Good crazy and bad crazy.

It’s all right to be crazy. That is, if one is constructive crazy. For which I qualify. I have crazy habits. Such as walking 10 miles daily. Up to 70 miles in a week. I have crazy idiosyncrasies, too. Such as being addicted to the Chicago Cubs. I dwell on the Cubs. They’re an obsession. And I write crazy stuff. Daily. And I’ve fallen in love with an Italian. And traipse off to Italy. To be with her. And I’m in touch with her daily. On Skype. And I’m a romantic idealist, a spiritual  free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. Yes, so very many crazy pursuits But I do no harm. To myself. Or to others. That’s what I mean. Being constructive crazy. Unfortunately, I know too many friends and acquaintances who are destructive crazy.  Such as my dear friend Julie, the alcoholic and depression-riddled. She harms herself. And others, too. I’d have no complaints about Julie. If she were constructive crazy. I deal with Julie. In my role as a dreamer. I dream about the day when Julie becomes good crazy. --Jim Broede

She makes me wonder.

For some people. Unreality is reality. That’s the case with my friend Julie. The alcoholic and depression-riddled one. She’s mentally ill. In a constant state of unreality.  But that’s her reality. And who am I to say that she’s being any more unreal than I? Maybe we are all crazy. Julie has created her own world. Except, she has a problem. She has trouble remembering or grasping the significance of her existence. Most of the time she’s oblivious of it all. She doesn’t take time to think. To ponder. Her aliveness. Makes me wonder if Julie is alive. Or if she has lost all awareness. Despite going through the motions of living.  --Jim Broede

Beyond my imagination.

Amazing. Amazing. Being alive. And conscious. Aware of one’s existence. It’s absolutely amazing. I think. Therefore, I am. Occasionally, I find myself going through the motions of living. As if I’m on autopilot. But most days. I ponder the significance of being alive. And savor my moments of aliveness. Of course, I’m selfish. And want forever and ever. An unlimited, conscious being. Maybe even a higher form of life. Beyond the physical. Even beyond my most vivid and thrilling imagination. --Jim Broede

Feeling good. Day after day.

Today is cloudy. Unlike yesterday. Which was a sunny day. But I can accept clouds. Nothing wrong with clouds. I have many reasons. To like clouds. To savor clouds. To leave my sun glasses at home. There’s a threat of rain. A drizzle. Nothing wrong with that, either.  I have raincoats. And umbrellas. But even if I get wet, it’s all right. People tell me. That I’m all wet anyway. Even when I’m dry. Doesn’t bother me a bit. After all, I’m blessed. With a sense of humor.  And a keen mind. I’m happy. To be alive. And conscious.  And feeling good. Day after day. --Jim Broede

Enough. To make my day.

I wake every day. With the notion. That I want to feel good. About life. About myself. About everything. So that’s what I do. By igniting a thought process. That makes all this  possible,. Don’t even have to get out of bed.  To accomplish my goal. Though it helps.  To sit down. At the computer. Where I put my thought into writing. I’m free. To think. About anything. To be troubled. Or to be at peace. To lament. Or to feel the pulse beat of being. Joyfully alive. And vibrant.  Yes, that’s what I want to be today. With it. That’s enough. To make my day. --Jim Broede

A world gone crazy.

Can I even imagine becoming a terrorist? What would it take to push me over the edge? Indeed, it would be very difficult to imagine. Easier to imagine moving to another galaxy. Easier to imagine an afterlife.  To imagine something I really wanted. A better life. Such as universal love. I have no desire to become a terrorist. But I have a desire to live forever. Possibly as a loving spirit. But I can’t imagine killing people. For virtually any reason. Or for a political or social cause. I’m even opposed to capital punishment. For terrorists. Better to treat them. For a disease. Because that’s what terrorism seems to be. A mental disorder. People gone crazy. I would want to find an alternative to terrorism. A better solution to a perceived problem. Is it a sense of righting/correcting an injustice? Is that what makes a terrorist? Maybe a terrorist feels there’s no solution to the perceived problem. Therefore, in frustration, the terrorist lashes out and takes to random killing. Of innocent people. Or maybe it’s that the terrorist feels everyone is at fault. Society is at fault. The economic, political and social systems. They are all at fault. And the only solution is to lash out. In destructive ways. Because there is no possibility of a constructive solution. In the terrorist mind. In the terrorist lifetime. So the terrorist says ‘To hell with everything. To hell with existence.’  It’s crazy, crazy, crazy. Yes, that’s the essence of terrorism. An example of a world gone crazy..--Jim Broede

The matter of great expectations.

I can live. Without great expectations. Yes, expectations can be a curse. I’d rather live to the utmost. To take life as it comes. The best way I can.  If I create expectations. A hard and fast goal. I set myself up for failure. Better not to be judgmental. About others. But especially about myself. I find myself in a quandary. At the moment. I’m relatively easy on myself. I can readily adjust to my failings. Because I can fail. And still be happy. I can accept shortcomings in myself. And live happily ever after. But now I’m watching dear friend Julie.  Trying to recover from alcoholism. Trying to find her way out of the deep abyss called depression. I want to put huge demands. Yes, great expectations. On Julie. There can be no room for failure. Because I haven’t learned to accept an unhappy, a despondent, a despairing Julie. It’s a must. Julie must achieve nothing less than the great expectations. That I’m setting. For her. Otherwise.  I will be the unhappy one. I can’t stand for that. So, dear Julie, you are hereby ordered. Not only to set great expectations. But to achieve them all, too. --Jim Broede

So very, very many ways.

