I'd rather be a happy pauper.

It’s difficult. Being unhappy. Maybe that’s why I avoid going into the doldrums.  It’s far easier being happy. I have tried being unhappy. Just to get a better feel for it. So that I can better understand my unhappy friends. But for me, it’s excruciatingly difficult to be unhappy. It drains the stamina from me. After five minutes, I find it necessary to return to my happy state of being. I’d go nuts if I forced myself to be unhappy for a sustained period. I couldn’t take it. It would be too demanding, too depleting. Even to play such a role. On stage. Just pretending that I’m unhappy. That would be too much of a challenge. I’d decline the role. Even if I were offered millions of dollars. I’d rather be a happy pauper.  --Jim Broede

Better to be surprised.

Don’t always know what I’m searching for. Which is just as well. Because I like surprises. Anyway. If I knew what I was looking for. And then didn’t find it. I’d be disappointed.  Better to be surprised.  And pleased. By whatever I’ve discovered. Unexpectedly.  --Jim Broede

No reason to complain.

I relish being home. Alone. And home, too. With people. Especially my Italian amore.   I’m very, very adaptable. I adjust to the situation. Happily. That’s my nature. Certainly, it doesn’t bother me to be alone. I never feel lonely. Because I occupy myself. With pleasant thoughts. Furthermore, if I want to converse with my amore. It’s easy. She’s only a Skype connection away. Really, I have it made. Life is good. At least most of the time. Sure, there’s an occasional pitfall. A setback.  But hey, I’ll take that. And deal with it. No reason to complain. As long as I have the good life 98 percent of the time. --Jim Broede

Still trying to become acquainted.

I try to be understanding. Of friends. And acquaintances. Even of strangers. Of course, that’s easier said than done. Because it usually takes a long time. To get to know anyone. Intimately. Makes me wonder. If  most everyone we purport to know. Really qualify as strangers.  Including my ‘friends.’ Perhaps I know them only on the surface. Superficially. That might even go for my mother, my father, my siblings. I have impressions. And tentative conclusions.  But perhaps I have no sense of the depths of their beings.  Heck, maybe I don’t even know myself. Much less others. So here I am. After 80 years of living. Still trying to become acquainted. With everyone around me. --Jim Broede

Makes me selfish. And a jerk, too.

Julie lives in the world of an alcoholic. And the bereaved. And the depressed. I’m relatively unfamiliar with these worlds.  Though I’ve grieved. Briefly Over the loss of loved ones. But I’ve never been in serious depression or had a drinking problem.  Therefore, I haven’t experienced these maladies first hand.  Through actual experience.  So maybe I don’t fully comprehend what it’s like living in Julie’s complicated world. Furthermore. I’m a man. Julie is a woman. That could pose difficulties, too. when it comes to understanding each other. Still, Julie is a dear friend.  But perhaps not a true friend. There’s a difference. My late wife Jeanne was a true friend. So is my Italian amore. Here’s the difference. My true friends are accepted. Unconditionally. I have no desire to change them. I don’t demand anything. As for Julie. I want to change her behavior. For her to go into treatment. So she quits drinking. And gets well again. Physically, mentally and emotionally.  I don’t want Julie any other way.  Makes me selfish. And a jerk, too. Who puts too much demand and onus on friend Julie. --Jim Broede

We speak in foreign languages.

My friend Julie. And I. Speak two different languages. Little wonder. That we often don’t communicate. Because we need translations. Julie lives in her own world. I live in mine. Yes, different worlds. Different languages. We use the same words. But they have different meanings. Oh, there are breakthroughs. Moments of clarity. But misunderstandings abound. I write stuff. And send it to Julie. But she doesn’t even bother to read. Because we speak in foreign languages. --Jim Broede

The endless search. Keeps me going.

Giving meaning and purpose to life. That’s what I think about. When rising. Hours before daybreak. It’s up to me. To create a story. Of my life. And have it all make sense. Of course, that takes imagination. Causes me. To sit down. And write. Whatever comes to mind. To see if I can grasp the moment. Long enough. To feel the pulse beat of life. In a conscious, meaningful manner.  Feeling good about myself. When others around me. Seem to be in deep distress. I wonder. If that’s  why they sleep. And become recluses. Because they have no meaning. No purpose. And here I am. Pondering. Pondering. Feeling the thrill. Of searching. Always. For meaning and purpose. That’s it. The search. The search. The endless search. Keeps me going. --Jim Broede

It's so darn easy.

No doubt. I have unhappy moments. But when that happens. It automatically sets off a response. I ask, ‘How am I to become happy again?’  And I have no difficulty. Listing 100 ways.  Of course, that could pose a dilemma. Such as an on-going debate. Over which form of happiness would best suit me. But really, it doesn’t matter.  All options are good.  Therefore, I pick one at random. Without looking at the list. Makes me wonder. Why I’ve ever had an unhappy moment. When it’s so darn easy to be happy. --Jim Broede

True and effective love.

I’m puzzled. By a friend. Who chooses not to get on with life. In a happy manner. Instead, dear Julie opts to be sad and downtrodden. Maybe that’s her nature. Her right, too. And maybe the rest of us should accept Julie. For what she is. A depressed recluse. With a drinking problem. We’re told to love Julie. Unconditionally. Just the way she is. But I choose to cast a dissenting vote. I’d rather not allow Julie to dictate her sad future. Better to force Julie. Into a better life. Against her will, if necessary.  Some call it intervention. I call it a solution. Also known as true and effective love. --Jim Broede

A matter of getting on with life.

