront them. At the risk of alienation. I want to get to the heart of the matter. The troubling reasons. Why they find it so difficult to cope with life. As a friendly psychotherapist, I not only want to listen attentively to their laments. But I also want to find ways to get them to start thinking in positive ways. Maybe through humor. For them to see the funny side of their plight. To laugh. At themselves. Maybe that's why they are in trouble. They've lost their sense of humor. I find that an effective approach. With Julie.  I don't hesitate telling Julie the raw and brutal truth. Because it's funny. And she knows it. She has fallen into a funk. Because she takes life far too seriously. She steadfastly refuses to have fun.  She's lost direction. Lost purpose. Lost the ability to love herself. Maybe that's more important than being loved by others. No doubt, Julie covets being loved. By husband Rick. By her friends. But the problem. As I see it. Is that Julie no longer loves herself. She's become a masochist. She flagellates herself. She's her own worst enemy. That's what I've been trying to tell Julie. Regain your confidence. Find ways to love thyself. That's paramount. --Jim Broede

Of spiritual dreams.

Nothing stops me from dreaming. And maybe that's when I'm in closest touch. With the spirit world. Including my own spirit. When it's free of physical shackles. And becomes the real me. The spiritual me. Now restrained. Perhaps by design. For a purpose. To make one appreciative. Of true freedom. As a totally free spirit. Living on the same plateau. As the creator. Himself. I play so many roles now. But I'm at my best. When I become the dreamer. Of spiritual dreams. --Jim Broede

The fearless spirit.

Maybe one gets too close to life's difficult situations. Better to step back. And look at the big picture. From afar. Like when one is in a labyrinth. Easy to find the way out. By elevating one's self. To see where one is going. From above. From a distance. So simple.  Astronauts are wowed. Seeing Mother Earth. From space. Strange thing. In my physical state, I'd hesitate traveling into space. For fear. But when I imagine being spirit. My attitude changes.  Dramatically. I'd go willingly. To another galaxy. Maybe that's the primary difference. Between physical and spiritual existence. The spirit is fearless. --Jim Broede

There are ways...

I've written about Julie before. Right here. Because she's a prime example. Of what happens to Alzheimer care-givers. That don't take adequate care of themselves. Maybe for admirable reasons.  Because they are saints. But that's not the case with Julie. She ain't a saint. And doesn't want to be. Her friends just want her to be Julie. The woman that existed before she took on the mammoth task of caring for her Alzheimer-riddled parents. In her own home. For six years. With a vital assist, of course, from husband Rick. I'm amazed. That the marriage lasted through all this. But it's a tribute. To a loving couple. Julie's mother died. About two years ago. Her father, however, lingers on. Now in a unique residential nursing home. Where he's well-adjusted. Because he gets the best of care.  Lots of one-on-one mental and physical therapy.  As close to ideal that it ever gets. For someone with Alzheimer's. Anyway, the worst of it should be over. For Julie. And Rick. But Julie needs psychotherapy. Because she hasn't adjusted. Hasn't recovered from her ordeal. She flits into bouts of anxiety and depression. I've seen it happen to other care-givers. I understand. They have become emotionally drained. And it's hard to bounce back. But it's not impossible. I've gotten on with life. After 13 years as a care-giver. I'm trying to tell Julie, and others in a similar dilemma. To seek help. Mentally. And physically. There are ways to return to normal and happy and well-adjusted living again. --Jim Broede

I work for free.

My dear friend Julie. She's in dire need of psychotherapy. But she's reluctant to go. For a variety of reasons. Maybe it's that she doesn't trust psychotherapists. But I suspect that she trusts me. So I'm going to offer Julie the opportunity of a lifetime. I'll become her psychotherapist. In just the right setting. I walk her dog, Sasha. Daily. Takes about 45 minutes. To traverse our two-mile route. Now, Julie has an invitation. To join us. A perfect time for psychotherapy. She can come. As often or as little as she wants. Believe me. She'll get good psychotherapy. The best. And she can't beat the cost. I work for free. --Jim Broede

I'm damn good at psychotherapy.

Don't get me wrong. I'm for psychotherapy. Nothing wrong. In finding ways. To better understand one's self. Good psychotherapy does that. I generally shun going to a psychotherapist. Well, that's not really true. I go. Almost daily.  Without leaving my domain. I'm my own best psychotherapist. I treat myself. By turning inward. And being honest with myself. Sure, I kid around a bit. But I face the truth. I'm able to be self-analytical. I diagnose my own problems. And deal with them. Though I don't mind living with some problems.  Because I'll never be perfect. But still, my life is manageable. Very much so. Anyway, I'd be wasting my time. If I went to the typical psychotherapist.  They are the ones in need of psychotherapy. That's the way they make their living.  That makes them suspect. I practice psychotherapy. Strictly, as an amateur. Treating mostly myself. But I don't hesitate practicing. On my friends and acquaintances. And believe me. I'm damn good at it. --Jim Broede

In the goodness of life.

I allow myself. To believe what I want to believe. Even the most preposterous stuff. In that sense, I'm like religious people. Though I'm not religious.  Some of 'em believe in so-called creationism. They disbelieve in evolution. And yes, they even believe in an afterlife. In a resurrection. They proclaim belief in a god. Though I suspect many of 'em have grave doubts. About everything. Though some may be true believers. They've convinced themselves. That they know the truth. Of course, I'm convinced that some are religious fanatics. Sick of mind. Especially when they start to kill. Not only disbelievers. But also those of the same ilk. In the name of their god. They are 100 percent crazy. And I mean bad crazy. Of course, I'm crazy, too. But in another direction. In good crazy. Because I'm not religious. Instead, I'm spiritual. I believe in the spirit. In love. I even believe in everlasting life. Though confessing. That I have doubts. But still, I spend my life. Trying damn hard. To believe what I want to believe. In the goodness of life. --Jim Broede

A good grasp of the situation.