Being a dreamer comes first. Than the other pursuits follow. In quick and sometimes random order. A romantic idealist. A political liberal. A writer. A lover.  Oh, so very, very many ways to appreciate and savor life. --Jim Broede

On an Easter Sunday, too.

Everyone should have a cocoon. Two lives, in a sense. That of a caterpillar-like being. In the warmth and safety of  a shelter. A time to rest. And then. Lo and behold. Emerging into a grand and glorious world. As a butterfly.  What can be better than that? On an Easter Sunday, too --Jim Broede

My very, very funny face.

I see humor. In virtually everything. Even when I trip. And fall. And hurt myself. Really. I’m thankful. Because the end result could be worse.  A fractured skull. And death. Instead, I live. To savor another day. To count my many, many blessings. And to poke fun. At me. For a blemish. On what I perceive as my handsome face. No. No. Let’s be honest. My very, very funny face. --Jim Broede

Better to laugh than cry.

Give me the news. Straight. And to the point. In the process, I don’t have to be entertained.  Unfortunately, the news business, which I used to be in, has become entertainment. The public wants to be entertained. Rather than informed. Entertainment sells. Straight and accurate news doesn’t. Anyway, that’s my impression. If nothing else, we’re having an entertaining nominating process. For the next presidential election. The focus is on the entertaining stuff. If it happens to be silly and scurrilous, so be it. That’s more entertaining than focusing on real issues.  Or so the news media keep telling us. Makes me wonder. What we’ve come to. As a society. I’m watching. And believe me. It’s very, very entertaining. Scary, too. But I’ve concluded. It’s better to laugh than cry. --Jim Broede

As I wink my black eye,.

I have a black eye. And a facial abrasion. Which tempts me. To make up tales. About how it happened.  Such as coming to the rescue. Of a fair damsel. Whose reputation had been besmirched. By some lowly cad. Of course, I tell everyone. That I’m a hero. A knight in shining armor.  But the truth be told. I was walking the neighbor’s dog Sasha. And Sasha made a sudden lunge. In front of me. In pursuit of another dog. And I tripped over Sasha. Clumsily.  Landing flat. Face-down. Thus, the shiner. One never knows. When a mishap may occur. Out of the blue. Presenting a  great opportunity. To choose an embellished truth.  As I wink my black eye.  --Jim Broede

My favorite place to sleep.

I feel safe. Inside my cocoon. Because it’s a haven. An escape. A place to block out the rest of the world. For a few hours. Or a day or two. Of course, I could remain secluded. For weeks and months. But I emerge after short stays. Knowing I have to deal with real life. With the world. As it is. Like it or not. I have learned to make the best of it. By retreating to my cocoon. To catch my breath. To rest. To rejuvenate. Essentially, to collect my wits. I’m in my cocoon. At the moment.  It’s my favorite place to sleep. Undisturbed. --Jim Broede

First and foremost. A dreamer.

I try to live. As I please. Oh, I have plenty of advice. On how to live. Right from the very beginning. When being raised by my parents. Especially my mother. But ultimately. I broke free. And convinced myself. That it was appropriate. To become my own man To even develop my own writing style. My own way of expressing thoughts. By turning more inward. Than outward. Yes, it was all right to take a subjective approach to life. To more than occasionally. Allow my emotions to hold sway over my intellect. Especially when it comes to love.  Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t abandoned intellect. But it’s more a 60-40 percent split. In favor of my free emotionally-induced spirit. I take chances. Risks. To become who I am. First and foremost. A dreamer. --Jim Broede

Give me a not too serious life.

When I’m alone. I take advantage of the situation. By having conversations. With myself. Often, I’m impressed. By what I have to say. Pretty honest stuff, really. Because there’s no one around to eavesdrop. Yes, a private setting. Helps me speak the truth. Without offending anyone. Other than me. And that’s all right. I’m capable of handling the brutal truth. I have a tendency to offend other people.  Because they can’t always handle the truth, especially if it’s brutal. I’m reluctant to share the truth with some of my friends. They’d not be able to take it. In proper stride. They might even break off the friendship. My very best friends, however, are resilient and  thick-skinned. And they have been blessed with senses of humor. Knowing not to take life too seriously. Especially if they want to be happy.--Jim Broede

My lies come true.

I’m focused. On the thought. Of being around. Forever. It’s a nice way to live. Really. Because such a thought puts me in a good frame of mind. Qualifies me as an optimist. And makes me happy. Of course, I could be accused of deceiving myself. Of lying. But I’m firmly convinced. That my lies come true. Which no longer make them lies. --Jim Broede

True love. Comes out of nowhere.