Life is what one makes of it. One can see the same event. In two almost different ways. I have a choice. To give a positive or a negative connotation. To an event that had an impact on my life. For instance, my father’s suicide. Initially, I looked at it as a tragedy. With remorse. But over time, I learned to glamorize my dad’s decision to take his life.  As good. For him. And for the family. I put everything in perspective. My whole life would likely have been much different. Had dad stuck around. But his departure changed the course of our lives. Not only mine. But my brother, my sister, my mother.  Each of us would have to come up with our own answer. Whether it was for the best or the worst. As for me, it probably was for the best. Because I like the way my life has evolved. Therefore, I consider my father’s suicide a blessing. Not so sure that would go for my brother and sister. They had difficulty adjusting to life thereafter. But my mother was more like me. She knew how to turn tragedy into a blessing. By getting on with life. In a happy manner. -Jim Broede

My bright and idyllic future.

When it comes to spiritual matters. I believe. Whatever I want to believe. I don’t need proof. Scientific or otherwise.  For instance. I'm a believer. In an afterlife. Only because I want there to be an afterlife. So I can continue being. Preferably, as a living and thinking spirit. Sure, I’ll admit that’s only a remote possibility. But it is a possibility. And that’s good enough for me. It helps to buoy my morale. My spirits, so to speak. Little wonder. That I have become a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover and a dreamer.  Because those are pursuits over which I have control. In my current physical realm. Of course, it’s still to be determined. Just how much control I’ll have in the spiritual dimension. Or if there really is one.  But I’m free to assume. Anything. Including my bright and idyllic future.  As a thriving spirit. -Jim Broede

In the fertile soil of life.

I become fully awake. After reminding myself. Daily. That I’m in love. I wonder. If that’s the preoccupying force of life. My life. And when did it happen?  Was there a first time?  Or was I a natural born lover? Only to grasp the concept later on. Maybe love has to be cultivated. A seed. That sprouts. And blossoms. In the fertile soil of life. --Jim Broede

I like my world. Best of all.

Maybe it’s my imagination. But it seems that I do my best thinking. When I’m alone. Maybe that’s because. My imagination. Comes to the forefront. To the surface. And then takes off. On flights of fancy. When I’m with other people. I try to show respect. By  listening. So that I can find entries. Into their often strange worlds. Which I find fascinating. Though I have to admit. I like my world. Best of all. --Jim Broede

I arrived on the Day of Infamy.

Not sure if I’m supposed to act my age. Now that I’m 80. Thing is. I’ve never considered acting my age before. Didn’t matter whether I was 10 or 20 or 30 or 40 or 50 or 60 or 70. So, why start now?  Anyway, I have no idea what an octogenarian is supposed to act like. Therefore, I’d have to merely wing it. And follow my instinct. Which is to pay virtually no attention to my age. Really, I’m too busy. To start counting the years. Though I have plenty of friends. Who keep track for me.  And needlessly and cruelly remind me. Every September 11. That it’s time to add another year to my spiraling age count. Anniversaries. Anniversaries. I don’t understand why we clodhoppers keep noting anniversaries. Even over dastardly deeds. Such as the terrorist attack. Known as 9/11. Yes, coincidentally, the same date as my birthday. But in some ways, it’s nice to have the 9/11 terrorist distraction. Makes my birthday seem incidental. A minor blip. Easily forgotten.  Replaced in importance. By new status. As the Day of Infamy.  Though come to think of it. That also may be a suitable term. For what my critics might call the regrettable day I arrived. Here on Mother Earth. --Jim Broede

It's good. To die laughing.

If I go a day without laughing. It is a wasted day. Also, its quite possible. That I have a moral obligation. To make other people laugh. Because laughter is a tonic. A means. To not take life too seriously. No doubt. The happiest people. Are the ones that die laughing. --Jim Broede

Where do we draw the line?

I’m assuming. That many people are mentally ill. But aren’t diagnosed as such. Or more likely, they are judged to have a right to be mentally ill. Just as one can refuse treatment. For all sorts of maladies. Whether physical or mental.  That’s why an alcoholic, for instance, can stay drunk most of his/her life. We are inherently free. To destroy ourselves. Unfortunately, in the process, the mentally ill also end up disrupting, if not destroying, the lives of others.  Friends, loved ones, acquaintances. Even strangers. Granted. Sometimes inadvertently. Anyway, I’m of a healthy and refreshing mind. That it’s not only wise to intervene. But morally responsible. For us. As individuals. And as a society. To step in. To see that the mentally ill. Including drunks. Such as friend Julie. Get the kind of help. And care.  That make them less mentally ill. Yes, folks, please tell me.  Where do we draw the line? --Jim Broede

Julie doesn't believe in herself.

Friend Julie doesn’t know how to take praise. Yes, give Julie a compliment. And an odd thing happens. She becomes embarrassed. And frequently takes offense.  As if she doesn’t deserve being lauded. Strange, isn’t it? Causes me to speculate that Julie has low self-esteem.  Which could be a contributing factor. For Julie being plagued by chronic depression. And why Julie has taken to drink.  Anyway, it’s a complicated self-destructive  situation. That needs to be resolved. Maybe in psychotherapy. I believe in Julie. So does husband Rick and her many friends. But there’s one big obstacle in the way. A lack of self-confidence. Julie doesn’t believe in herself. --Jim Broede

Thanks, Julie. For a nice party.

I try to see and portray my friends. As they are. Rather than sugar-coated. Thing is. They are my friends, period. Despite the blemishes. The imperfections. Real friends are accepted. Unconditionally. And who am I to judge? After all, I have my share of shortcomings. Such as writing about personal stuff like this. Anyway, I was at a gala Christmas party tonight. Over at my friend Julie’s place.  And I was musing. To myself. That many of Julie’s friends and relatives don’t know the real Julie. Nor the rigors and mayhem she’s going through. Because of her drinking problem. Some don’t even know that she’s an alcoholic. Because they see her infrequently. Not on a daily basis. I see Julie almost every day. And when I don’t. It’s most likely. Because Julie’s in her recluse stage. Which happens often. Whenever she’s drinking. She hides out. Anyway, at the Christmas party, Julie pulled herself together. And put on a good show. For the sake of visiting family – the ones that see Julie occasionally. Usually at special times. Such as Christmas.  I give Julie credit for her fine performance. Goes to show that Julie can abstain. For brief periods. Though it’s difficult. Julie, of course, tries to hide her drinking problem from others. Unfortunately, she even tries to hide it from herself.  Indeed, that’s the bitter and sad part. Yes, Julie’s continuing denial. But hey, I’ve learned. To take what I can get. A few days of a wonderfully sober Julie. That’s certainly better than nothing. Thank you, Julie. For a nice Christmas party. –Jim Broede

In my not-so-understanding way.

