A gentleman. Always.

I have something to say. Every day. And I say it in writing. Of course, I could talk, too. And not write. But then I'd forget much of the spoken word. So much easier to remember the written word. Because I can see it. And read it. Over and over. I try to talk in very much the same manner that I write. In relatively short sentences, That's the best and easiest way to be understood.  Generally, I give my written words more thought than my spoken words.  And I don't hesitate to revise. To self-edit. So easy to take back written words. Some of which aren't  meant to be shared. In order to be polite and  respectful. Yes, a gentleman. Always. --Jim Broede

If one savors every morsel.

Real life. Can be disappointing. But blissful, too. I cherish the moments of bliss. Indeed, they offset all of the disappointments. Making life endearing and worthwhile. Have you noticed? Every disappointment is followed. Sooner or later. By a taste of bliss. Life is truly a feast. If one savors every morsel. --Jim Broede

The living happily ever after twist.

Rick has declared his love for Julie.  Whether that qualifies as conditional or unconditional love remains to be seen. I suspect it's conditional. As long as Julie remains sober. Yes, never takes another drink again.  Yes, I'm watching. With keen interest. The outcome of s real life story. The ending to be determined. As a romantic idealist, I'm for the living happily ever after twist. --Jim Broede

       

Never to be seen or heard of again.

Consciousness. The awareness. That I am alive. And capable of thought.  That's what I covet. More than anything. Otherwise, I'd be going through life. As a robot. Or as a complex computer. Lord knows. Maybe that's all I am. A fancy computer. Duped into thinking. That I am alive. And conscious. And human. Maybe that's sufficient. Because if something goes awry. With my inner workings. I can be fixed by my maker/creator/inventor. But chances are. I'll be discarded. Put on the junk heap. Replaced by a brand new model. Never to be seen or heard of again. --Jim Broede

       

The art of wooing.

Maybe I make a mistake. In not wooing my true love all of the time. Wooing should be a full-time occupation/endeavor.  Think about it. Wooing is one of the nicest aspects of love. There is no better time than the wooing time. Too many lovers get sidetracked.  They stop wooing. And that's a pity. I am resolved. To woo my Italian amore.  Without end. Another proof of my on-going love and devotion. --Jim Broede

Without an iota of doubt.

I am curious. How many of you, dear readers of this thread, actually practice unconditional love? Do you love anyone? Without limits.  Without conditions. In a way in which your love would never wane. Under any circumstances. That's quite an order. Personally, I'd rather not ever be put to the test. Probably haven't. Of course, I have loved several others. Dearly. But 'unconditionally,' I don't really know. Depends on one's definition of unconditional. Applied rigidly. Profoundly. Not loosely. Where does one draw the line between loving someone in a likeable and loving way versus an absolutely unconditional way? A little like the difference between being a believer and a true believer -- a believer without an iota of doubt. --Jim Broede

I wonder. If Julie feels loved.

Everyone should be loved. Unconditionally. By someone. That's the way it would be in the ideal world. In paradise. Maybe Julie will be a lucky one. Loved by Rick. Unconditionally. Perhaps that will turn Julie's life around. From depression. To sheer happiness. Since Julie entered the hospital last Tuesday, Rick has been with her. Every day. Morning. Noon. And night. That's a good sign. A step in the right direction.  I wonder. If Julie feels loved. --Jim Broede

The amazing Rick.

My semi-friend Julie has something going for her. Namely, de facto husband Rick. They've been together for over 25 years. Amazing. How Rick has stood steadfast. By Julie's side. Even in the toughest of times. Such as now. With Julie in the depths of despair and depression.  Rick, incidentally, was a willing and  devoted care-giver.  Over the years. When Julie's dementia-riddled parents lived with them.  Believe me. That's a tough grind. Many a marriage/relationship has broken up. Under similar circumstances. Now Rick flirts with a nearly impossible achievement. Unconditional love.  It's coming close to that. He's a better man than me. After all, my friendship with Julie is conditional. She's on notice. Quit drinking and  take other difficult steps to get well again. Or else we will be through as friends. Yes, I'm playing the role of a cad. Don't want being burdened with a 'friend' that refuses to fall in love with life. --Jim Broede

Not a mere figment.

My life has a bottom line. A core. A definitive piece. That I always come back to. It's a yearning. To be a romantic idealist.  A dreamer. Venturing to wherever my imagination will take me. It's the power and desire.  To truly believe. That the imagination can make any and everything possible.  Yes, the imagination is very real. Not a mere figment. --Jim Broede

It began with a wail of delight.

Never have been afraid to express my opinion. Even if it gets me into trouble.  Because I am exercising my inalienable right. Maybe that's why I qualify as a troublemaker. I refuse to be suppressed.  When it comes to speech. Don't know exactly when and where I picked up this inclination. To spout off. Possibly, it started the moment I climbed out of the womb. And began with a wail of delight.  As I disobeyed a command to shut up. --Jim Broede

As long as I am free.

I have a right to my opinion. As do others. But my opinion is the correct one. That qualifies me to be a politician. But I have no yearning to be a politician. Therefore, it's all right if I don't get my way. I am not power hungry. Don't need to control and manipulate others. I merely withdraw to my cocoon. Creating my own world. The best I can. By living and letting others live. In their way and manner. It works. Most of the time. As long as I am free to express my opinion. --Jim Broede 

On becoming smug and satisfied.