Nothing wrong with making make-believe very, very real. All it takes is a fertile imagination. And desire and effort.  To concoct a fascinating and entertaining love story. I’m pondering. What comes first? The imagining? Or the living?  Personally, it’s easier writing a love story after I’ve already lived it. Yes, love comes my way. Ever so naturally. Takes so little effort. Really. Just happens. True love. A blessing. That comes out of the blue. Out of nowhere. --Jim Broede

Appalling, isn't it?

Violence perpetrated by terrorists. It’s become a hot political issue. Maybe a bit overblown. In comparison to other violence. Going on at the same time. Yes, the terrorists are bad, bad guys. A few bad women, too.  But they don’t match the rampant violence occurring daily. In 2013, for instance, we had 33,169 firearms-related deaths in the U.S.  We Americans have learned to accept violence. As part of our culture. Except when it’s done by terrorists. Then we get indignant.  And insist that politicians do something about it. Right away. To make us feel safer. But it’s not the terrorists doing most of the killing. It’s us. We Americans do the lion’s share. On our own.  Some 11,298 homicides (murders) in 2013.  And every year, over 20,000 of us use a firearm to commit suicide. Appalling, isn’t it? We live in a violent world. -Jim Broede

The purpose of mutual fulfillment.

My Italian amore likes the way I think. Her thought process turns me on, too. Little wonder. That we are attracted to each other. We’re different. In many ways. But nice ways. Makes for a natural blending. One might say that we balance. Each other. I sense. Being a more complete human being. In her presence. I also sense. That we were meant for each other. It was destiny. That brought us together. For the purpose of mutual fulfillment. --Jim Broede

A preposterous kind of guy.

Sure, I have preposterous notions. About life.  And the afterlife. Imagining, for instance, that I won’t ever die. That I’ll live on. As a spirit.  Indeed, a preposterous premise.  With no supportive scientific evidence. But still, I believe it. Solely because I want to. It makes me feel good. Of course, the scientific thinkers tell me I’m deceiving myself. Which I readily admit. But that’s all right. All I’m doing, after all, is merely believing what I want to believe. Nothing wrong with that. Goes to show. I’m a preposterous kind of guy.  --Jim Broede

Forever. In one form or another.

Now and then. I stop to think. About what it’s supposed to feel like. To be 80 years old. That scares me. Enough for me to stop thinking. About my age. Makes me wonder. Why we count. And observe our birthdays. Some of us actually celebrate. Personally, I have better things to fete. Than a birthday. It’s a good thing. To forget one’s age. And get on with life. Under the assumption. That I’m still a young fellow. No matter my age. And that I might live forever.  In one divine and delightful form or another. --Jim Broede

To prove. That I am very much alive.

I try to have stuff on my mind. If not always. Certainly most of the time. Maybe it’s that I am addicted. To thought. To awareness. That I am a thinking being. That’s an essential part. Of being alive. And being me.  It’s possible. That I go through lapses. Periods. Of a robotic type existence. Going through the motions of living. Unconsciously. As if on automatic control. Anyway, I write. Daily. Thoughtful stuff. To prove. That I am a real live and conscious and thriving human being. --Jim Broede

I am on my own.

When it comes to religion and politics, I’m my own man. Religiously, please call me a Broede-ite. Politically, I’m a devoted follower of Broede-ism. Yes, I’ve created my own religion. My own politic, too. To the best of my knowledge, I’m the only Broede-ite and the sole proponent of Broede-ism. I’ve tailored my religious and political beliefs. To suit me,  period. I call the shots  entirely. Without interference or advice from others Nobody tells me what to believe  Like I declared at the outset, I’m my own man. Independent. A free-thinker. Furthermore, I don’t foist my ways on others. People are free to choose. For themselves. From existing religions and the usual political persuasions. Or they can be innovative, like me. And create their own unique set of beliefs. --Jim Broede

Adjusting to the rigors of life.

Maybe my biggest mistake. In life. Was trying to live too fast. Trying to do too much. Oh, I’ve learned. To slow down. But still. I could and should go slower, slower, slower. In order to better savor the precious moments.  Life wasn’t meant to be lived in a hurry. But there I was. In a profession. Where I had to write for deadline.  With no time to spare. Now that I’m retired. I write more than  ever. But at a more leisurely pace. Writing, too, what I want to write. Rather than allowing editors to dictate. My style and writing pace. Now I spend more time writing. But at my pace. And in my way. For my pleasure.  My fulfillment. The way life is meant to be lived. It’s never too late. To adjust. To the rigors of life. By slowing down. --Jim Broede

Better to die of old age.

My friend Julie. Isn’t suicidal. In the conventional sense. She’s not going to kill herself. Intentionally. In a planned, conscious way. Instead, she’s capable of taking her life in an unplanned, unconscious way.  By poisoning herself. With alcohol.  If she continues to drink, she’ll die before her time. Julie has reached a crossroads. She’s into treatment. Calculated to deal with her drinking problem and depression. If treatment succeeds. Julie most likely will soon be on the road to recovery. Raising the possibility. That the cause of her death some day could very well be old age.  So much better. Than a premature death. From alcohol-induced stuff. --Jim Broede

Yes, there's an explanation.