I’m an understanding fellow. Or so I like to portray myself. Understanding to the point. Where I boldly proclaim. There’s a solution. To most problems. And if the problem-plagued don’t take my advice – well, then that’s their loss. So, in reality, maybe I’m not the most understanding guy around. Yes, throngs of my friends and acquaintances would rather live with their (so-called) wretched lives. Rather than take my foolproof prescription for a better life. Little wonder. That I annoy some people. But still, I maintain, it’s better to look for solutions. Rather than give up.  So there. I confess. That’s where I’m coming from. In my stupid and not-so-understanding way.  --Jim Broede

If only I truly believe.

Hopes and dreams. They are one and the same. And some of my dreams come true. They are real. Being lived. No longer false. That doesn’t mean that every dream will come true. But hey, I insist on some degree of success. Beyond false hope.  Nothing stops me from dreaming beyond my physical existence.  To immortality.  To the impossible. I haven’t done it yet. But some day I will walk on water. And I’ll do it. On the very day that I believe I can do it. True belief is not an impossible dream. Not any more impossible than true love. I have the potential to achieve the impossible. In all sorts of ways and avenues. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it. If only I truly believe. -Jim Broede

Being alone. In a teeming crowd.

I prefer. Celebrating holidays. Such as Christmas. Alone. Far, far away from parties. Yes. Yes. I want an environs. A setting. Where I can practice solitary introspection. A turning inward. For the meaningful stuff of life. A party doesn’t do it for me. Wishing. Wishing. That I hadn’t come. But still. I’ve learned. That I can be alone. Even in the midst of a teeming crowd. --Jim Broede

Into flights of fancy.

In denial. Of  reality. That’s my friend Julie. She’s an alcoholic. And refuses to admit it. But I. And everyone. Are we all deniers? Of the reality. Of life. Pretenders. In the pursuit of happiness. Julie pretends that wine makes her happy. Momentarily contented. Because the wine obliterates her mind. Sends her into a stupor. That she thinks. Eases her pain. Her anguish. Her sadness. Meanwhile, I imagine becoming spirit. To escape my physical reality.  For a happier place. I claim  to be happy. Despite my yearning. For a better form of happiness. I want it all. Perfection. Even if that means hypnotizing. My brain. My mind. Into flights of fancy. --Jim Broede

Quest for significance and glamour.

I wonder. How many truly memorable days have I lived?  Probably not very many. Most days are made to be forgotten. Forever. Routine days. Spent going through the motions of living. Discarded days. Nothing worth remembering. I wonder. If that makes me unusual. Or is this the pattern with most people? Living relatively humdrum lives. Though in recent years, I've learned to savor. Even the small stuff. By noticing what I may have overlooked before. A sunset. A chirping bird. A stranger that I might have otherwise ignored.  A fresh scent.  Every day. Every night. I write. Reflections. Musings. My random thoughts. Looking. Looking always. For significance and glamour. In ordinary life. --Jim Broede

A natural born dreamer, am I.

I’m running out of time. Yes, that’s a peril. When one reaches old age. But I’m learning to deal with time. By not thinking too far ahead. Into oblivion. The important thing. I’m here now. And able to imagine being around. For another five years. Maybe even 10. If I’m lucky. Of course, it was more comforting when I was able to imagine. Realistically. Being around for another 50 years. Though there never were any guarantees. But the statistics were still on my side.  Not so any more. But I have one big advantage. My imagination. It’s more fertile and creative than ever. I imagine. Living on and on. As spirit. That’s contrary to scientific evidence. But then, I’m fortunate. To not be a scientist.  Instead, I’m a natural born dreamer. --Jim Broede

Wow!!! What a stunning revelation!!!

Come to think of it. I may not be 80-years-old. Maybe life begins only when one becomes fully conscious. As a thinking being. Aware of one’s own existence.  Complete with memory.  An argument could be made. That I don’t yet meet the requirements of being alive. Sure, there’s circumstantial evidence that I emerged from my mother’s womb. In Chicago. On the night of 9/11/35. But maybe it wasn’t until five or six years later that I had a conscious identity. As a unique functioning and thinking being. It’s possible, too, that I still haven’t reached the level of being fully and certifiably born. In the form I’m ultimately meant to be. Perhaps as nothing less than a living and conscious and thriving and loving spirit. Gloriously and magnificently sprouting from my physical cocoon. In other words, I’m still in the process of being born. Not yet fully alive. Therefore, there’s no reason to start counting the years of my real and profound life. Yes, it’s a good feeling. That I am so young. Not even yet being born. Here I am. Still in the preliminary and preparatory stages of truly conscious life. Wow!!! What a stunning revelation!!! --Jim Broede

In my own solitary way.

I can do without all the Christmas folderol. Another sign. That I’m a former Christian. Raised in the church. Confirmed. As a Protestant. When still a youth. Before I knew better.  And became a spiritual free-thinker. Yes. Free of organized religion.  But still a believer. In the holy spirit. As a youngster. I was sucked into celebrating Christmas. For selfish reasons. The gifts.  But I soon learned. Of the wear and tear. The celebration had. On almost everyone around me. The social obligations. Going though the motions. Of being happy and joyous. In festive ways. With other people. I’ve since learned. That the best way to celebrate. Is alone. Quietly.  In peace.  A time to turn inward. To reflect. And to muse. In my own solitary way. About being in love. With life. --Jim Broede

Little wonder. I have sweet dreams.