I'm at my best. Physically and mentally. Late in the day. Don't know why. It just is. Maybe it takes time. For me to establish a rhythm. So that I flow smoothly. Tell me, folks. Do you feel the same way? Takes so much effort to get started. In the morning. By nightfall, I'm able to evaluate the day. And pull everything together. In a meaningful way. That gives me a sense of accomplishment. I become smug and satisfied. Which is a good way to feel. Just before going to bed. --Jim Broede

Until she falls back in love again.

Haven't visited my semi-friend Julie since she entered a hospital. On Tuesday. Since she conked her head. In a fall. In her bathroom. Gashed the back of her head.  And lost almost one-third of her blood. Not a pretty sight.  But I'm taking it as a blessing. That she's in the hospital. And being treated for her depression. And dependence on alcohol. Meanwhile, Julie's devoted husband Rick is keeping a daily vigil. He sets a good example. Of a husband trying to display unconditional love. He's stuck by Julie. For 25 years.  Believe me. He's been put to the test. Especially in the last 10 years. It's a wonder that the relationship has lasted.  Think about it. For over six years, Julie and  Rick cared for Julie's dementia-riddled parents. In their own home. Just a few doors down the road from me. Julie's mom died two years ago. Her 86-yesr-old father survives. Now in a five-bed residential care home. Where he's getting good and decent care. Lots of one-on-one stimulation. Mentally and physically. I try to visit several times a month. I probably could do more. I'm more focused on Julie. And her dog Sasha. I walk Sasha every day. Usually for a total six miles. I've tried. Over and over. To get Julie to walk Sasha. It would be good therapy. I'll keep trying. Sasha is good for Julie. Gives her solace. Julie allows Sasha to cozy up to her. In bed. Good therapy. For depression. But Julie really needs all sorts of therapy. Has. For a long time. She's a victim of too much non-stop care-giving. For her parents. She neglected her own care. That's a crime. Against herself. She flagellates herself. In a sense, she's killing herself. With alcohol. Sad. Sad. I watch. And wonder what I can do next. I listen. I talk. I write. If I were king and ruled by divine right, Julie would stay in the hospital, in daily treatment. Until she falls back in love again. With precious life. --Jim Broede

A better human being.

I wonder. If as we get older. We begin to have serious doubts. About our mental and physical acuity. We lose confidence. Merely because we are aging. And decline is supposed to happen. It's a scientific fact.  Generally accepted. I can't walk or think so fast any more. I have to take my time. And figure out slower ways to get things done. But I refuse to lose confidence. I'm smarter. I find better and more efficient ways.  And I have become more mellow. A better human being. --Jim Broede

       

An assignment for Julie.

One nice thing about writing. It's visible proof. That I'm thinking. About something. My semi-friend Julie has stopped writing. Refuses to put her thoughts into a journal. That can be read. At least by herself. If not others.  Julie is in the depths of depression.  And I'm not sure that she has any lucid thoughts. Instead, she might be languishing. In thoughtless despair. I encourage Julie to give me proof. That she has a rational mind. A way to figure out stuff. Such as the significance of life and conscious thought. But she won't do that. Because she lacks coherent thought. Julie could prove me wrong. Merely by keeping a psychotherapeutic journal. --Jim Broede

Why not forever?

My mind set keeps changing. As I get older. I'm more likely to plan in the short term. Rather than the long term. When I was 40 or 50, it was easier to imagine living another 30 years.  Now that I'm nearing 80, I'll be lucky to live 10 more years. Hard for me to fathom life in 30 years. I'll be long gone. From Mother Earth. Of course, nothing stops me from imagining an idyllic afterlife. As a non-physical being. A spirit. That's my source of solace.  My fertile imagination. I start to think more about the unlikely and the impossible.  Which is a good thing. The fact that I exist. As a living and conscious being. That's incredible. All by it's self. Almost makes me believe in the impossible. That's why I write stuff like this. My way of exploring the long-term future. In novel and dazzling ways. As a romantic idealist. That's what I am now.  So I ask, why not forever? It's good for my morale. An attitude that keeps me happy. Even in old age. --Jim Broede

My Italian amore, for instance.

Maybe I disappoint some people. But then, certain people disappoint me. Maybe that's natural. To be disappointed. Because we have lofty expectations of each other.  And of ourselves. Makes me wonder. If we expect too much. Of each other. And ourselves. But then, I ponder. That maybe we expect too little. And that's the real problem. Maybe we all could do better. And we would be far less disappointed. But I know one thing. For sure. There are a few. That don't leave me disappointed.  My Italian amore, for instance. --Jim Broede

The danger of caring too much.

Caring can be perilous. If one cares too much.  I keep muttering, 'Be careful, Jim, in picking the things and the people that you care about.' Yes, I'm cautious. Because I don't want to be consumed. By caring. I've seen it happen to others. They cared themselves to death.  Because they never stopped caring. About this and that. About virtually everything. They were non-stop carers.  They even cared about stuff over which they had absolutely no control. Oh, I care about many matters. But I also know how to shut off the caring. My going into isolation. Into my cocoon. A hideout. From the rest of the world.  Emerging. Only when I have the stamina. To cope. And to care. Rested and rejuvenated. --Jim Broede

To get well again.

Here's the deal, dear Julie. The doctors have concluded that you are going to die. From the affects of alcohol. Unless you stop drinking. Period.  Already, there's liver damage. But it's not too late to heal.  If. If. If. Yes, it's a simple and rational decision. I want to keep you. As an alive friend. Not a dead  friend. You are of no practical use to your loved ones dead. We all prefer you to be very much alive and vibrant and congenial.  For a long, long time. Age 62 is far too young to die. Your Alzheimer-riddled father is still hanging in. Quite contented, really. Happier than you.  Ironic, isn't it? Anyway, it's been a godsend. That you fell. And conked your head. That brought you to the hospital.  Where you are getting the best of care. Medically.  Psychologically. Every which way. Long overdue. It should not have taken this long.  The good news, of course, is it's not too late. To be saved. From the perils of depression and alcoholism. I don't want to write you off. As a friend. But first, I insist. That you take the necessary steps to get well again.  --Jim Broede

In a moment of precious solitude.