I try to imagine. That I hate life. But I can’t do it. It would be too ghastly. I’d have nightmares. To the best of my knowledge, I never hated life. Even in the worst of times. Always finding reason. To fall in love. With someone  With something. Makes me wonder. If my father hated life. Because he committed suicide. I suspect. That at times. My friend Julie hates life. A few others, too. They fit into the same despairing category. I try to imagine. Some people who wish they were never born. Yes, there’s an explanation. For suicides. Some people. Fall out of love. With life. --Jim Broede

Give me breaks. Away. Away. Away.

I didn’t live alone. For the first 20-some years of my life. Growing up in a family. And then at college. And finally, in the Army. Always someone around. Then I was set free. As I earned a living. As a writer. And it was a delightful experience. Living alone. For significant numbers of hours. Daily. It was relaxing. I wasn’t lonely. Instead, I was in an environs. That allowed me more time to reflect. To muse. To dig deeper into my inner being. Ah, the benefits of solitude. Opportunities. To get away. By myself. Uninterrupted.  As if a burden were lifted off my shoulders. Strange, isn’t it? Of course, I enjoy being with people. But I need breaks. Away. Away. Away. --Jim Broede

At peace. With everything.

Occasionally. I feel an amazing discovery. Of perfection. When all is right. With the world. Of course, it doesn’t last.  But still. I recognize those fleeting moments. When I am at peace. With everything. --Jim Broede

Yes, the sun is shining again.

The important thing. Julie is in treatment. Doesn’t matter how she got there. Because this gives Julie hope. A fighting chance. The pessimist says. That even in treatment, Julie has a 70 percent chance of failure. I prefer being the unbounded optimist. A 30 percent chance of success. A full recovery. From alcoholism. From depression. Julie can do it. Julie can beat the odds. Julie has the wherewithal. And she’s getting help. From friends. From everyone. Even from a health care system. That could be far better. But help is help. And hope is hope. There are better days ahead. For dear Julie. It must be. Yes, the sun is shining again. --Jim Broede

A strange and mysterious world.

Look at the way career politicians treat each other. Like scumbags. Like dirt. With total disrespect. As examples. Take those Republicans. Trump. Cruz. Rubio.  The so-called elites.  Running for president of the United States. They lambaste each other. Mercilessly. No gentlemanly manners. If they treat each other that way. Imagine. How they’d treat you and I.  And they have the gall. To ask for our support. For our votes. They gotta be kidding. But still, there are some of us who treat them as heroes. To be idolized. Indeed, it’s a strange and mysterious world. --Jim Broede

The pleasures and benefits of sleep.

No sense in losing sleep. Over virtually anything. When going to bed at night, I cleanse my mind of negative thoughts. It’s easy. Comes naturally. After all, I’m entitled to sweet dreams.  Or no dreams at all. Sleep is a gift. A blessing  An opportunity to rest one’s mind. So that one wakens refreshed. Thankfully, I’m not an insomniac. I fall asleep within minutes of my bulky head hitting the soft pillow.  As a prelude to bedtime, I generally sit down at the computer. And write. In ways that put my mind at ease.  Rarely do I sleep in a steady stream that lasts for eight hours, or more. Instead, I like to wake in a few hours. To stimulate my mind. And to exercise my fertile imagination. About the pleasures and benefits of going back to sleep.--Jim Broede

Wouldn't that be nice?

Give me room. For negotiation. To settle our differences. That’s all I ask. For give and take. For reasonableness. Let’s talk. Let’s reach accord. That would be my position. If I were a politician. I’d not be obstinate. I’d play the game. By trying to be a decent and fair guy.  Wouldn’t that be nice? --Jim Broede

'I think I can.'

My mother taught me well. While I was very young. Before I learned to read. She read to me. The story of the Little Engine that Could. The engine that believed in itself. That achieved remarkable feats. Chugging up a steep hill. By repeating the refrain, ‘I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.’ --Jim Broede

Time for Julie to believe.

Finally. Finally. Finally. Julie is in rehab. If all goes as planned, she’ll be in for 30 days.  A blend of group and individual therapies. I’m feeling optimistic about Julie.  Despite reports that therapy doesn’t always work. That there’s a recidivism rate of nearly 70 percent.  In this particular program. But that means three in 10 succeed. I’m smiling. Julie will succeed. I believe in Julie.  So does husband Rick. And so very many friends. Now it’s time for Julie to believe in herself. --Jim Broede

A spoiled brat. Is that me?

What does it mean to be spoiled? Maybe to not truly care about others. Only about one’s self. I’m big about taking care of me. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Maybe lesser so in terms of material things. As for others, I care about a select few friends. But as for the masses of humanity, I don’t care enough. I rationalize.  There’s not much I can do. To make their lives better. So, I don’t think about it much. Other than musing. Occasionally.  That I’m thankful to not be in their shoes. Then I get on with my life. The best I can. Makes me wonder. If I could be justly perceived as a spoiled brat. --Jim Broede

That ain't baloney.

Don’t tell me. That things can’t be done. That friend Julie can’t be cured. Of alcoholism. And depression. I’m told. There are barriers. That Julie can’t be forced into treatment. That’s baloney. I’m told. That Julie must make the decision. On her own. That we must wait. And be patient. More baloney. Julie’s friends. Could cart Julie off. Today. To the hospital. To rehab. To potentially effective treatment. Yes, at this very moment. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. It isn’t Julie’s lack of will. It’s ours. That ain’t baloney. --Jim Broede

In the realm of the limitless.