Sat down with a psychotherapist today. For 45 minutes. And I won't go back.  Because he did me no good. I might just as well talk to myself. That's all I did. Talked to myself. For nearly the entire session. I do that all the time. No reason to have a psychotherapist in the room. I went to the session. To put the psychotherapist to a test. To see if he did me any good. He looked at his watch. Several times. Before telling me. I didn't need psychotherapy. That I have things pretty well figured out.   Yes, a good grasp of my situation. --Jim Broede

A funny thought.

I have funny thoughts. About life. And what it's all about. I suspect the same goes for you, too. But I'm different. Because I write about what's on my mind. In forums like this. It's my way of going naked in the world. Some of my friends go naked, too.  And let the world know what makes them tick. Without being embarrassed. I like that. I wish more people would go naked. Figuratively, of course. I'm attracted to people who go naked. That have nothing to hide. They go about living. By being themselves. They don't worry about being rejected. They are comfortable in their own skins. Doesn't matter if they have personal deficiencies. Knowing, after all, that nobody is perfect. We all have foibles. We make mistakes. But we forgive ourselves. Because we know how to learn. From our mistakes. And joyfully laugh about it. Now that's a funny thought. --Jim Broede

A totally free spirit.

Maybe I have to convince myself. To accept my mortality. My death. Perhaps to where I came from. Back into nothingness. As if I never lived. And thus settle for only an instant in time. That's difficult for me to accept.  But I have another choice. I can hold out hope. That I am living forever. That some how, some way, I will emerge again.  Alive. And vibrant. Maybe it's only that I imagined being physical. When really, I've been spirit all along. Encasing myself. In a virtual reality. In a physical dimension. And upon my physical demise, I will become.  Once again. A totally free spirit. --Jim Broede

As long as I'm in mindful control.

Losing control of one's mind. Maybe that's the major reason to see a psychotherapist. Makes me wonder. How does one know? That the mind is being lost. Maybe gradually.  My guess is that the mind fools itself. Not wanting to face the truth. Thus a false reality. Maybe that's the nature of the so-called happy life. The ability to glamorize one's existence. Some of us have it. Some don't. My presumption. People that go into depression, don't. They have lost a spark. A love for life. Maybe psychotherapy is a way to get back on a positive track. Maybe not. Maybe it's drug therapy. A readjustment of the chemical balance in one's blood. Maybe not. There's no sure-fire way to keep control of one's mind. Though I find it effective. To sit down. And capture my thoughts. In writing. A constant internal debate. A dialogue. With my soul. If I have one. And I can't be sure. Maybe it's an imagined soul. Maybe all of life is imagined. And one goes on living. Forever. In an imagined reality. Makes me wonder. If that's good enough for me. Probably is. As long as I'm in imaginative/mindful control. --Jim Broede

Unless a doctor tells me.

I hate doctors. Because they remind me. That I am vulnerable.  I'd hate to be a doctor. Because then I'd be an expert in illness. And with the first symptom, I'd become alarmed. And anxious. Doctors devise all sorts of tests. To obtain hints. Clues. Of something that might be wrong. Fact is. Nobody is in perfect health. Something is always awry. But the body often fixes itself. And one may never know. That something was wrong. Once upon a time. Unless a doctor tells me. --Jim Broede

Because. It's fun.

This is going to be fun. I'm off to the psychotherapist today. Normally, I dread going to doctors. For fear. That they will put me to tests. To find potential physical ailments. But one thing I don't fear. Being put to mental/psychological testing. Because. I am confident. That I can match wits with any psychotherapist.  That I can take charge. And find my way out of any mental labyrinth. Because. It's fun. --Jim Broede

Reminding myself. That I am in love.

Pretending. Romanticizing. Maybe that's how I spend much of my life. Glamorizing. The stuff that happens.  To me. And around me. Giving it particular upbeat meaning. That makes me feel good. And blessed. And in love. Nothing wrong with that.  Creating my own reality. For the sake of feeling happy. And contented.  On a daily basis. Yes, one day at a time. I can do that. If I don't get too far ahead of myself. Concentrating on now. The moment. Without concern for tomorrow. That's when I stop worrying/fretting. About something going wrong.  About what might happen. I find that unhappy people are generally focused on a bleak future.  Anticipating the worst. Meanwhile, I am constantly reminding myself. That I am in love. Now.  --Jim Broede

My delightful imaginary worlds.

I'd quit worrying. If I knew. For certain. That I would live forever. As a conscious, thinking being. My difficulty. Is coping with a sense of my mortality. That one of these days. I will no longer be. I'm at my temporary worry-free best. When I forget. That I'm going to die. The certainty of death means I have only a limited time. To get things right. If I had forever. I could take my time. Of course, I dream of forever. Under a variety of fanciful scenarios. Including survival in another dimension.  Other than physical.  Yes, all  sorts of spiritual possibilities. It's my form of psychotherapy. I create delightful imaginary worlds. --Jim Broede

Please forgive me.