I need breaks. From people. Period. It helps. That most of the time. I'm living alone. But even when living with my Italian amore, we need breaks. From each other. For reflection.  Soul searching. Living together. Is fine. But being apart. Separate. Helps prepare one. For a better form of togetherness. Thinking. Thinking. More clearly. When left alone. No one here. To interrupt the flow of thought. Able to write. Random thoughts. For sharing. With my amore. Practicing. Practicing. The art of communication. In a moment of precious solitude. --Jim Broede

Mean spirits.

I try to steer clear of mean-spirited people. Sensing that they are mentally ill. And capable of doing harm.To their friends and associates. And to total strangers, too. That's why I distrust many politicians. So many of 'em are opposed to the common good. They are out to benefit the few. Special interests. Often at the expense of the many. They take delight in this. Because of their mean spirits. They find joy and fulfillment in hurting people. Especially those they dislike. And they are enamored with political power. Often used to bully their adversaries. --Jim Broede

Whatever it takes.

I'm feeling good. Because Julie is finally getting help. So very many of the mentally ill. Aren't so lucky.  They are neglected. For so many, many reasons. Often, because they don't seek help themselves. Or because friends refuse to intervene. Yes, mental illness is so complicated. So scary. So unfortunate. Mental illness can be more debilitating than physical illness. And as a society, we still have much to learn. About how to deal with it. Meanwhile, I'm wondering. If mental illness is more prevalent than physical illness. If so, maybe we need more mental health hospitals. I'm for whatever it takes. To solve the problem. --Jim Broede

So we can be friends. Once again.

Finally. Julie is getting the help she needs.  Help that should have come long, long ago. She's in a hospital. Being detoxed. And treated.  Given a thorough physical exam. Maybe she's on the road to recovery. Maybe not. We can only hope. A shame. That it had to come. To an almost tragic fall. In the bathroom. She banged her head. On the tub. A gash in the back of her head. Profuse bleeding. She lost two units of blood. Almost one-third of her blood supply.  Fortunately, no skull fracture. But maybe a concussion. She'll be in the hospital for at least a week. Then into rehab. Physical. And mental. And daily psychotherapy. Everything. Everything. Round the clock care. Mainly for depression. The drinking problem, too. The works. Medical doctors. Psychiatrists. Julie has been duly warned. Keep drinking. And you'll die. I want Julie to survive. And thrive. So we can be friends. Once again. --Jim Broede

       

My choice: To call it crazy.

Crazy people. So many crazy people. We so often assume that they have a right to be crazy. To be wildly eccentric. Zany. Preposterous. Take prominent gadfly politicians. Such as Donald Trump.  Ted Cruz. Michelle Bachmann. They all mimic being downright crazy. Therefore, it's difficult differentiating the mimics from the real certifiably crazies. Until maybe someone enters a church. And shoots nine people dead. Just because they happen to be black.  We label that an act of a terrorist. Rather than that of a certifiably mentally ill kook. Fact is. He's both. He's whatever society wants to call him. Doesn't matter whether the label is right or wrong.  Once upon a time, slavery was legal in the United States of America. A crazy principle upon which  our nation was founded. George Washington and Thomas Jefferson owned slaves.  Washington and Jefferson thought it was right and proper. Yes, to own slaves. Little wonder. That we had states seceding from the union. In defense of the principle. The right to operate on a slave economy. To take away people's freedom. Merely because they had black skins.  If that isn't crazy, tell what is? Maybe it's what happened last week. In a church. In Charleston, South Carolina. Anyway, I choose to call it crazy. --Jim Broede

Over anything.

I refuse to take life too seriously.  Better to be the optimist. Rather than the pessimist. My semi-friend Julie is the eternal pessimist. Little wonder that she's in depression. But worse of all, she steadfastly refuses to get much needed help. Psychotherapy. And maybe an anti-depressant. Anyway, Julie had a fall yesterday. Bumped and cut her head. She's in a hospital. And I see that as a blessing. She's stable. That's the good news. But there may be even better news. They'll keep her in the hospital for a while. Maybe a long while. And give her a physical. And mental testing, too. Maybe a potential disaster will blossom. Into a godsend. Yes, maybe life ain't so bad, after all. Just give it time. No reason to fret. Just let things be. It all works out in the long run. I refuse to go into depression. Over anything. --Jim Broede

Savoring the perils of life.

I'm learning to laugh. At my semi-friend Julie. And others in depression. Because they are funny. Especially Julie. Because she's a manic-depressive.  With huge mood swings. One moment, she's relatively happy and vibrant and positive. But not for long.  She falls into the abyss of sadness.  And that's when she's the funniest. All that doom and  gloom. It's hilarious. Because she portrays me as a cad. A villain. When really, I'm a dashing hero. A comic book character.  The mighty Superman.  Funny, Funny. Life was meant to be funny. But Julie doesn't have the time or wherewithal  or the inclination to savor the funny perils of life. --Jim Broede

My way.

I call it the tough love way. I insist that Julie gets help. To overcome her depression. And her drinking problem.  I wish everyone in Julie’s life would take a tough love approach. Her husband. Her friends and acquaintances.  The whole caboodle. We have been far too easy on Julie. We have allowed Julie to languish. In her self-imposed misery. In a living Hell.  We have enabled. Rather than intervened. I’d carry off Julie. To a sanitarium. Or maybe the nearby Mayo Clinic. For a total evaluation. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. That sure beats the present alternative. Allowing Julie to plunge. Into the abyss. From which she may never emerge. –Jim Broede

Maybe that makes me a cad.