Mind over matter. That’s what I try to practice. It’s a way to overcome. Certain things about life. That I don’t like. Such as politics. Or work conditions. Or world events. Happenstance stuff. To cope. I put my mind in the right frame.  Maybe it’s more accurate to say that I practice imagination over matter.  I imagine ways. To deal with the setbacks and turmoil in my life.  In constructive and happy ways. Often, with reminders. That I’m in love.  With life. And that’s my focus. Every night. When I go to bed. Little wonder. I have sweet dreams. --Jim Broede

The way a woman should be loved.

A divorced woman. With two kids. A daughter, 12. And a son, 8. Furthermore, she was nine years older than me. Yes, that was my true love. Dear sweet Jeanne. We got hitched. In 1969. And had 38 happy years. Together. Until Jeanne died. Of complications. From Alzheimer's. My mother cautioned me. Against marriage. But I knew better. I knew Jeanne was right for me. And I was right for Jeanne. Goes to show. That I was much smarter than my dumb mother. When it comes to love. I'm brilliant. A genius. As perceptive as they come. I'm a true lover. A dreamer.  A romantic idealist. Jeanne was a refugee. From a dysfunctional marriage. A cheating husband.  With no clue that he was married to a gem. Maybe the nicest woman in the world. Several years ago, when Jeanne's ex-husband was on his deathbed, I went to see him. To thank him. For his mistakes. For not recognizing that Jeanne was a blessing. That he passed on to me. He did me a favor.  By, in essence, rejecting and maltreating Jeanne. That made it easy for me. Jeanne was ready. To be loved. The way a woman should be loved. --Jim Broede

Growing old ain't so bad, after all.

Self-doubt. Maybe that’s the worst thing about growing old. One loses confidence. About being able to do certain things. Physically. Mentally. Yes, losing skills that one used to handle adeptly. But I’m learning. Not to push the panic button.  To adapt. To compensate.  To be more wily. Essentially, it comes to slowing down. And accepting the facts of life. I panicked. When I turned 40. Oh, not to a high degree. Never really had a mid-life crisis. And now I’ve panicked again. At 80. In a different way. By momentarily wishing I was 40 again. The good thing. I’ve brought the panic under control. Maybe because I have no choice. Because I have a strong desire. To milk every last ounce out of life. One way or another.  I have to be more creative. More imaginative. More accepting. And most of all. To not be afraid of where I’m headed. Yes, not to be fearful. Even when almost every one around me is pushing the panic button. Because they’ve been brain-washed. By the media. By politicians. That the world is going to hell. Right here in America. We are being sold a bill of goods. That maybe World War III is just around the corner. That it’s the fault of bad guys. Of a religion that has gone awry. Completely berserk. But I, for one, don’t accept all this fearful stuff. No, it ain’t Armageddon. One thing I’ve learned. After 80 years of living. And observing. That I’m still in love. With life. Every night. I go to sleep. In love. And I wake. Still in love. That helps me erase any self-doubt. About growing old. --Jim Broede

Please, Julie, bring us Christmas joy.

I wonder. What it would be like. To be addicted to the truth. I’d like my good friend Julie. To try it. By replacing her addiction to alcohol. With a new addiction. To the truth.  In other words, Julie’s daily fix would be facing up to the truth. About herself. Now she’s a liar.  In denial. Of the truth. Occasionally, Julie tells us that she’s finally going to quit imbibing. But we all know better. She ain’t sincere. She’s fibbing. To all of us. But even worse, she lets herself down. She’s the habitual liar. Yes, a double whammy. A liar and an alcoholic.  It’s Christmas week. And poor Julie is on the path to self-destruction. I for one, won’t be celebrating. Won't be cheerful. If Julie comes to the party drunk. So disappointing. So sad. That is, unless Julie gives us reason to be cheerful. --Jim Broede

At any time of day or night.

I altered my routine tonight. Plopped into bed at 10. With the lights still on. It felt so good. So cozy. So warm. It's the coldest night of the winter so far. Anyway, I'm up at 2 in the morning. Writing. My thoughts. My musings.  Normally, this is the time I'm going to bed. For the first time. After a long and delightful day. Now I'm feeling rested. Yes, a good time. To write. And read a book. And maybe play soft and idyllic music. Though I also savor the quiet. The stillness. The solitude. An opportunity, too. To think about my Italian amore. Ah,  love. It's so wonderful.  At any time of day or night. --Jim Broede

Living the good life.

Little wonder. I’m in no hurry to leave Minnesota this winter. Because it really doesn’t feel like winter. Here we are. A week before Christmas. No snow on the ground. Our lake is still free of ice.  Perhaps we Minnesotans are the beneficiaries of global warming. And if the Minnesota summer is too hot. No problem. I won’t be here. Instead, I’ll be with my amore. In the Italian Alps.  Living the good life. --Jim Broede

Not your typical American.

Hard to believe. That pollsters report we Americans are obsessed about security. As if we don’t feel safe any more. Because of a few criminals. Known as terrorists. Apparently, I’m not a typical American.  I feel safe and secure.  No fretting.  Over the possibility of another terrorist attack. Don’t even give it a second thought. I merely get on with my life. Confident and unafraid. Focusing on the good stuff. My health. My Italian amore. My refusal to be intimidated. By a terrorist, or by anyone. I am what I am. A romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer.  -Jim Broede

Being a fool. For the laughs.

Thinking tonight. That I don't sing. Or even try to sing. Because I'd be making a fool of myself.  The same goes, I suppose, for learning a second language. I'd never come close to mastering it to the point of not making a fool of myself. Yes, I know. Nothing wrong with being a fool.  That's how I learned to write. By being a fool. Day after day. And I still may be making a fool of myself. Every time I write. But I don't mind. So maybe I should accept being a fool. By practicing and expanding my grasp of the Italian language.  Isn't it funny? That I don't want to be a singing fool. The thing is. I have absolutely no singing talent. It's not even worth trying to sing.  Other than in a role as  a stand-up comic. In which case, I'd be doing it for the laughs.  --Jim Broede

Just downright nastiness.