I have advice for friends and associates. Don't take me too seriously. That's the way I like it. See humor. In virtually everything I say. Even if it's unintentional humor. Because I'm naturally funny. Especially when I try to be serious. That goes for most people. Anyway, I try not to take myself too seriously. But sometimes, that's hard. I can't help myself. I become pontifically serious. Indeed. Very, very funny. Sometimes, it's an act. Other times, I'm being a real ass. Please forgive me when that happens.  --Jim Broede

I have no shame.

I don't know anyone. Without foibles. Without personal blemishes. Everyone has shortcomings. Everyone is less than totally honest. Imperfect. So, NBC news anchor Brian Williams has lost some of his gloss. His trustworthiness. He's dropped from 23rd most trusted. To something like 835th. I'm amused by it all. Makes me wonder. Where I'd rank.  If I were a celebrity. It'd depend, I suppose, on how well I built my image. On how well I faked it. And duped the public. That's part of being a celebrity. Satisfying one's ego. Constructing a facade. Instead of being one's true self. It'd probably be easier for me. Than for others. Because I'm a natural born fool. An idiot. A nincompoop. A completely crazy man. I can't help being anything else.  I have no shame. --Jim Broede

The power behind the throne.

Nothing wrong. With playing the role of fool. Especially a court jester. Imagine. Making a living that way. Used to be.  Court jesters provided comic relief. For a busy king. Royalty could afford almost anything. And I'd like to work for a monarch.  That paid me well.  To make him laugh. Remember, this was before TV.  And radio. Or the Internet. Anyway, think of the responsibility.  The power one would have. By making a leader see the funny side of life. Maybe some fools were the power behind the throne. --Jim Broede

My 'foolish' ways.

I make a fool of myself. On a regular basis. Can't help it. Because I am a natural born fool. A silly or stupid person. One who lacks sense. A professional jester, formerly kept by a person of rank for amusement. I acknowledge. To fitting all of these 'fool' definitions, and more. I do some things impulsively. Without giving it much thought. That's how a fool operates. Many of my acquaintances are fools. But they seldom admit it. Easier to pretend. That they aren't fools. To avoid being embarrassed. --Jim Broede

Wishing, wishing and more wishing.

Wishful thinking. My life has been ruled, in large part, by my most fervent wishes. One, that I find happiness. Which I did. In 38 wonderful years of marriage. Until my dear Jeanne died. Of Alzheimer's. Then after that, I wished for more than having to mark time with the rest of my life. Sure enough. My path crossed with my Italian amore mio. A second true love. Another godsend. Believe me. The easiest way to be happy is to fall in love, Not only with someone. But with life itself. I'm always wishing for happiness. And I don't have to look far to find it. Of course, I'm reminded occasionally. That life won't last forever. But still, that doesn't stop me from wishing for forever. Maybe in another life form. As spirit. That would make me blissfully happy. Therefore, I am committed to wishing, wishing and more wishing. --Jim Broede

A cure. To every fear.

Brimming with confidence. A nice feeling. But not always necessary. It's also good to have doubts. To question everything. Maybe that's how one attains truth. Proceeding. Despite one's fears. The courage. To risk. To walk a tightrope. Across the abyss. To test one's faith. More than a simple walk on water. I'd rather fall into the sea. Than into the bottomless abyss.  Unless I sprout wings. And learn to fly. Or to glide. Maybe. After all.  There is a solution. A cure. To every fear. --Jim Broede

A judgement call.

I often don't see things the same way as other people. We can be looking at the same event. But I see something significant. That others didn't see. So if I'm writing a story. About what I saw. People may suspect that  I'm making it up.  Or it may just be that I'm glamorizing the situation. Because I'm a romantic idealist.  I see romance. Where others don't.  Does that mean I'm a fabricator of the truth? No. It's my truth. And it doesn't necessarily have to be your truth. When I was a newspaper reporter. I often picked and choose. What I would emphasize and play up  in the story.  I decided what was important. And that's a judgement call. --Jim Broede

No such beast as an honest man.

I don't know an honest man. Or woman. Probably never will. Because there ain't such a beast. We're all liars. All of us embellish or slant the truth. To some degree. Nobody is perfectly honest.  So all this holier-than-thou stuff. About Brian Williams. The NBC news anchor. Being castigated. For stretching the truth. Is a lot of hokum. From untruthful people. Nobody is totally honest. All the time. I'm like everyone else. Make myself look good. By painting a picture. Of me. In a good and deceptive light.  We all do it. Every politician does it. Around the clock.  Some haven't spoken the truth in eons. And advertisers. They are masterful at distorting the truth. I suspect that most of the time, Williams tries to give a reasonable semblance of the truth. But he's handicapped. Like the rest of us. Because we wouldn't recognize the truth if it hit us over the head. Williams and most personalities on TV are entertainers. They are trying to present the news to us in entertaining fashion. To improve ratings. They covet being celebrities. Being famous. And being high paid. They are willing to compromise the truth.  In order to get ahead. And even those of us who aren't famous or high paid --sell our souls to get ahead. I look at all news reports. With skepticism. I've been in the news business. A writer for newspapers.  Therefore, I have ample reason to be skeptical. I've seen it from the inside.  I am like Diogenes the Cynic. The Greek philosopher. Carrying a lamp in the daytime. Claiming to be looking for an honest man. Yes, one could look forever. And never find one. --Jim Broede

Even with a stranger.

The nicest gift of all. That I can give to friends and acquaintances. Is something to think about. A thought. To mull over.  That's better than any material gift. Yes, that's what I want from my friends, too. Not money. Not a material thing. But a thought. An idea. Maybe a poem. A few meaningful words. Maybe that's what motivated me. To become a writer. For access. To something precious.  A way to express intimacy. Without a physical act. That way. I am allowed to be intimate with any and everyone. Even with a stranger. --Jim Broede

If I were the creator.