Julie told me tonight that we are no longer friends. Of course. I more or less wrote off Julie weeks ago. Announcing that at best we are semi-friends. That I'll accept her as a friend conditionally. Only if she stops drinking and gets psychotherapy and other treatment for depression.  I can't accept Julie for what she has become. A mere shadow of her former vibrant and happy self. Maybe that makes me a cad. But that's the way I operate. I've had only three true (unconditional) friends in a lifetime. Which ain't bad. Julie isn't one of them. Unfortunately. For me. And for Julie, too. Years ago, I would have considered Julie worthy of my friendship. But she doesn't meet my standards anymore. And apparently I don't meet her standards. That's the nature of life. Some friends come and go. But that doesn't stop me from getting on with life. In a reasonably happy manner.  Without Julie. --Jim Broede

A cure for the blahs.

My semi-friend Julie is full of negative thoughts. Morning. Noon. And night. Round the clock. Not a single positive thought. Little wonder that she's in depression. I'm a gardener. So I've planted seeds. In Julie's cranium. Unfortunately, nothing really positive has germinated. I've dumped in tons of fertilizer. I've watered the soft brainy soil. But so far nothing. Other than a few weeds. No roses. No tulips. No daisies. Yes, it's terribly frustrating. I've managed to grow all sorts of vegetation in my yard. Especially waves and waves of pacysandra, a beautiful ground cover. Much better than old-fashioned grass.  I have a magical touch. When it comes to cultivating pacysandra. Maybe that could make a difference with Julie. Yes, I'll try it. I'm going to take a few snippings of pacysandra. Over to Julie today. I'll stuff the snippings into her ears.  Wish me luck. I'm hoping that the pacysandra has a positive effect on Julie's lame brain. --Jim Broede

Helpless.

Every day. Tragedy. Wish I could avoid the news. And live in isolation. On a desert island. Where ignorance becomes bliss. The essence of modern-day news coverage. Each newspaper could have a separate section. Devoted only to human tragedies. Many perpetrated by the mentally ill. This one by a white supremacist. He's 21. Barely more than a kid. Goes to a prayer meeting. At a black church. Sits there for almost an hour. Contemplating the deadly and horrific act. He's about to commit. Pulling out a gun. Shooting nine people dead. Simply because they are black. Not white. Obviously, he's sick. Mentally ill. Full of hatred. If I had known him. Maybe I could have spotted what was coming. So could many others. He was in dire need of help. Intervention. Psychotherapy. I have friends and acquaintances. Maybe not as bad off. But still, they need help. They are mentally ill.  Psychotic. In depression. Addicted to alcohol and other drugs. Some of their lives will end in tragedy. Maybe suicide. Maybe acts even worse. As I and others. Sit idly by. Watching. Watching for the next tragedy.  As if we are helpless. To do anything about it. --Jim Broede

Personally, I'm for intervening.

Accepting one's self. It's so important. But then again, maybe not everyone should be so accepting of one's self. Such as my semi-friend Julie. She's become downtrodden. Mostly a recluse. A manic depressive. With extreme ups and downs. And this crazy fluctuating life is taking a toll on Julie. Making her unhappy most of the time. Locked in depression. Julie can't seem to help herself. And shuns help from others.  Instead, Julie stays on an ever-worsening course. Behaving erratically. So, tell me. When should Julie's freedom be taken away? And Julie be placed in an institutional setting. And be reprogrammed. For her own welfare and benefit. Or should we all just mind our own business? And tend to ourselves. Live and let live. Personally, I'm for intervening. --Jim Broede

A butterfly.

I wish my semi-friend Julie could imagine herself as a butterfly. She's trapped. In a self-made prison. That's the curse of depression.  But one doesn't need to chisel through a wall to escape. I have a better way. Convert the prison cell into a cocoon. And become a beautiful butterfly. Free to be happy again. By fluttering one's wings. In a graceful dance. From flower to flower to flower. --Jim Broede

For me, a babbling brook.

Pardon me, please, if occasionally I crave for more than a pulse beat. I'm alive. Because my heart keeps ticking. But when my heart stops, I still want to live. In another form. That requires no pulse beat. Instead, life should continue. In a steady flow. Like a mighty river. Or a mountain stream.  Or for me, a babbling brook. Flowing. Flowing. Flowing forever. Life without end. Into a pleasant conscious eternity. --Jim Broede

To truly live.

I know the Garden of Eden is a myth. A beautiful myth. But that's another time. In which I would choose to live. Because I'm for a mythical life. Where I might have a decent chance. Of actually talking to my so-called creator. To determine. Whether he's fake or real.  And if he's real, I'd ask for the opportunity to negotiate. A deal.  With give and take. Let's form a partnership. That would be my first suggestion. We're in this thing together, aren't we? I'd like to have some say. You've created me. To be sort of free and independent. The 'sort of' thing worries me a bit. Sounds sort of conditional. I want more sustainability. The opportunity to become more than human.  To become more spiritual. Like you. This physical stuff is too restraining. I want the option to shed my physicality. For something far better. To truly live. Beyond physical limitations. --Jim Broede

Desire: The key ingredient.