Limitless thought. The idea of no limits. That turns me on. I can’t go any place I want to. Because of physical limits. But I can take my thoughts. Anywhere. Any place. With my imagination. That’s what I’m doing now. Telling myself. Commanding myself. To put no bounds on my thoughts. To look beyond every horizon. So that I can create new realities. Stuff to be savored. Such as the concept of love. I feel it. Yes, I am there. A lover and a dreamer. Because I want to be. In the realm of limitless life. Limitless thought. --Jim Broede

A fervent desire can work wonders.

The nice thing about spirits. They never die. They live forever. Sure, some of my loved ones have died, physically. But their spirits stay with me. Forever. Maybe that’s why I hardly ever grieve over a physical death. Because I still have a spiritual contact. Some people don’t believe in spirits. Therefore, I understand why they grieve and mourn. I didn’t always believe in spirits. But then I decided that I wanted to believe. That’s all it takes. A fervent desire. From within one’s being. Then it happens. Presto. Like magic. Some day, it wouldn’t surprise me if I walked on water.  All it would take is for me to believe that I can do it. Beyond a doubt. I’m working on it. Maybe with the help of a spiritual connection. --Jim Broede

My happy and bountiful life.

I wonder. If there’s such a thing as having too much. Money, for instance. I have no desire to be monetarily rich. Oh, I want enough to get by. To live on. Comfortably. Don’t want to be impoverished.  Or homeless. Not knowing where my next meal will come from. To tell the truth. I’m probably too well off. I have too much stuff. Too many clothes. Too many household items. Too much food. Too many privileges. Too many books. Too many friends. Too much time on my hands. Yes, I’m spoiled. Even though I ain’t rich. Thing is. I have far more than what’s  necessary for my basic needs. I could make many material sacrifices. And still have enough for a happy and bountiful life. --Jim Broede

The most wonderful sickness.

I feel obligated. To write. And to walk. Every day. For the rest of my life.  Makes me feel. As if I’m doing. Exactly what I was born to do. Can’t remember a day. When I didn’t write or walk. It’s no different than breathing. I have to write and walk and breathe. In order to stay alive. Maybe these are my primary and positive addictions. Even ahead  of loving and dreaming. Maybe it comes down. To being addicted to life. Makes me wonder. If that’s the most wonderful sickness. Sure beats Alzheimer’s or depression or alcoholism. --Jim Broede

Give me total and blissful isolation.

I like being alone. More than being with people.  Of course, I like people. I’m with people almost every day. But I also spend big parts of the day alone. At home. Or outdoors. Away from people. That’s when I’m at my most comfortable best. Able to cherish moments of solitude. Oh, I could live with my Italian amore. More or less round-the-clock. But both of us would need breaks. Of pure solitude.  Seems to me that solitude is essential. For me to collect my wits. And to rejuvenate myself. I’m alone now. At this very moment. Thinking and writing this thought. I wouldn’t be doing this. If I were in the presence of company. I night be socializing. Doing something I didn’t want to do. But when I’m alone. I am able to do as I please. Nobody around to divert me. To other things. To other thoughts. Than the ones that come to mind. When I am in total and blissful isolation.   --Jim Broede

A curse or a stroke of luck.

The world is dotted by crazy people. Out of control.  But some how. Some way. They find ways to survive. Outside of institutions. Outside of places where they could receive help. Makes me wonder how they do it. Of course, I know. Pure luck.  They go ignored. They sink or swim. And it’s pure chance that some of them survive. My friend Julie. The alcoholic and depression-riddled one. Is a prime example. Oh, we don’t totally ignore Julie. We see her crazy antics. Virtually every day. We notice. And we put up with it. Because we are uncertain if Julie qualifies as certifiably crazy. Maybe not, technically speaking. Some of the gurus that determine such stuff. Well, they claim that Julie has a right to be free and loose crazy. As long as she’s not a threat to others. Actually, she is a threat. Every time she drives drunk. But she hasn’t been caught. Yet. Yes, more proof. That Julie survives. With maybe a divine assist. Often called pure luck. But I’m suggesting. That, in reality. Julie is a lucky son of a gun.  Because she hasn’t been arrested for drunk driving.  Hasn’t yet killed herself, or anyone else.  Please tell me. Is that a curse or a stroke of luck? --Jim Broede

So that we can witness a miracle.

It’s in my power. To save Julie. From herself. Julie’s husband Rick. He has such power, too. Julie’s numerous friends, too.  Society, too. But we don’t. Because the prevailing wisdom is for Julie to save herself. It’s up to Julie. To sink to rock bottom. To decide to quit drinking. On her own. But Julie isn’t ready to be saved. Maybe never will be. Instead, Julie may choose to remain distraught. In despair. Incapable. Of turning around her life. Unless. By some miracle. There comes a saving grace. Out of the blue. Because Julie and the rest of us don’t take the proper action. We are standby friends. Forever watching. Counting time. Maybe even wishing.  That Julie sees the light. Before it’s too late. To save herself.  So that we can witness a miracle. Yes, a miracle. That we could deliver. On our own. With a little bit of gumption. --Jim Broede

Goes to show. I'm a cool guy.