Death is death only if there is absolute nothingness. Could be that I emerged. From nothing. And will return to nothing. But I find that personally unacceptable. I have a yearning. To be. Something. Perhaps not a physical being. Better to be a form of life that is indestructible. Non-physical. Which requires transcending. Into another dimension. Into a higher form of consciousness. A spirit.  With no physical limitations. I'm shackled now.  Encased in flesh. And my only escape is in death. Freedom and death may be one and the same. Can't know for sure.  But my romantic idealist instincts tell me that I was born to be free of physical restraint. And that life proceeds in stages. I came out of a womb. Only to enter another womb. Maybe I will not be truly and fully alive -- until I die. It's a nice thought. One I can buy into. Precisely, because that's the way I would have designed life. If I were the creator. --Jim Broede

On the way to feeling better.

I'm climbing a ladder. That's one way to look at life.  I seek to go higher and higher. Nearing the top, I feel blissful. Relaxed. At peace. Occasionally, I slip. And drop down a rung or two. That makes me feel less elated.  But I regain my footing. And keep heading for the pinnacle again. Unfortunately, now and then, I lose my grip. And slip five or six rungs. Before catching myself.  That explains my rare bouts with anxiety. I never fall all the way down. Never hit the bottom. For that, I am thankful. But I have friends. That have made hard landings. Into depression. So sad. But not hopeless. I encourage them. To pick themselves up. To take the first step. Up the ladder again. Then the second and the third. Every step counts. On the way to feeling better. --Jim Broede

Sasha: More cat than dog.

I walk the neighbor's mixed breed, 40-pound dog. Sasha. Every day. For 2 or 3 miles. And it's entertaining. Observing Sasha. And her idiosyncrasies.  She's a fearful dog. Doesn't tolerate other dogs. Mostly out of fear. She puts on a tough act. That's all it is. She's really trembling. She's mostly fearful of two boxers. Once upon a time, they teamed up. And knocked her down. Sasha squirmed out of her collar and leash. And ran home. Licity-split. Non-stop. For a mile. Now, when she approaches the boxers' house, she does so reluctantly. Even when the dogs are indoors. Wishes I'd turn around. Of course, I tug on the leash. And encourage her to be a brave dog. She wastes no time. Scurrying by the house. Sometimes, the boxers are in their fenced yard.  They bark. Causing Sasha to cringe. I'd like to get Sasha used to other dogs. To even cultivate a doggy friend. But she steadfastly resists. Doesn't trust other dogs. Which is a shame. But I've introduced Sasha to my cat. Loverboy.  Nobody can resist Loverboy. Man or beast. Including Sasha. They have become bosom friends. Makes me wonder. If Sasha is more cat than dog. --Jim Broede

One of the world's fastest jotters.

Two of my favorite workouts. Jogging. Followed by jotting. Jogging, of course, is physical. But few people have heard of jotting. A mental pursuit. I sit down. And jot down my thoughts. Whatever comes to mind.  Then I analyze my jots. And save the significant ones. For further elaboration.  Sometimes, I jot for an hour or two. More time than customarily spent jogging. I'm a relative speed demon at jotting. Having done the equivalent of a four-minute mile. Which qualifies me as one of the world's fastest jotters.  There's a speed limit placed on jogging. Before it becomes running. But one is (theoretically)  allowed to go as fast as the speed of light. When jotting. But I doubt that's ever been achieved. --Jim Broede

For the sake of laughter.

I wonder. If I have hidden fears. In my subconscious. Fears that I don't face up to. Maybe because I don't want to confront my fears. Too scary. Sounds funny. To me. But then,  life can be hilarious. Often is. Maybe that's why I don't confront my fears. I'd be laughed out of town. But that might prove a blessing. If I was able to corral the laughter. And make my living. As a comedian. A stand-up comic. I have had many, many unfulfilled desires. To become a shepherd or a monk and, yes, a funny man. I have a schtick in mind. That of a fearful man. That exploits his hidden fears.  For the sake of laughter.  --Jim Broede

The best psychotherapy.

Taking care of things. In an orderly fashion. That's what I've decided to do. In the month of February. Things that I let slide. Such as getting my cat Loverboy in for a check up. With his veterinarian.  He hasn't been in since 2011. I'm going in, too. For sort of a mental check. With a psychotherapist. Haven't seen one since the early 1980s. When I had a conflict. With an editor. The only one I ever disliked. Really, he was in more need of psychotherapy. Than me. He was a mean-spirited guy. And I wanted to find ways to cope with mean spirits. I did. Got out from under him. Simple solution. Didn't need psychotherapy to know that. Now, 30 years later, I'm merely curious about myself. And the way I cope with life. Psychotherapy might give me some insights. Or better yet, I might give the psychotherapist insights. Into a complex human being. By becoming his psychotherapist. I'm good at it.  Yes, the best psychotherapy operates on a two-way street. --Jim Broede

The happy nature of life.

Yes, ignorance is bliss. One can know too much. For instance, to know when one will die. That could cause unwanted consternation. Better to live. For today. Without knowing the future.  Better to savor a precious now. Than to focus on a forthcoming bleakness. Oh, yes, it's all right to dream. Of tomorrow. As long as it's a sweet dream. And not a horrid nightmare. Thankfully. I have learned to don blinders. To focus. On what I want to see. The happy nature of life. --Jim Broede

On living happily. In ignorance.