Takes time and effort and desire. For me to have a positive effect on the life of a friend or an acquaintance or a stranger. Sometimes I do. Other times I don't.  By choice. After recognizing that I can't be everything to everyone. I reach out to others.  Mostly when I have the desire. Then I automatically find the time and put in the effort.  Desire is the key ingredient. Without desire, nothing gets done. Of course, sometimes I fail. But I dwell on the successes. Knowing that I can't be everything to everyone. --Jim Broede

Better than no days any more.

Julie's neighbors keep asking me, 'What's happened to Julie? We don't see her any more.' I tell them only that Julie is in depression. That she has become reclusive. I don't tell them that she has a drinking problem. Maybe that's too personal. I take Julie's dog Sasha for a walk. Daily. Sometimes for 5 or 6 miles. Sasha and I are friends. Not so sure about Julie any more. I call her a semi-friend. Not quite a full-blown friend. I haven't seen Julie for several days. Even when I pick up Sasha. When I don't see Julie, it's likely that she's taken to her bedroom. To while away time. In depression. Away from people. Not so sure that's a good thing. Several neighbors tell me they plan to 'look in' on Julie. That would be a good thing. Julie probably needs camaraderie and inquisitive neighbors.  Maybe Julie is plunging. To the bottom. That could be good, too. Because then there's only one direction. Up. Up. Up. Better days ahead.  Beats the alternative. No days any more. --Jim Broede

Yes, I'm a lucky guy.

Luck. That has played a big part. In my life. And probably in everyone's life. Some of us are blessed with good luck. Others are cursed with bad luck. I've had both. Good luck. And bad luck. But mostly good luck. I've generally been in the right place at the right time. Rather than in the wrong place at the wrong time. But maybe it's more an attitudinal thing.  Often, when things go wrong, I merely wait for subsequent stuff to happen. And the wrong turns out to be right. Best to allow life to evolve. My dear sweet wife Jeanne died of Alzheimer's. It later led to my wonderful Italian amore, the second true love of my life. I can think of 101 similar  instances of my sadness turning to happiness. Yes, I'm a lucky guy. --Jim Broede

Thriving. In peace and harmony.

Sometimes I pretend. That I'm living in the 1860s. In America. During the Civil War. And I don't like it. Rather be living in another time.  When there was peace and harmony.  No war. Or even a threat of a lethal conflagration. Seems that would be a hard time to find. We humans are prone to war. To conflict. To violence. Makes me wonder. If other societies. In other universes. Cope with life in a fashion similar to our's. Maybe some have devised higher, and more peaceful societies. If I were the creator. That would be my mission. My intention. To allow for life throughout the cosmos. In many, many forms. To see what works. And doesn't work. The worst examples would be the societies that end up destroying themselves. The best would survive. Into eternity. Thriving. In peace and harmony. --Jim Broede

Marking time.

My semi-friend Julie continues to mark time. She's supposed to see a psychiatrist. But puts it off and off and off. That's the unfortunate side of her life. Always postponing today. Until tomorrow. I watch from the sidelines. As do others. We watch and watch and watch. We all have our roles. In seeing that nothing ever seems to get done. Wait. Wait. Wait. Sad. Sad. Sad. --Jim Broede

Thank you, amore.

Enrico Berlinguer. I had never heard of the guy. Until yesterday. On the 31st anniversary of his death. Turns out he was an Italian. From Sardinia. A political hero of my Italian amore. She was watching a documentary film. About Berlinguer. Almost became Italy's prime minister. In the 1970s. When the Communists were flourishing.  With 34 percent of the Italian vote. Not so much any more. But still, Communists abound. As a minority. They still get elected to city councils in Italy. Even in the city of Carbonia. Where I live with my amore in the wintertime. The leftist leaning of the local populace makes  me feel comfortable.  Because I'm a political liberal.  Anyway, Berlinguer was secretary general of the Italian Communist Party from 1972 until his death in 1984. He was revered by my amore.  For starting a movement among Western European Communists toward greater independence from Moscow. Berlinguer was one of Italy's most popular politicians. As the once powerful Christian Democratic Party faltered and Italy fell into social and economic disarray, he preached a Westernized brand of Communism that appealed to nearly a third of the voters. I looked up his obituary. In the New York Times. And learned that Berlinguer proposed a 'historic compromise.' With other parties. In 1973. Seen by some as the leading edge of the distinctive brand of Communism that began to take hold in Western Europe. The Italian Communists rejected the idea of violent revolution. Declaring they would seek power through a coalition with Christian Democrats and others. 'We have never believed that one single party, or single class, can solve the problems of our country.' Berlinguer said. Wish the guy were still alive today. So I could shake his hand. And tell him he's my new-found hero, too. Thank you, amore. For bringing Berlinguer to my rapt attention. --Jim Broede

       

My many distant cousins.

An interesting situation in Minnesota. Where a Native American couple is putting their baby up for adoption. And they've asked that the adoption agency place the child with a white couple. Not native American. The Ojibway Tribe has gone to court. To insist that the baby be reared in a Native American household.  I'm watching the case with interest. Imagining. That I was adopting the child. I'd want him to know his biological  parents. So that he would have the opportunity to maintain contact with them. He'd be getting a bonus. Two families.  His biological one. And his adopted one. Two moms. Two dads. From different ethnic backgrounds. Different cultures. A wonderful blending. The very thing that I like most about me. I'm an ethnic blending of American, German, Czech and maybe even Italian. A little bit of everything. If I trace my heritage way, way back. I'm probably a mix of  scores of nationalities. I probably have distant cousins in virtually every country of the world. --Jim Broede

Another wonder of life.