Maybe I’m naive. Because I don’t understand. Why politicians can’t be nice to each other. Even if they disagree on issues. Anyway, I try to be nice. Even to people I dislike. It’s part of my nature. But then, I’m not a politician. And have no desire to be one. Maybe because there seems to be a lack of reasonable rules of decorum.  Even when Republicans debate Republicans. They are scurrilous and downright hateful in their comments. They lambaste each other. Unmercifully.  Of course, that can be entertaining. And maybe that’s why they do it. Take Donald Trump, for instance. He’s become a showman. An entertainer. Never a dull moment with Trump.  He’s the master of insult humor. Even the comedian Don Rickles can’t keep up with him. But then. To come to think of it. Maybe politicians don't intend it to be humor. Just downright nastiness.--Jim Broede

Too slow for fast-changing times.

I’ve not kept up with the times. And don’t know. If that’s good or bad. More likely, it doesn’t matter. I spend much of my day at the computer.  Writing.  After having spent most of my life at a manual typewriter. Of course, a computer is dramatically more efficient and more versatile than an old clunker typewriter. But still, I miss the typewriter. I used to have a mammoth collection.  Received my first typewriter for Christmas. When I was in the sixth grade.  And quickly taught myself to type. By the two-finger method.  At a phenomenal speed. Became a shameless show-off. Fellow newspaper reporters came over to  gawk. At my blazing two-finger typing skill.  Yes, I was a master of the typewriter. So easy. So natural. Meanwhile, I have yet to fully master  the boundless intricacies of the computer. And never will. There’s too much to learn. Instead, I settle for the basics. The stuff that gets me by.  Writing my daily blog. And posting musings on message boards. And keeping my composure.  When my computer malfunctions. Though. If truth be told. I’m the malfunctioning one. For not keeping up with fast-changing times. --Jim Broede

I ain't j-j-j-jittery.

Jittery. Jittery. I’m an American. And I’m supposed to be jittery, according to political pollsters. The top issue has been defined. As concern over national security. Over terrorism. That even beats the economy. But as for me, I’m not the least bit jittery. I have better things to do. Than to worry about security. I go about my life. In a relatively jovial and loving way. My mood is good. Despite the ongoing political circus.  I’m learning to accept life. As it is. Focusing on whatever makes me happy. At the moment. Able to breathe. And to feel jubilant. Merely being alive and conscious. And in love. --Jim Broede

Wish I was there. To see it happen.

My guess. Is that the creator/god wants us to solve our own problems.  And that he never intervenes. If we spoil or sabotage his creation –well, then so be it. It’s our loss. Not his. Because the creator can always start over.  Here on planet Earth. Or he might decide it isn’t worth the effort.  He has better things to do.  Yes, it’s nice that the creator/god gave us life. Gave us a chance. But it’s up to us –without his help – to make the best of our individual lives. He won’t mind if we help each other.  By serving the common good. But it’s not his job to bail us out of the grievous trouble we are in. He wants us to assume total responsibility. For our planet and mankind. So far, we haven’t come close.  And probably never will.  We are fast running out of time. We remain on a path to self-destruction.  Not only of god-given life. But of the entire planet. Sounds bleak, doesn’t it? Still, there’s good news. I suspect god created life on other planets in the vast cosmos. And they can’t all be doomed to failure.  Some civilizations are bound to succeed. In some place. Far, far away. Wish I was there. To see it happening. --Jim Broede

My wish for a Yule-time miracle.

I try to distance myself. From my friend Julie. So does her husband Rick. Because we are following conventional wisdom.  About how one should deal with an alcoholic. We’re told to get on with our own lives. And leave Julie grapple with her drinking problem. That only Julie can decide to quit. To stay sober.  We can’t do it for her.  When we try to badger Julie. Into treatment. We may be doing more harm than good. It’s the nature of alcoholics. To resist. To stay in denial. They have to take the initiative. On their own. All too often it takes a cataclysmic event. Before they finally ‘bottom out.’ Indeed, that can be a life-threatening scenario. My sister, for instance, fell asleep. In a drunken stupor. A lighted cigarette in her hand  Burned down her house. Escaped. Miraculously. That was 11 years ago. Hasn’t had a drink or a cigarette since. Now we’re waiting. Anxiously. For Julie's turn to see the light. Before it’s too late. I want one more miracle. For Julie. That’s my most fervent wish. As we head into the Christmas holidays.--Jim Broede

In a slow and methodical fashion.

A friend tells me she has too much to do. She feels inundated. Overloaded.  Little wonder that she’s a little depressed, too.  But I tell her, ‘It’s your fault.’  She could easily take charge. And manage her life at a more leisurely pace. Everything doesn’t have to get done today. Or tomorrow.  Or next week. No need to put unreasonable pressure on one’s self.  Do the essential stuff. And delay what can be delayed.  Better to take a timeout. For a stroll. Or to read a book. Or to twiddle one’s toes. Yes, a deserved break. Any form of respite. Hard for me to understand. Why so many people allow themselves to be overwhelmed. When life was meant to be savored. In a slow and methodical fashion. --Jim Broede

The very essence of all religions.

Nice thing about myths. I’m not compelled to accept any of ‘em. Better to create my own myths. The ones that make me feel comfortable. As for existing myths. I can revise and amend. And interpret. My own way. That’s the nature of myths. The built-in flexibility. Left to the individual imagination. Here I am. Free to accept any myth. As fact. Rather than fiction. The very essence of all religions. --Jim Broede

Living to the utmost. My way.

I fight the urge. To do more. Than I’m already doing. Because there’s the danger. Of doing too much. Spreading one’s self too thin.  Far better. To do not quite enough. Without feeling guilt.  Yes, I’m for a relatively leisurely-paced life. No rush. No fuss. Hey, I’m retired. Unemployed. I’ve earned the right. To slow down. To do as I please. And that’s what I do. Keeps me busier than ever.  Doing precisely what I want to do. Living to the utmost.  My way.  --Jim Broede

My search for rhyme and reason.