I must learn to live in ignorance. To resist. Reading newspapers. Or watching TV. Or listening to the radio. No reason to know what's happening in the world. Other than in my immediate environs. Because I can't control the world. It exists. And stuff happens. Whether I'm here on Earth, or not. So let it happen. Without my knowledge. While I get on with the rest of my life. I don't have a dire need to know.  Better for my morale and my frame of mind -- to not know.  To be oblivious of it all. Unless I am directly affected. Better to retreat to my enclave. My cocoon. Where I can live happily. In ignorance. --Jim Broede

I'm in a groove.

Taking time out. Perhaps a nap. It's essential. For the good and grand life. One can be too busy. Spread too thin. I've learned to slacken my pace. No sense. In doing too much. Especially if it's done in a hurry. Everything I got done today. Could just as easily have been postponed. Until tomorrow. I intended to walk 10 miles today. Instead, I settled for 7. I planned to stay up until midnight. Instead, I'll go to bed at 10. I'm in a groove. --Jim Broede

Never a thought of war.

My fervent wish. For a universal language. So I could speak directly. To anyone. Might lead to a better understanding. Of each other. But then, I can speak English to other English-speaking people. And that doesn't guarantee effective communication.  Two people. Engaged in dialogue. Have to be willing to listen. And to be tolerant. And reasonably friendly. Unfortunately, not every one is tolerant and friendly. No matter the language they speak. But when we speak the same language. It makes everything easier. Meanwhile, I wonder about other intelligent-life civilizations. On other planets. In other galaxies. If any of them have evolved. With a universal language. Maybe they aren't divided into separate countries and separate ethnic cultures. Imagine that. One big universal country. No reason to go to war. Unless, of course, there's an option for a gigantic civil war.  But here's my guess. The civilization has become extraordinarily advanced. So there's never a thought of war. --Jim Broede

The fiendish side of society.

Yes, the world is full of fiendish people. That torture. And kill. Just for the fun of it. A form of entertainment. But also, a way for them to express their hatred of people. That don't think like themselves.  Sometimes, it's a religious thing. As if they are doing the fiendish acts. To please their god. Of course, they are sick people. They get their kicks. From watching someone being burned alive. Or having their victims kneel. To have their heads chopped off. Some of us 'civilized' people abhor such acts. And we get holier than thou about it. Forgetting that our civilized society tortures, too. At Abu Grave. And atrocities in the name of war. Think about it. When the Ku Klux Klan lynched black people. For the thrill of it. And I remember going South in the 1960s. For work. And saw racial segregation. And the daily fiendish maltreatment of black people. Wasn't so long ago, too, that the well-educated and 'civilized' Germans. Herded Jews to the gas chambers. And starved them to death. In concentration camps. And look at the platforms of our own political parties. Parts of which seem designed by fiends.  I'd even venture to say that there may be a fiend or two on  the U.S. Supreme Court. But then, a fiend is in the eye of the beholder. Rarely does a fiend recognize himself/herself as a fiend. --Jim Broede

I have yet to bloom.

I am physical. More so than spirit. Though I yearn to be more spirit than physical. I am becoming. More and  more spirit. That may be the mission of physical life.  To slowly edge into the spiritual. One needs to be physical. For a time. In order to grasp the spiritual. The contrast. The difference. Between night and day. The physical and the spiritual. One cannot fully appreciate the one without the other. In my youth, I was almost totally physical. And then I began to discover the spirit. Only then did I start to feel genuinely alive. I have yet to bloom. --Jim Broede

Totally immersed. In the life force.

By best days. Are the ones on which I have nothing particular to do. No set agenda. I merely let the day develop. With a natural flow. Just letting things happen. Nothing better. Than having a moment. With nothing to do. Other than appreciating being alive and conscious.  Maybe that gives me a glimpse. Of what it must be like. To be spirit. Just being. A part of creation. Existing. In a moment of peaceful bliss. No compelling reason to move on to the next moment. I am totally immersed. In the life force. --Jim Broede 

Able to grasp precious moments.

Every day is a new day. I can start with a clean slate. Brimming with confidence. That everything will be all right.  I'm refreshed. Rejuvenated. After a good night's sleep. I've cleansed my mind. Yesterday was a good day, too. I remember only the good stuff. A sign. That I'm in a proper frame of mind. I've been told. By a friend. That I'm seldom if ever in depression. That my problem is with my own mortality. Yes, that could be true. But all I care about today. Is that I'm alive. And conscious. Able to reflect. On the wonderful nature of life. Able to grasp precious moments. --Jim Broede

If I were pure spirit.

I'm programmed. To live at a slow, leisurely pace. Have been. Ever since retiring. In 1998. Before that, I was fast-paced. Writing. By deadline. If I were young again. And had the opportunity to start life all over. I'd write. But not for an employer.  Not for newspapers. But solely for my personal satisfaction. And delight. With no set rules. Wouldn't matter if I never got published. Oh, I'd still be read. By a few.  Kindred souls/spirits. That's all I want from life. A connection or two. To probe the depths of my own being.  I could live alone. In a desert. And find peace and tranquility. Especially if I were pure spirit. Come to think of it. I have already started life all over --Jim Broede

Will I be certified as crazy?