It's a good bet. That my father was mentally ill. When he committed suicide. In 1949. No doubt, he could have been saved. And lived a long life. If he had received treatment. For his addiction to gambling. Perhaps psychotherapy. Perhaps anti-depressant drugs not yet invented.  Fate isn't predetermined. One can alter the future. That's one way of looking at life. Of course, one can't turn back the clock. I was only 13. When my dad decided he had enough of life. I knew very little about the intricacies of mental illness. About depression. About addictions. That would drive one to suicide. Now I have a better understanding. I might even have the wherewithal to intervene. To take action. To prevent a so-called inevitable suicide. To alter someone's future. In a positive, life-saving way. Imagine that. Another wonder of life. --Jim Broede

I'd consider becoming a Martian.

I'm an American. But I wouldn't mind being a German or a Czech or an Italian. My ancestors were Germans and Czechs. And my amore is Italian. Therefore, I have an affinity for all of these nationalities and cultures.  In fact, I'd like to think of myself as a citizen of the world. Not merely an American. Some days, I feel more German, Czech and Italian than American. Other days, I feel more American. I also wouldn't mind experiencing life as a Swede or a Norwegian or a Russian or an African. I'd even consider becoming a Martian -- if that were possible. --Jim Broede

The right and decent thing to do.

I fit in. Might even be called well-adjusted. No matter where I go. I find happiness. Comfort. By merely being my independent self. Pretty much doing as I please. Living quietly. Peaceably.  Might be considered quirky. But thing is. I don't pose a threat. To anyone. Because I have a live-and-let-live attitude. I'm opinionated. But I don't impose my ways on others. Though it doesn't always seem that way. Especially when I encounter self-destructive people. The ones that fall into the abyss of depression and unhappiness. Yes. Yes. I know. People have a right to be unhappy. But I also have the right to steer them onto another path. To happiness. Makes me feel good. Because it's the right and decent thing to do. --Jim Broede

Never a boring day.

Learning how to deal and cope with life. Always a challenge. But that's exactly what makes life interesting. Of course, I have friends and acquaintances that don't like challenges. They prefer a robotic existence. Going through the motions. Or so it seems. Can't be sure. Because I suspect that many people live behind facades. And never reveal their true selves. Or maybe it's that they are strangers to themselves. As for me, I'm always discovering something new about myself. Never a boring day. --Jim Broede

Leaving me pleased. And content.

No doubt. I am often disappointed. Not only in me. But in others. That poses a dilemma. Because I am compelled. To ask a question. What to do about it? Always. I find an answer. An alternative. An option. To relieve my disappointment. By merely getting on with life. Living to the fullest. Leaving me pleased. And content. --Jim Broede

With the fibers of my being.

I am doing the right thing. Even when I do wrong. Because I learn from my mistakes. I evaluate the results. Because I am alive. And conscious.  And able to make mid-course corrections. All the more reason to love life. Always allowing myself to go with the flow. Sensing that I am being guided. By the trustworthy spirits. I put my faith. In those that I cannot physically see. But still feel. With the fibers of my being. --Jim Broede

The most important assignment.

I practice what I preach. In at least one respect. By taking care of myself. First and foremost. I urge all of my friends to do the same. Take care of themselves. First and foremost. Yes, to love themselves. I love me. And that allows me to love others. My friends and acquaintances. And even strangers. I'm able to do that. Precisely because I've taken care of myself. By staying in good physical and mental and emotional condition. If I neglected me, I'd probably be out of shape. Maybe even in depression, like my friend Julie. In recent years, Julie has  done an admirable job. As a care-giver to her Alzheimer-riddled parents. Obviously, she was devoted to them. Maybe too devoted. Because she neglected herself.  She didn't get proper respite.  Became exhausted and beleaguered. Mentally and physically and emotionally. She's only a shadow of her former energetic and convivial self. She's in depression. And unable to help herself. But even worse, she often rejects help. From others. Ironic, isn't it? For so very many years, Julie was a stellar care-giver. To others. One of the best. But she's flunking the most important assignment of all. Taking good care of the person that should come first and foremost. Yes, Julie. It's time that you learned to love yourself. --Jim Broede

Savoring paradise.

It's a beautiful day. Weather-wise. Temperature-wise. Every which way. Therefore, I am committed. To living. As if I'm in paradise. I'll stroll though the day.  Focused on positive and pleasant thoughts.  This day. Was created for me.  Because I am blessed. And deserve the best of everything. Yes, I am entitled to the good life. Doesn't matter that there are unhappy people in the world. They are far from my thoughts. Because I know how. To savor paradise. --Jim Broede

The caring dilemma.

There's a danger. In caring too much. About other people. About things. One can be overwhelmed. Emotionally consumed.  By not being able to turn off the caring spigot. I find it convenient. To have very few true friends. If I had more, I'd have to care more. If I had many, many friends. I'd be caring all the time. No break. No respite from my caring impulses. Also, it's good to cultivate indifference over many world events. If I cared about all sorts of stuff, I might be disappointed. And go into depression. So I carefully pick and choose. The people and things I truly care about.  So I can live a balanced and happy go-lucky life. --Jim Broede

It's all theoretical stuff.

I can see friendship from many angles. Many slants. And the hardest kind of friendship is the one that comes without conditions.  At the very most, I've achieved it only three times. Maybe that makes me deficient. Insufficient. And maybe I'm living a delusion.  Those three friendships could be fake. Because I was never truly tested.  Never sacrificing my life for a friend. Until I do that, it's all theoretical stuff. --Jim Broede

Otherwise, it's over. Forever.