I’m looking for rhyme and reason. Always. And often don’t find it. But I’m not discouraged. Because I find stop-gap measures. That get me through life. In a relatively happy manner. I find something or someone to love. My Italian amore, for instance.  Helps, too. That I feel alive and conscious. Makes life meaningful. Despite any lack of rhyme or reason in the world's political, economic and social  realms. --Jim Broede

'...very old and record-setting age.'

I wonder. About Methuselah’s health. At various stages of his long life. Hey, the guy was purported to have lived for 969 years.  I’m 80. And I’m beginning to feel old. It’d  be an incredible, if not impossible feat, for me to reach 100. I’d be decrepit and debilitated, by then. A complete physical and mental wreck. I have serious doubts. That there ever was a real Methuselah. More likely, a mythical one. Which is all right. I  have nothing against myths or legendary  characters.. Too bad that the camera wasn’t invented. Back when Methuselah was roaming about. I’d like well-preserved and documented photo evidence. To see what the old coot looked like. As he apparently slowly aged. I wonder, too, if Methuselah had good medical care and advice. Or was it a blessing. Perfect genes.  And what was it that finally did him in? Show me the death certificate. There’d be no dispute, I suppose. If one listed the cause as ‘very old and record-setting age.’ --Jim Broede

So I can bask in the glory.

I’m an actor. On a stage. In a play. About real life. My life. Others, too. A supporting cast. Made up mostly of my friends and acquaintances. The setting. Inside the wide, wide world. Wherever I happen to be. I’m in every scene. The play opened. In 1935. And here we are. Eighty years later. In 2015. It’s been a remarkable run. And a grueling pace. For me.  I’ve never left the stage. Been on. Round-the-clock. Twenty-four hours a day. No time off. Not even for holidays. I even sleep on stage. Go to the bathroom, too. No privacy. It’s all being videotaped. For me to watch. After I die. So the whole course of my life. Can be analyzed and evaluated. I’m so used to playing my improvisational acting role. Superbly. Even forgetting. That I’m on stage. Playing to an audience. Of one. The creator. Also known as god. Meanwhile, I’m holding my breath. Wondering. When the curtain falls. Will there be applause? Perhaps a standing ovation. Shouts of ‘Bravo!!!’ Endless curtain calls. So I can bask in the glory. Of a wonderful performance. --Jim Broede

The opportunity. To be a true lover.

If I had a choice. Of either being Alzheimer-riddled. Or being the care-giver.  No doubt. I’d take the easier route. Care-giver. When caring for my dear sweet Jeanne. For years and years.  I learned to think of myself. As the blessed one. Wasn’t easy to get into such a frame of mind. There were days when I didn’t feel blessed. But when I got a little bit of respite.  Yes, time to muse. To ponder my situation.  There I was. Right where I wanted to be. In a role. That gave me the opportunity. To be a true lover.  --Jim Broede

As if age doesn't matter.

One nice thing about life. One is free to initiate the unexpected.  By opening one’s mind. And emotions, too. To all sorts of possibilities. By taking risks. Rather than being tied to the safe, conservative approach. I’m fearful. That as I age.  It becomes too easy. To withdraw. Into my cocoon.  Solely because it’s the safe place to be. I must resist that urge. And learn to act. As if age doesn’t matter.  --Jim Broede

Maybe it's a beginning.

I wonder. About what's on that stranger’s mind. The one seated alone. I’m curious. So I approach.  And start a chat.  I’ve done it before. And I’ll do it again. My goal. My way. Discovering something significant.  About the stranger. That I may never see again. But then, who can tell?  Maybe it’s a beginning. Of more to come. The blossoming of a friendship. Out of the blue. --Jim Broede

Above the fray.

The life of a malcontent tends to be stressful. Because there’s always a dispute. A battle to be fought. Therefore, to attain peace and tranquility, one must rise above the skirmishes. To a higher plateau. Above the fray. And that is where I am now.  Because I am in love. With life. --Jim Broede

The intricate way my mind operates.

A totally intellectual life. Would scare me. Would make me despondent. Therefore, I branch out. Into non-intellectual pursuits. And allow irrational, but relatively happy  unscientific presumptions to creep in.  Through my fertile imagination. I am able to accept certain premises. Without any proof, intellectually speaking.  For instance, I force myself to believe. In the existence of a totally non-physical spiritual realm. Where one is fully alive and conscious. It’s a case of believing what I want to believe. Even if my brainy-based  common sense tells me otherwise. I allow my emotional desires to hold sway. For the purpose of creating a reality that I find acceptable. That is, if I were my own creator. Yes, that’s the intricate way my mind operates. --Jim Broede

To be what I want to be.

I spend my life. Defining myself. Otherwise, it would be impossible. To know who and what I am. My mission is inbred. To be my own creator. God has left it all. Up to me. I can imagine. Being good or evil. More likely, a blend of both. And I have chosen. To be.  First and foremost.  A romantic idealist. Sure, I’m a writer, too. And a dreamer and lover. So many pursuits. But everything is linked. To desire. To craving. To be what I want to be. --Jim Broede

In peace and tranquility.

I wonder. If I spent too much of my life as a malcontent. Protesting and complaining about the state of affairs. Politically. Economically. Socially. Now, it’s clear that I ain’t going to change the world. I’ve  learned acceptance. Of the bad with the good. Allowing me to live the rest of my life. Content. In peace and tranquility. --Jim Broede

Once upon a time.

Sometimes, I don’t know what to make of the people around me. Friends and acquaintances. Too often, I’m judgmental. When I shouldn’t be.  But that’s the way one makes friends. It’s a judgmental call. I like this person. Or I don’t. But really, indifference probably is a better option than dislike. It’s more like holding judgment in abeyance.  Meanwhile, I try to keep an open mind. Some of my best friends are people that I disliked once upon a time. -Jim Broede

Despite the intellectual roadblocks.