I wonder. If psychotherapists go to psychotherapists. I suspect so. After all, they're always listening to other people's problems Must drive them nuts. Actually, if I were a therapist. I'd specialize. In treating other therapists. In fact, I am a therapist. An amateur, albeit. But I'm better at it than many professionals. Sure, I may be unorthodox. But I'm good. And effective. Believe me. I'd give the professionals something to think about. Anyway, I'm going to practice the art of psychotherapy. On Feb. 11. When I go to a professional. For counseling. About some of my unconventional/crazy thoughts. Such as. That it's good to be crazy. Some of the more conservative psychotherapists might want to certify me as crazy.  And want to put me away. But the really good psychotherapists may conclude that I'm fully sane. And that I should continue pursuing my career as a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer, a writer. And not least, an amateur psychotherapist. --Jim Broede

A place to muse.

I cloister myself. When wanting to get my head  together. Same thing as solitude, I suppose. A cloister is defined as any quiet, secluded place. Maybe cloistering is the same or similar to retreating into a cocoon. But there's more of a religious or spiritual connection to a cloister. Or so my dictionary tells me. A place of religious seclusion, as a monastery or convent. I imagine living in the Middle Ages. As a monk. In a monastery. The Middle Ages were tough times. And I would have looked for a comfortable way to survive. The monastic life offered advantages. Three square meals daily. A shelter. Similar to a castle. With a cloister. And a garden. A place to muse. About the spiritual nature of life. --Jim Broede

The way my amore mio lives.

I love Italy, but...  That's the problem. Too many buts. The main one being that I operate more smoothly in America. Because I speak the language of most Americans. English. In Italy, I'm crippled. Because of the language barrier. I am not conversant in Italian. If I spoke fluent Italian, I'd have no difficulty. Living in Italy. Year-round. Instead, I go back and forth. I spend more time in the U.S. Than in Italy. It's a nice arrangement. Because my amore mio is Italian. She is Italy's major attraction. She lured me to Italy. Of course, I also lured her to America. She spends summers with me. In Minnesota. And I'm with her most winters. In Sardinia. When we are separated, we still see and converse with each other. Daily. Mostly on Skype. Both of us think we have the best of two worlds. With our transnational/international relationship. One might even call it a de facto marriage. We not only speak to each other daily. I also use the written word. In form of my specialty. Love letters. That's one of the best and most effective ways to communicate. Intimately. Yes, with the written word. Maybe because it has lasting power. Able to be read and re-read. By the recipient. To capture the full meaning/flavor.  Anyway, I live by language. English. Though it also would be nice.  If I were able to live by a second language, too. Fortunately, that's the way my amore mio lives. With two languages. Very effectively. Which is a blessing. For me. --Jim Broede

Maybe I know more.

I'm thinking. About going into psychotherapy. Not necessarily to help myself. Instead, to help a friend. By setting an example. One of my neighbors. Is in dire need of psychotherapy. But refuses to go. Maybe it's the stigma. Attached to psychotherapy. Personally, I don't care about stigma. I try to do what's best. For me. And to hell with what other people think. If I take psychotherapy. And write about it. Maybe it'll help others to give it a try. Including my friend and neighbor.  As a I see it. Psychotherapy will do me no harm. And maybe some good. That is, if I keep an open mind. Another possibility. My psychotherapist may be in need of therapy. And I can provide it. Sure, I'm an amateur. Not a trained professional. But tell you what. Maybe I know more about psychotherapy than some psychotherapists. --Jim Broede

A plea for forgiveness.

Wacky. I like that word. Better than crazy.  Because wacky implies that I'm odd. Not necessarily crazy. In the mental health sense.  I claim to be a good crazy. In other words, downright wacky. Most wacky people I know are funny.  And harmless. For those deemed crazy, it's too easy to conclude that they may be harmful. To themselves or others. Wacky people often qualify as eccentrics. More acceptable in society than crazies. Yes, I know. The same term can have 10 different meanings with 10 different people.  Little wonder. That communicating can be very difficult. Even though we speak English. We don't speak the same language.  Of course. When I'm in Italy, communication is even more of a challenge. I'm grateful. That my amore mio speaks English. But that allows me to put no urgency on learning Italian. A matter of priorities. Too often. I just get by. By limping. Instead of walking.  Face it. I'm very, very good at some things. But not others. I'm disappointed. In myself. When I do just enough to get by.  I plead for forgiveness. For not only failing to master Italian. But for being wacky. --Jim Broede

Laughing off all my worries.

I'm worried. That I may be worrying far too much. That's funny, isn't it? Don't know if that's normal. Maybe it's natural. To be a worry wart. Maybe virtually everyone worries. About something or other.  And some worry more than others. I'm thinking. About worrying more than I used to worry. About trivial stuff. Things I shouldn't be worrying about. But then, how does one differentiate? Between a legitimate worry and a nonsensical one. Most of the time my worries proved to be false alarms. Some of my worries reach the anxiety level. A bad sign. Even dangerous. For my mental well-being. Can one think too much? Thinking is good, isn't it? Unless, of course, one becomes incapacitated. By a deluge of worrisome thoughts. Haven't reached that stage. Yet. But fear being headed in that perilous direction. Eureka! Alas, a positive idea. A solution. Why not merely laugh off all my worries? And be entertained. --Jim Broede

My complaint ain't about life.

Really. I have no reason to complain. About life. Yes, I do complain. About things. But not about life. Because actual life is wonderful. Full of opportunities. To make something of it. And to be. Maybe my gripe. Is with those who try to make life difficult. For others.  By being selfish. And inconsiderate. Especially politicians. And bureaucrats. And mean-spirited people. And war-mongers. Oh, I have a long, long list of complaints. But it's not life that troubles me.  It's society. And the way societies deal with life. Too often. In irreverent and hateful ways. I want true love to prevail. And it does. In many ways. But not nearly enough. So I complain. But I still have the opportunity. To be a lover. And a dreamer. And a romantic idealist. Because I have been blessed. With life. --Jim Broede

Over and over and over again.