Please don't get me wrong. Julie and I can be friends again. Some day. But that depends on Julie. If she shapes up. And becomes a happy go-lucky being. I'll welcome her back into the fold. Yes, I've established a friendly sort of condition.  There's hope. A way for Julie to end our estrangement. I want Julie to learn a lesson. I'm out there. Waiting. To become her worthy friend again. In a sense, I've been sent into exile. By Julie. If she truly wants be back, I'll come. But she has to make a sacrifice. A payment. Giving up the booze. And her unhappy ways. Otherwise, it's over. Forever.--Jim Broede       

Taking charge.

I have also put the Chicago Cubs on notice.  They must become a consistently winning baseball team. Otherwise, I will renounce my allegiance to the Cubs. Another example of how I am taking charge of my life. --Jim Broede

Does that make me selfish?

I take charge of my life. By steering clear of bothersome people. I even let go of certain friends. If they go awry. And refuse to help themselves. Take Julie, for instance. I try to have great influence. In the way Julie handles her life. Unfortunately, she does it in a self-destructive way. If Julie wants to commit suicide, I won't be  a part of it. I'll go my way. And eventually allow Julie to go her way. Julie has the option. To be a free and independent woman.  And to do as she pleases. As long as she refrains from  doing harm to others.  Julie does emotional harm to me. Only if I allow her to. I have the option to write-off Julie. So does her husband. So do so many people around Julie. I insist that Julie find ways to help herself. To become a reasonably happy being again. That's the only way I want Julie in my happy go-lucky life.  Does that make me selfish and uncaring? --Jim Broede

Stubborn Julie.

I'd rather cope with depression than Alzheimer's. For an obvious reason.  With proper treatment, depression can be brought under control. With Alzheimer's, one can expect a steady decline. No matter what. Therefore, my empathy is more with the Alzheimer-riddled than with my depressed friend Julie. I really don't feel all that sorry for Julie. Because she has the option. To go into psychotherapy. And to take an effective anti-depressant. Unfortunately, Julie has been slow in seeking help. She dilly dallies. Procrastinates. And continues to get more and more depressed. And it doesn't help, either, that she exacerbates the depression by drinking too much.  All of this is happening to the alarm of friends and cohorts. If they had the power and authority, they'd force Julie into treatment. Instead, Julie resists their anguished pleas. And drifts into self-induced despair.  Of course, I'm annoyed. With stubborn Julie. She doesn't follow my advice. I tell her that our friendship is over. Unless she takes steps to become well again. I refuse to watch. As her condition steadily worsens. So sad. After all, there is treatment. And a cure for depression. Better that. Than what really amounts to a slow form of suicide. It'll be reason for me to lament and grieve. Briefly. Then I'll get on with the rest of my happy go-lucky life. --Jim Broede

Better to listen to me.

The baffling thing. About my semi-friend Julie. Seems that she doesn't want to be happy. That she prefers flagellating herself. As if she deserves to be punished. When really, Julie has many, many reasons to be happy. But she refuses to savor what she has. Yes, it's a mental illness. A sickness that may be even worse than death. To exist in a pool of unhappiness. That must be Hell. Makes me wonder if that's how Robin Williams felt. Moments before he decided to hang himself.  On the surface, Williams had so very much to live for. Yet he chose death. His way of finding peace. Believe me, I have a better way. Yes, it would be far better to listen to me. Than to Robin Williams. --Jim Broede

True, true, true friends.

I'm capable of writing off virtually anyone. If they annoy me. And make me feel uncomfortable in their presence. For many years, that included my sister. When she was a drunk. Tried valiantly to do something constructive about it. But it didn't work. So I declared adios. Finally, 10 years ago, she saw the light. Quit drinking. And we are on good and friendly terms again. Yes, I insist mostly on conditional friendships. Had only three unconditional friendships so far. Maybe I should have more. But I can settle for three. True, true, true friends. Maybe everyone else qualifies as acquaintances. Maybe that's a rather harsh definition. I like many, many people. But not so sure that I'd sacrifice virtually everything for them.  Three at the very most. And even then I can't be sure. If I were really put to the test.   --Jim Broede

For the sake of friendship.

I’m learning. To treat Julie as my off-and-on friend. Not a dear friend, not an always friend. For good reason. Julie really isn’t Julie any more. Only a slight resemblance of her former self. Julie is mentally ill. In despair. In depression. Crazy. In a not very nice way. Especially when she drinks too much wine. Imbibing. It dramatically changes her personality. In the worst way. Yes. Yes. I should be forgiving. And learn to accept Julie as she is. Recognizing that she’s ill. And can’t totally help herself. But I’m drawing a line. I absolutely cannot accept Julie as she is. I want a better and nicer Julie. So does Julie’s husband. He’s had enough of the ill and erratic and bitchy behavior. The Julie that steadfastly refuses to obtain help. As if Julie has the capability of making a real choice. Maybe Julie is unable to make rational decisions. Oh, for the power and authority to put Julie away. In a sanitarium. In an asylum. Until she becomes well again. Yes, I insist, dear Julie. That you go in for treatment. My ultimatum. Take it or leave it. Find a way. For the sake of friendship. –Jim Broede

Honesty: The best policy.

I try to be honest. But that's difficult. Because honesty offends some people. Including several of my friends. They would rather that I lie. In ways that make them feel good. After all, the truth can be brutal. And hurtful. Of course, there also can be legitimate differences of opinion. Over what constitutes the truth. I accuse some friends of being liars. Fact is, we're all liars, to some degree. In order to build self-esteem. We not only lie to others. But to our selves. Nevertheless, I am convinced that honesty is the best policy. --Jim Broede

Minding my own business.