Once upon a time, I became stressed. Merely by trying to avoid stress. But now I welcome stress. Because it presents a challenge. Forces me to find ways to manage stress. Finally recognizing that some stress can’t be avoided. It’s part of the human condition. So might as well accept it. Embrace it. Better that, than letting stress get the worst of me. Usually, because I’ve overreacted. To a situation that didn’t have to be stressful. To help me, I’ve adopted a new mantra. Yes, I keep repeating, ‘Cool it. Cool it. Cool it.’ It works. Goes to show. I’m a cool guy. --Jim Broede

Jeanne never died.

I remember Jeanne. As if she never had Alzheimer’s. That’s what time does. To one’s memory. It purifies. Cleanses away the bad times. And leaves the good and wonderful stuff. It’s as if Jeanne never had Alzheimer’s. Amazing, isn’t it?  When I think of Jeanne. I’m savoring fond and loving memories. Makes me wonder if the Alzheimer’s experience was merely a figment of my imagination. Relegated to insignificance. Maybe it’s that I never lost Jeanne. Her spirit still lives. Jeanne never died. --Jim Broede

In dealing with an obscene world.

A sense of decency. That’s what I’m looking for. Mainly, in my friends and acquaintances. And in strangers, too. In everyone. Unfortunately I don’t always find it. That’s disappointing. At times, I wonder if we live in a mostly indecent world.  Especially in the realm of politics. But really, at all levels. In the business and social worlds, too. We often treat each other in insulting and disrespectful manner. I try to counter. By being decent. To everyone. Even to the indecent. Better that. Than lowering myself into their gutter. But that takes being a saint. And I’m no saint. So I plod ahead. And  merely do the best I can. In dealing with an indecent and obscene world. --Jim Broede

The decline of American politics.

I don’t understand. Why. In a political party. Such as the Republicans. There can’t be a wide mix of political conservatives. Some that may be deemed deeply conservative. Others, only moderately so. And still others so liberally conservative that they could be mistaken for Democrats.  Used to be that way. Yes, 50 years ago. But now there’s only one kind of Republican. The ones that march in lockstep. With each other. But now Republicans brandish only swords of orthodoxy conservatism.  Unwilling to compromise. Even a little bit. Hostile to Barack Obama. To the point of hatred. Polls show that a majority of the Republican base believe that Obama wasn’t born in the United States. And that he may be a secret Muslim. That he’s an illegal president. Yes, preposterous stuff. Little wonder. That conservatives in congress have opposed Obama. On virtually every step of his political agenda. For seven years now. Claiming  that Obama is taking the nation in the wrong direction. These Republicans ignore the facts. Including that Obama was duly elected. Twice. By the people. The last time by a plurality of 5 million votes. Makes me wonder. If Republicans have gradually shifted. To a concept of minority rule. Yes, by a minority of affluent white men. Wish it weren’t so. But from my political perspective, that’s what America has come to. --Jim Broede

How to avoid being a pessimist.

The world can be construed as a hostile place. Where it’s difficult to survive. Unless one attaches one’s self. To others. For protection. From the potentially hostile elements. Thus the formation of clans and  tribes and communities. Some of whom go to war against each other. That’s what I call hostile. The willingness to settle disputes. By force. By violence. By bloody, bloody wars. At no time is the world totally at peace. Unless it be somewhere else in the cosmos than Planet Earth.  We don’t even settle our intramural disputes kindly, peacefully and fairly. I anguish. Because we stop short of acting as if we were in this world together.  Instead, we have invented a vicious and pathetic form of politic. That refuses to address and serve the common good. We insist on winners and losers. In which one side dominates the other. The survival of the fittest. Or is it the meanest? There seems to be a reluctance. To compromise. To be civil and decent to each other. Yes, I acknowledge some exceptions to the rule. In little niches. Throughout the world.  Where one can find temporary safety. In relative isolation. In a niche. Away from the rest of the hostile world. Yes, that’s how I survive. Where I fall in love. With life. Despite the hostility beyond. Makes me an optimist.  Rather than a pessimist. --Jim Broede

All it takes. To feel good.

Sure, I occasionally worry and fret. About stuff. But never. At the end of the day. When I go to bed. My mind is clear. And upbeat. Because I feel good. About myself. If I’ve made blunders, it doesn’t matter. Because I’ve forgiven myself.  And chalked up my mistakes as learning experiences. Most nights. I fall asleep. Smiling. Happy. Contented. Not unusual. For me. To wake in the middle of the night. Feeling rested.  So I get up. And do things. Such as writing. About the thrill.  Of being alive and conscious. And in love. That’s all it takes. For me to feel good. --Jim Broede

A believer. In the goodness of life.

If I’m down and out. Grieving. Lamenting. Despairing. No reason to panic. After all, I’m always saved. By my spirit. My gut. My self-confidence. That’s the way it’s been. For 80 years. That’s the wonderful part about life. There’s a path. To something better. A blessing. That’s the way I perceive it. As an optimist. A Pollyanna. Perhaps it's an indomitable spirit. That I've been cultivating. Yes, I'm a believer. In the goodness of life. --Jim Broede

Almost as bad as death.