Give me a nice balance. Between intellect and emotion. There’s a time to be brainy. And a time to be guided by one’s gut. One’s instincts. One’s emotions. I reach a point where my intellect will take me only so far. And that’s when I ascend to the emotional and spiritual level. And give free rein to my imagination. Believing what I most fervently want to believe.  Despite the intellectual roadblocks. --Jim Broede

Getting over displeasure.

Doing as I please. That’s my practice. Most of the time.  That makes me feel free. And pleased. Of course, I do things. To please other people, too. But not always. That’s the peril. When one speaks his mind. So difficult. Always having pleasing things to say. Several friends are addicted people pleasers. Never giving up their pleasing ways. They even try to please me. When it’s totally unnecessary. That momentarily displeases me. But still, I get over it. And that pleases me. --Jim Broede

The complexities of hate and love.

I don’t get it. Some Muslim extremists claim to hate and love. All at the same time. They profess love for their god.  But they hate/despise people of other faiths.  So much so. That they murder them. For not sharing Muslim religious beliefs.  And they do this. Without qualms of conscience. Indeed, that’s baffling. Meanwhile, Republican presidential hopeful Donald Trump looks at Muslims with distrust, bordering on hateful disdain.  He proposes banning Muslims from entering America. All in the name of love and protection – for his country.  Trump claiming that Muslims pose a potential security risk. --Jim Broede

The most wonderful invention ever.

Yes. Yes. I can. Differentiate insanity from sanity. For instance. When I listen to political debates. The Republican aspirants for president.  They’ve convinced me. That we live in a political realm that has gone crazy. Or perhaps it never was sane. Still, I have moments. When I know. Beyond a doubt. That life is  the most wonderful invention ever. Because I am fully able. Of differentiating. Hate from love. Insanity from sanity. --Jim Broede

My clever way.

When checking out at a local grocery, I’m invariably asked, ‘Do you have a rewards card?’ Apparently, that would qualify me for discounts, also known as rewards. ‘No,’ I tell the clerk. ‘I don’t deserve rewards. That’s the story of my life. Absolutely no rewards.’ Maybe the clerk feels sorry for me. Anyway, it starts a conversation. Often, clerks don’t know what to make of me. The inquisitive ones seek an explanation. For being denied money-saving rewards. ‘Because I’m a bad guy,’ I lament. As I yank out a calling card. Identifying me. As a rogue. With a direct address to my blog. Yes, my clever way. To promote readership. --Jim Broede

Like so many other liars.

I have a solution. To the problem. Of coping with old age.  Go to a psychotherapist. And have him hypnotize me. Into thinking. That I’m merely 39, and not 80. To believe it all. With my heart and soul. Then I would be young enough. To be the son of my Italian amore. Of course, people would accuse me. Of living a bold-faced lie.  But that wouldn’t bother me. If I truly believed the lie. I’d be just like so many other liars (and scoundrels). Now thriving. Deceptively. In the world of politics. -- Jim Broede

A pity, indeed.

I’ve seen too many people. Friends and acquaintances. Forfeit their lives. To unhappy and destructive pursuits. When they really didn’t have to. Life is so full. Of so many, many choices. Take the wrong one. And it still can be fixed. But some remain stubborn. Blind. Unwilling. To find happiness. And true love. Even when the solution. Stares them in the face. I don’t know why. It hurts me. To a degree. To watch tragedies unfold. But I’m told. That the creator. Gave us free choice. And some of us. Would just as soon not be free.  A pity, indeed. --Jim Broede

For usurping Julie's freedom.

I’m thinking. That my depressed and alcoholic friend. Julie. Finds satisfaction. In living in misery and unhappiness. Otherwise, she’d change her ways. Julie loves. Going to the wine. For momentary relief. Knowing full well. That she could get extended, long-term relief. By not drinking any more. But she can’t rally the stamina and commitment to quit. It’s too high a price to pay. She’d rather put up with the miserable life she’s living. If only for momentary relief. Another sign. That Julie is mentally ill. She can’t think rationally any more. I’d have her forced into treatment. But I don’t have the final say. Julie is free. To do as she pleases. Until she harms others. She’s even free to wallow in misery. And to kill herself.  Slowly. But surely.  Am I wrong? For wanting to  usurp Julie’s freedom.---Jim Broede

Focusing. On living the moment.

Don’t know what it means. To deal with one’s mortality. It’s more a case. Of learning how to deal with life. Not only my  own life. But the life teeming all around me. Meanwhile, I’d just as soon not think about death. Particularly, my own death. Better to be preoccupied. With living. And just let death happen. Preferably in a sudden way. Rather than lingering. Much better to think of life. As eternal. In a spiritual realm. I see so many others. My compatriots. Brooding over the concept of death. Rather than focusing. On living the moment. --Jim Broede

I am not a total recluse. Ever.

Sometimes I like to stay put. To not travel. To avoid social engagements. To stay home. Yes, I’m fully capable of acting as a recluse. Without feeling guilty. Because I know it’s good for me. Instead, I read books. And write about life. And go on long walks. All by myself. Might live that way for months. Or for the better part of a year. I suppose it’s my loner nature. Coming to the surface. Of course, I still maintain daily contact. On Skype. With my Italian amore. A sign. That there are some essential things I can’t give up.  Therefore, I am not a total recluse.  Ever. --Jim Broede

Ready for another wonderful day.

When feeling tired. I rarely complain. Because it’s natural to feel tired. Especially at the end of a day. A signal. To get blessed rest. Falling asleep. And having sweet dreams. Can be the most soothing part of my day.  A time to relax. To smile. To dwell on one’s peace of mind. I have all sorts of sleep patterns. Sometimes, I catch cat naps. And wake with rambunctious ideas. Reflections on the goodness of life. Other times, I sleep contentedly. For 10 hours. To enjoy waking. Feeling rejuvenated. And in love. Ready for another wonderful day. --Jim Broede

Making the impossible possible.