I find it necessary to ignore some people --that really shouldn't be ignored. Still, I do it. To protect myself. Often, they are people with mental problems. In need of help.  And they don't get it. For a variety of reasons. Sometimes they are unwilling to accept help. Unwilling to go in for treatment. For a fix. For a cure.  I am in danger of alienating them -- if I push too hard.  Therefore, it might be wise to back off.  To let matters take their natural course. With no interference from me. Another way of saying, mind my own business. --Jim Broede

Maybe I should bow out.

My sometimes friend Julie is inept. Psychologically speaking. She's in no position to make her own decisions. Rationally. Because of a longstanding manic depressive disorder. Plus a drinking problem.  In my opinion, Julie really needs round-the-clock supervision and psychotherapy. Probably an anti-depressant, too. In order to come out of her longtime funk. Julie is in bigger trouble than was my wife Jeanne. Years ago. When Jeanne was in the mid-stages of Alzheimer's Disease. I was still able to risk leaving Jeanne alone for an hour or two. I'd not take the same risk with Julie --that is, if I were in charge. And I'm not.  Maybe just as well.  After all, I'm not a trained professional.  Merely an amateur when it comes to dealing with the mentally ill. Fortunately, I was able to master the art of care-giving. For dementia-riddled Jeanne. Julie, however, leaves me baffled. Yes, helpless. I don't know what to do next. It's terribly frustrating. Maybe I should just bow out. And get on with the rest of my life. In a happy go-lucky manner. --Jim Broede

At my creative best.

I am never lonely. And I'll tell you why. Because I have me. I am able to converse. With myself. I am entertaining. Brilliant. Interesting. Perceptive. I could live alone. On a desert island. In solitary confinement.  And still be happy. With me.  Maybe that sounds egocentric. But hey, that's the truth. I like other people, too.  Especially my amore.  But when finding myself alone, there's no reason to panic.  I occupy myself. With all sorts of thoughts. I am alive. Conscious. Aware of my environs. No matter where I am. Even in a crowd. I can isolate myself. And find solitude. Merely by withdrawing. Into myself. Often that is when I'm at my creative best. --Jim Broede

The best invention ever.

I write. For selfish reasons. Mainly to allow me to ponder my own words. My own thoughts. To make sense of my life. Of course, I share many thoughts. With others. But really, that’s not my primary goal. I take time to read what I write. Because often I’m initially unaware of the significance of what’s just been written. Frequently asking myself, what am I really saying? And I find a better way to say it. One nice thing. Written words can be easily retrieved. My thoughts are allowed to percolate. And often take on new meaning. Even years later. Of course, I often think without written words. But many of those thoughts tend to be elusive. Forgotten. Because there are too many to remember. I even forget some written thoughts. Until I stumble across them. Because I had the foresight to file them away. Anyway. All this writing. Makes me wonder. If the written word. Is the best invention ever. –Jim Broede

A route to happiness.

Seems so easy. To choose happiness. Over sorrow. Yet, I have several dear friends.  Constantly lamenting. Wallowing in despair. Could be a chemical imbalance, the experts say. Makes one wonder.  What causes the imbalance? Could be a negative attitude. With a simple solution. Choose happiness. Yes, practice, practice, practice. Happy thoughts. Try it. For a few minutes. Might trigger a chain reaction. An endless flow of happiness. --Jim Broede

Beyond our wildest imagination.

Modern science ain't very modern. Because scientists know far less than they actually know. Thousands of years from now, our so-called 'modern science' will have been deemed hilariously insufficient. A scientific Dark Age, relatively speaking. Because there will always remain so much more to be discovered. For instance, scientific proof that conscious life exists in non-physical forms.  What we call spirits. Yes, I could consciously exist as a spirit. In a dimension far beyond physical.  Sounds like fiction, doesn't it? But not so long ago, the idea of man walking on the moon was preposterous. Even more unlikely was our finding a way to send a spacecraft beyond our solar system. The cosmos is there. To be explored. By conscious life that transcends into pure spirit. Capable of moving about faster than the speed of light. From one end of the cosmos to the other. Spirits probably live outside of time. Fantastic stuff. That modern science classifies as science fiction. When really, it's real. Achievable now. And grasped by higher scientific civilizations. That abound. Beyond our wildest imagination. --Jim Broede

Just enough. To be happy.

Acceptance. That can be a hard thing. Accepting the world. As it is. Imperfect. Of course, there's much to like, too. About the world. And life. Therefore, I focus on the positives. In order to be happy. I avoid thinking too much about the bad stuff.  Better to get on with life. Rather than stewing. Over things I can't change. Such as, political systems. And wars. And annoying people. And natural disasters. I retreat to my cocoon. And pretend. That I am safe. Having nothing to fear. Fortunately, I'm not alone. My beloved cat, Loverboy, is always with me. We share the same cocoon. Really, the same world. Though Loverboy isn't aware of goings-on outside of  the cocoon. That's probably a blessing. For him. Not knowing too much. Just enough. To be happy. --Jim Broede

Saving Julie from herself.

As for my friend Julie. If I were her doctor. I'd prescribe several days of total rest. Supervised. No personal responsibilities. Time for doctors to evaluate test results. Both physical and mental. But already I'd know the obvious. Julie is in depression. And she has a drinking problem. She's been in decline. For years and years. I'd determine what Julie needs. To get well again. Starting with extended bed rest. In a sanitarium. Daily psychotherapy, too. And a proper diet. Julie is gaunt. And psychotic.  A mere shadow of her former vibrant self. Julie is in no condition to be left on her own.  She needs treatment. Special care. Until she can manage herself once again. That's it. In a nutshell, folks. Now let's get to the critical assignment. Saving Julie from herself. --Jim Broede