There are all sorts of freedoms. But the best one of all. Is to be free in spirit. One could even be imprisoned. Physically locked up. But it’s most important. To keep one's spirit free.  No matter the circumstances. Of course, I know people who have lost their spirit. That’s almost as bad as being deprived of life. --Jim Broede

Doesn't stop me. From believing.

I wonder. If spirits eat or drink anything. I imagine not. Because spirits live in a non-physical world.  They don’t need food to survive.  They don’t wear clothes. And no need to go to the bathroom. So unencumbered. Amazing, isn’t it? Of course, it’s difficult for physical beings to imagine the existence of spirits. Almost seems impossible. But that doesn’t stop me. From believing. In spirits and a spiritual dimension. --Jim Broede

Cavorting with my ancient ancestors.

I’d like to trace my ancestry. Back all the way to the beginning of time. Of course, that’s impossible. Imagine, going back 50,000 years.  Archeologists have already discovered bones that old. Incredible.  I wonder if the DNA would match mine. Anyway, I’ve traced my paternal ancestors back to the 1600s. To a remote corner in Switzerland. I’ve gone there. To see if I could feel a spiritual connection. Makes me wonder. If some day I’ll become a spirit. Indeed, that would be thrilling. Perhaps having the ability to cavort with my ancient ancestors. --Jim Broede

Born to mouth off.

Used to be. I didn’t know how to feel. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I had to feel my way. Starting when I squeezed my way out of the womb. Maybe I’m still learning. One thing for sure, though. I’ve become opinionated. I have feelings about lots of things. And I’m not shy. About expressing myself. Of course, that occasionally gets me into trouble. Because some of my ideas go against the societal grain. But I figure, so what? I was born to mouth off.  --Jim Broede

And not least, more loving.

It was as an Alzheimer care-giver. That I learned  to exercise mind over matter. Forcing myself into a positive frame of mind. So that I exuded good vibes. Even in the worst of times. And to do that. I needed proper breaks. From the wear and tear of care-giving. Took a while to get it right. But ultimately, I succeeded. By falling in love. With care-giving. Simply, cutting back on my hours. Instead of 24/7, I became a 10-hour a day care-giver. Accomplishing far more in 10 hours than I had in 24. The difference. Daily rest.  Helps one become more efficient. More upbeat. And not least, more loving. --Jim Broede

The pursuit of love.

I’m most comfortable. When thinking of myself as a romantic idealist. That allows me. To become a lover. Against all odds. Makes me a believer. In the emotion of love. That’s what life is all about. The pursuit of love. Can’t think of a better, more rewarding pastime. --Jim Broede

Merely a matter of feeling one's way.

Really. Life is simple. Not so complicated. If one learns to control the mind. To allow for day dreams. That create magical mythical worlds. By unleashing one’s imagination. It’s all right. To tell stories to one’s self. For entertainment. In essence, to create one’s own theater. I’d advocate such an approach. To friends in the doldrums. To grab hold of one’s inner sanctum. And thought process. In positive and delightful ways.  It works for me. Can’t say it’ll work for others. But it’s worth a try. After all, life is an experiment. And an adventure. Merely a matter of feeling one’s way. --Jim Broede

On taking a thoughtful risk.

My favorite days. Are the days spent thinking. The whole day. From beginning to end. Wrapped in thought. About all sorts of matters. But mostly about the amazing wonders of  life.  And about how nice it is. To be alive and conscious. And able to think. About virtually anything.  Of course, I don’t have to remain physically idle. While thinking. I’ve mastered the skill. Of walking long distances. While reading a book. Or while immersed in philosophical meanderings. I’ve been warned. That this is a dangerous practice. That I could stumble. Or be hit by a car. But I’m willing to take the risk. In exchange for a good day of exercise and deep reflective thought. –Jim Broede

Before the days of umlauts.

I’m in love. With the umlaut. The two dots over a German ‘o’ For instance. My German ancestors spelled our surname Brode. With an umlaut ‘o.’ But when they came to America there was no such thing as an umlaut. So they resorted to an ‘oe.’  An Americanized spelling. That made me a Broede. Names with an ‘oe’ in the middle are generally of German origin. The spelling of surnames often change. Over the ages. For instance my relatives in 16th century Switzerland had the surname Brathi. When they migrated to Germany, the spelling became Brode, with the umlaut ‘o.’  That sounded like Brathi in the German language. Makes me wonder. What we Broedes called ourselves. When we lived in caves. Before the days of umlauts. -Jim Broede

Give me milk, and more milk.

I’m a milk drinker. Not whole milk. But skim milk. And flavored low fat milk. Chocolate. Vanilla. Banana. Milk is my favorite beverage. At least a quart or two. Every day. I hardy ever drink coffee. Except when I’m with my Italian amore. We share coffee. Together. Espresso. Cappuccino. That’s what I like most about coffee. The sharing. I’m not a fan of warm or hot drinks. Instead, give me a very cold glass of milk. Or a cold non-alcoholic German beer. The taste is superb. With bratwurst and sauerkraut.  Weinersnitzel, too. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with a cold glass of water. To quench one’s thirst. Especially on a hot and sweaty day. --Jim Broede

Considering all possibilities.