Hypnotized. Mesmerized. That's how I want to feel. When I go walking. Imagining. That I'm strolling. Nonchalantly. On a drifting cloud. That's the next best thing. To walking on water. Of course, I've done it. On frozen water. The icy surface of Forest Lake. Yes, I know. That's cheating. But still. There must be a way to make the impossible possible. Yes, mind over matter. Achieved. In a blissful state of being. When one arrives. In the spiritual realm. --Jim Broede

To not be bored with life.

So much has happened to me. In life. That I can't remember it all. I suppose most people have a similar lapse of memory.  Only so much is memorable. The rest forgotten. Almost as if it's never been lived. As if I was merely going through the motions of living. Didn't give it much thought. So very much of life is elusive.  Maybe too routine. Too boring. To take note. But every day. I take time out. To remind me. That I am alive and conscious. That makes me aware. That I exist. And it's a great opportunity. To not be bored with life. --Jim Broede

She can't be forced into happiness.

I’m trying to feel good. As an old coot.  Partly, by not focusing on my age. I’m assuming. That I can make of life. Whatever I want to make of it. In sort of a pretend world. That feels real. I suspect that most of us do that.  We create our own realities.  To some significant degree. I observe friends. Around me. One in particular. Lives in an imaginary world. That she doesn’t remember much of. That is, when she’s completely sober. Which happens on rare occasion. Could be. It’s just as well that she can’t recall yesterday. Or last week. Or maybe even last year. Because when she’s soused, she’s soused.  The sad thing about it. She knows she’s unhappy. But doesn’t seem able to do anything about it. She shuns psychotherapy. I’d volunteer to take her by the hand. And lead her to rehab. Other friends offer help, too.  But she hasn’t yet learned to accept help. From anyone. I’m told by so-called experts. That she has to ‘bottom out’ first and foremost. To become a willing participant. In the quest for recovery and a reasonably happy life. Such a shame, isn’t it? That she can't be forced into happiness. --Jim Broede

In my dreams.

One mass shooting a day. In the U.S.A.  And 30,000 gun deaths in a year. I was reminded of that statistic. On the news. Just before I went to bed. Last night. Then I pondered. How many people fell in love today?  I imagined. An incredibly large number. I’d like to see a study. Research.  On the magnitude of love. Maybe it’ll all come to me. In my dreams. --Jim Broede

Tranquility in a turbulent world.

I can take the news. Good or bad. No sense in cutting myself off. From what's going on in the world. Knowing full well that I can't do anything about it. Therefore, I have reason not to be bothered. I might as well accept the world. As it is. Meanwhile, I can learn how to better control my emotions.  And not get too annoyed or upset over the bad stuff. Might as well focus on the good stuff. Mostly little things. Happening around me. Virtually every day. In my relatively remote spot. On a lake. In Minnesota. I could be in far worse places. Instead, I'm blessed with peace and tranquility. In what seems to be a turbulent world -- at least based on the news reports. --Jim Broede

In a good mood. Most of the time.

My unhappiest friends seem to have a big failing in common. They don't take care of themselves. Maybe that's the source of their unhappiness.  They're neglectful. Not necessarily of others. But of themselves. They don't take adequate time to indulge themselves. To savor the pleasures of life.  They run themselves ragged.  Rarely taking vacations or time off. For the sake of rejuvenation. They are the most difficult friends to be around.  They tend to be ornery.  But I don't let that bother me. I still try to act friendly. Which is relatively easy. Because I take care of myself. And that puts me in a good mood. Most of the time. --Jim Broede

The ability to savor the joy.

I like love stories. Except for the ones that end tragically. And even then, there's something nice to salvage. All the love that went on. Before things went awry. Too often leading to an unhappy ending. But one should be able to fragment the story. Break it down into chapters. So that one can focus on the good times. When things were going right. Instead of wrong. That's the beauty of life. Full of more ups than downs. One has to learn to accept the moments of sorrow. That's an ingredient of a true love story. The ability, in the end,  to savor the joy. --Jim Broede

Two love stories.

I'm thinking tonight of my role. As a close observer. Of the festering relationship between my friends Rick and Julie. And that I'm sort of helpless. To do anything about it. Really, I can't do much other than watch. I can't fix it. Only they can do that.  It could happen. But it's unlikely. First, Julie would have to quit drinking.  And become her old self again. And that's impossible. She's too far gone. It's a study. In how a relationship falls apart. Disintegrates. Crumbles. Piece by piece. And probably can't be put back together again.  It's probably going to have a sad ending. But still, it's a love story. That went awry. That makes for a good novel. But in this case, it's real. I've long said. That life is like living in a novel. That's what I am doing. Therefore, there's no need for me to write a novel. I'm living my own novel.  A continuing love story. Fortunately, with more upbeat and happy twists than the Rick and Julie love story. --Jim Broede

Too many gods, perhaps.

Yes. I have to admit. That it wouldn’t be right and proper. If I could dictate the twists and turns of life.  Because that would be asking for more power than the gods. Even the gods don’t ask for or expect all-encompassing control over their domains. That is, if they even have domains. Could be that the gods don’t even exist. Other than in one’s imagination. My favorites are the Greek gods. I didn’t even have to think them up. That was already done for me by the imaginative Greeks. Of course, there’s no shortage of gods. Virtually every civilization. Has had a god or two or three. I was brought up. To revere the Christian concept of god. But now I’m not so sure any more. Which is the real god. Or the fake gods. So many choices. Makes me wonder. If there are multiple competing gods. And if so, maybe that explains the chaotic twists and turns of life. Too many gods trying to run the show. --Jim Broede

Couldn't wait. For a new day.

I love to get up. A few hours after going to bed. To read a book. Or to write. To contemplate. Being alive. Such a wonderful feeling. After being refreshed. By sleep. Time for a doughnut and a glass of milk. A loving thought, too. Guess I couldn’t wait. For a new day. --Jim Broede