Occasionally, I've been written off. By a friend/acquaintance. Merely because of my flaws. That seem to rub the wrong way. Little things. Really. But degree and magnitude, of course, is in one's personal perception. The same goes for beauty. Again, in the eye of the beholder. I'm amused by it all. How friendships thrive and wane. Over peculiarities. Makes me wonder. Why I like certain people. And not others. Why we don't connect. Maybe it's lack of desire and effort. On both of our parts. Strange. On the other hand, I knew. From the beginning. We were fated. To connect. As if by a preordained grand design. Goes for both of the 'true loves' in my life. It was instantaneous. As if I had lived the chance meeting. Before. In another life. And this was a reunion. For which I was waiting. Makes me wonder. If there's eternal recurrence. And that I'm living the same life. Over and over and over again. My only regret. I never met Friedrich Nietzsche. --Jim Broede

A saving grace.

The more I think about it, the more reason to be grateful. For being, period. For boundless opportunities to savor life. Even as I wander through the labyrinth.  Amazing. When one looks around. Even in a labyrinth, one sees magnificence. Bushes. Trees. Natural beauty. As I walk the path. Looking for an outlet. No reason to be scared. If one takes the time. To observe. Yes, there are kindly, gentlemanly bureaucrats. All it takes is one. To make my day. Sometimes I forget to be. The keen observer. Even in hell. There has to be beauty. A saving grace. --Jim Broede

An answer to my dream.

I have discovered, no matter where I go, some very nice people. Yes, even in bureaucracies. There’s Claudio Nuscis. An Italian. I’ve written about him. In another thread titled ‘In praise of Claudio Nuscis.’  He has helped mentor me through the  baffling Italian system. Goes to show that not all bureaucrats are bad. Claudio is an exception. But like me, he’s trapped in the system. It’s difficult bringing about significant change. For the better. Because his bureaucratic bosses don’t care enough. That’s the problem. Unyielding. Forever rigid. In following asinine rules of bureaucracy. Making life difficult. Intentionally. Mostly for the hell of it. Maybe some day Claudio will become the boss. An answer to my dream. For a model and functional and empathetic bureaucracy.  –Jim Broede

Feeling like a proud Italian.

The good news. When I recently spent eight days in an Italian hospital. I was treated. Like an Italian citizen. Didn't matter that I was an American. Everyone is considered as a vital human being. Regardless of nationality.  Even if one is a penniless immigrant or refugee.  Your medical needs are put first and foremost.  Leaves me with a positive impression. That Italians are interested in serving the common good. At least when it comes to providing health care. To everyone. And still more good news. Italians aren't health care profit minded. My over one week stay in the hospital, covering everything, cost me $6,200. I'm told that in America, the same service would have run to $40,000. Because American health insurance companies are motivated by ever-bigger built-in profit. Meanwhile, the Italians didn't itemize the bill. To the annoyance of my American insurers. They want more precision. The exact cost for angioplasty. For an angiogram. For a stress test. For the hospital room. Broken into detail. Thing is. The Italians don't operate that way. They merely go by a bottom-line. Figuring they would have spent $6200 on me. Because that's the average cost. For an Italian spending eight days in the hospital. They have eliminated payments to middle men. Doesn't matter whether I received more or less treatment than another. Instead, here's what matters. My life was saved. That's the important thing.  Not the money. Therefore, I got a bargain. Because I was treated the nice and humane Italian way. Leaves me feeling like a proud Italian. --Jim Broede

How to avoid serious trouble.

Life is funny. Really. That's my salvation. Recognizing the funny side of life. Yes, one can take life too seriously. People who never laugh. They can be scary. But they make me laugh.  Because there's something funny about being serious all the time. When I write. Don't always know. Whether I'm being serious or funny. Stuff I write. Can be taken both ways. Because I haven't decided yet. Whether I mean to be serious or funny. Maybe that's when I'm at my best. Straddling the fence. One thing though. If I go a day without laughing. Uproariously. I'm in serious trouble.--Jim Broede

The bureaucratic limbo of hell.

I have set foot. Into the medical bureaucracies. Of Italy. Of America. Treading my way. Yes, with a fear and trepidation. Normally, I am a man that doesn't pray much. If at all. But I'm frightened enough. This time. To plead for divine guidance. From the creator himself. I am full of anxiety. Imagining an experience. That may be worse than a walk through the Valley of Death. Wondering. If l will be lost. Forever. In the Abyss of Competing Bureaucracies. I need help. A guide. And I'm asking. With full and complete humility. Please, creator, come to my rescue. Please take my hand. Be at my side. Guide me. Guide me. Guide me. I will try. Valiantly. To fear no evil. To trust that you will be with me. All the way. And bring me to safety. Once again. Believe me. I am praying. Because I am scared. Of the bureaucrats. Maybe it's mostly my imagination. But there's nothing I fear more. Than unyielding and pitiless bureaucrats. With petty demand after petty demand after petty demand. Lasting into eternity. Yes, a living hell. Fortunately, I am a writer. Still with verbal access to the world outside the hellish bureaucracies.  That, and you, dear creator, may be my only hope. My links to salvation. To the good life once again. Please. Please allow me to escape the bureaucratic limbo of hell. --Jim Broede

Better to be a unique me.

Suddenly, it occurred to me. That I had become my mother. Indeed, that was a scary thought. That maybe I was acting like my dear (long gone)  mother. She had frequent anxiety attacks. And lapses into depression.  Of course, I'm not really my mother. I'm much better at coping. With virtually everything. Including anxiety. I'm in control, really. Because my mother taught me. In significant ways. How to be unlike her. Better to be a unique me. --Jim Broede

A blessing.

I watched the Super Bowl game. With pleasure. With no distress. Or elation. Didn't matter which team won. I didn't care. Of course, if the Chicago Bears had been playing, I'd have cared. And my stress level would have rocketed. Dangerously high. Into the stratosphere. That's the price one pays. For being a truly caring and avid fan of any team. I feel deflated. When my Chicago Bears or Chicago Cubs lose. Especially if it's a big, critical game. In the grand scheme of life, it shouldn't be a big deal. If one's favorite team loses. After all, it's only a mere game. Not a life or death situation. But still, if I had been a Seattle Seahawks fan, and watched my team lose the Super Bowl game that they could easily have won -- well, I'd go sleepless all night. Lamenting. Lamenting. Lamenting. Anyway, I'm very happy tonight. Because my Bears finished the season in last place. And never made it to the Super Bowl. Yes, a  blessing. For me to be able to watch the Super Bowl. Without the least bit of distress.--Jim Broede

The impossible good thought dream.

Don't know if I'm up to fighting a bureaucracy. Any bureaucracy. Because one needs stamina. Dedication. Fortitude. Resilience. A never-give-up attitude. And not least, time. That's the only way to win. And then, it may cost more than it's worth. The bureaucrats are there. To make life stifling and miserable. Bureaucrats take pride. In outlasting, outmaneuvering anyone with the audacity of taking on their beloved bureaucracy. That's generally me. The challenger of bureaucracies. Unfortunately,  I'm getting older. And don't like to waste time. Trying to get something I deserve. But most likely won't get out of the bureaucracy. In other words, maybe it's better to admit defeat.  Right from the start. And take it all, gracefully. Like a good loser. That's what bureaucrats want. Though some of 'em would rather that I gnash my teeth. Like a bad loser. Bureaucrats tend to be sadists. They enjoy watching people suffer.  That happens. Over and over. Daily. In most bureaucracies. Could write about it, I suppose. Like Franz Kafka did. Maybe that would give me satisfaction.  Turning my pain into a work of art. An indictment of bureaucracies. But I could take a positive twist. Creating a fictional bureaucracy. One that actually tries to help people find their way through the labyrinth. Where it all ends happily and joyously and mirthfully.  Ah, the impossible (good thought) dream. --Jim Broede

It might trigger a heart attack.

When I was in Italy this winter. I had a medical emergency. A heart issue. I checked in. To the emergency room. At the hospital. In the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. And left eight days later. With my life. And a bill. Of 5300 euros. Equivalent to a little less than $7,000 in American money. Believe me. I paid every last cent. Out of my pocket. Assuming that I'd be reimbursed by Blue Cross/Blue Shield. One of my health insurance providers. I was given assurance, by Blue Cross/Blue Shield. Before leaving for Italy. That I'd be covered. For at least 80 percent of the cost of a medical emergency while abroad. But now I find, there's really no assurance of insurance. Solely because of the medical bureaucracies. In Italy and America. I have no complaints. About the quality of my medical and hospital care. In Italy. Or the follow-up care I received upon my return. In America. It saved my life. And prevented a heart attack. And it's the reason I'm here today. Alive. And healthy. And able to write about it. But I have grave doubts. That I'll be reimbursed. Because I'm expected to navigate the tricky combined medical bureaucracies. Of Italy and the insurance company. A gargantuan and possibly life-threatening task.  The bureaucracies are so labyrinthian. That I may never come out. With a penny. Or even my life. By trying to valiantly navigate the bureaucratic maize. Of dotting every 'i' and crossing every 't.' In Italian and English. I might merely throw up my hands, and say it ain't worth the stress and the risk of life and limb. Merely to collect a few thousand dollars. Anyway, I'm an honorable man. I pay my bills. Because I'm grateful for still being alive. My way of saying thank you. To the medical personnel in Italy. They saved my life. Worth more than all the money in the world. Here's the gist of the major bureaucratic hang up. My insurance company requires an itemized bill. For everything the Italians did.  But the Italian health care bureaucracy provides only a lump sum bill. Without itemization. Once again, believe me. The price of the service/care in Italy was a bargain. I received angioplasty, an angiogram, stress tests. A whole gamut of stuff. Life-saving care equal or better to anything I would have received in an American hospital. Hospital and medical care pricing experts tell me that the same care in America would have cost several times more.  Upward of $40,000. Indeed, I got an incredible bargain. In Italy. A tribute to the Italian health care system. But my insurance company seems to be telling me. Be grateful for having your life. And maybe just forget about collecting a penny from us. I hope that's not true. But I know that a bureaucracy is a bureaucracy is a bureaucracy. And maybe there's no way of finding one's way out. Maybe I should look at all this philosophically. I have my life. And there's nothing more precious than that. But hey, I'm still crazy enough to try navigating the bureaucratic system. For a while. Without becoming too stressed. Not sure, of course,  if that's a wise move.  Maybe I'd be better off. Merely telling the bureaucrats. Shove it. I ain't even going to try.  For fear that it might trigger a heart attack. --Jim Broede