I may go weeks. Maybe even months. Without dreaming. Then suddenly, I get a rash of dreams. Almost every night. That’s happening now. Annoying dreams. I don’t like that. Because I covet sweet and relaxing dreams. I want to smile and laugh. In my sleep. And when I’m awake, too. I suspect. There’s something on my subconscious. That’s bothering me. Therefore, I’m searching. For the answer.  It’s important. For me to know other people. But more important to know thyself. I want to know the real me. First and foremost. And then how I relate to others. Of course, it could be. That I have everything backwards. It’s best. To consider all possibilities. --Jim Broede

More amused than fascinated.

I’m fascinated. By what makes people tick. To understand their motivations. I’ve been accused of being too nosey. Too prying. But that’s one of my attributes.  An inquiring mind. Maybe that’s why I became a writer. For newspapers. My aim was to get people to talk. To open up. To tell me secrets. To give me the full story. To hide nothing. I’d make a good investigator. That’s part of the news business. Of course, it’s become more of an entertainment business. Which I find hard to accept. But entertainment, not news, is the big thing these days. Maybe I’m more amused than fascinated by it all.  --Jim Broede

Free to be a fool.

To become free. Can also mean to become a fool. One is allowed to make grievous and stupid mistakes.  But hey, I have no qualms about accepting the consequences. Of unbridled freedom. Take freedom of speech, for instance. The very thing being practiced by the politicians seeking to become the next president of the United States. They have something in common. They are free fools. Every last one of ‘em. --Jim Broede

Give me shrewd saints.

I suspect. It’s far too easy to become a saint. Many of them are martyrs. Who died for a cause. Seems to me, the wiser people found ways to serve the cause. Without dying. So that they were still around to enjoy the fruits of their labor. I’d nominate them for a special category of shrewd sainthood. --Jim Broede

A good knight in shining armor.

To stay in a good mood, I try to steer clear of people in bad moods. Though I make exceptions for several friends. Afflicted with depression. They present a challenge. I try to help them. Without being dragged down into their abysmal depressive pit. I put on a suit of armor. To deflect the barrage of bad vibes. Sometimes, they take me as a good knight in shining armor.  Who has come to their rescue. Yes, it’s my favorite role. Puts me in a really, really good mood. Every time. --Jim Broede

On trying to be me.

I sleep. When I feel like sleeping. I wake. When I feel like waking.  I love. When I feel like loving. I walk. When I feel like walking. I cavort. When I feel like cavorting. I think, when I feel like thinking. I write. When I feel like writing. And I try to be me. All of the time. --Jim Broede

To take chances. To become free.

I recommend. Putting one’s thoughts down. On paper. Or in a computer.  In order to see one’s thoughts. To read a thought. Over and over. Maybe to elaborate. To clarify. To carry one thought to another thought. And another and another and another. An endless string of thoughts. That’s a way. A route. To become a writer.  A thinker, too.  Writing allows me to experiment. To become daring. To take chances. To become free.  --Jim Broede

The master of my owm destiny.

It’d be nice to live like a king. In a castle.  But I can get along. Without many, many nice things. Several would be sufficient. I’m sure. Because that’s what I have now. Enough to keep me happy. And satisfied. Best of all, is to have certain skills. Such as the ability to write, to think and to dream.  I blend the three. And that makes me feel like a rich and blessed man. I may not live in a castle. But still. I feel like a king.  A ruler by divine right.  And the master of my own destiny. --Jim Broede

Time to perfect my shtick.

When I’m in a bad mood. I know it. And become alarmed. Enough to do something about it. By finding a way to get into a good mood. Yes, I dislike being in a bad mood. I detest it.  My bad moods seldom last for more than an hour. I try to right myself. By thinking of funny stuff.  With a hasty reminder. That I shouldn’t be taken too seriously.  That it’s high time to perfect my shtick  As a stand-up comic. –Jim Broede

Saints who aren't.

One can care too much. About other people. I suspect that’s  true. For some care-givers. They forget to take care of themselves. Because they are being overwhelmed. By taking care of others. One might deem them saints. But I’m not sure about that. Especially if they work themselves to exhaustion. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I’ve seen it happen. The wiser choice. Would have been. To slow down. To take respites.  Because if one isn’t reasonably rested, there’s a danger of exuding bad vibes. And that’s not good. Not only for the care-giver. But his patients, too. One starts to do more harm than good. This is one of my favorite themes. The importance of taking care of one’s self. If one can’t do that. One might not be ready to take care of others. Yes. Some perceived saints really aren’t saints. --Jim Broede

A perfect match.

I’m curious. About people. And their idiosyncrasies. Their mannerisms. Their peculiarities.   The things that make them different. Unique. Often, that’s the attraction. The reason certain people have become my friends.  They are one of a kind. That certainly goes for my Italian amore.  It’s as if we were made and meant for each other. Despite being different. In many, many ways. But that creates a balance. That, when blended, makes each of us whole and complete. Yes, a perfect match.   --Jim Broede

Getting Julie off my mind.

Visited with my friend Julie today. She’s in a bout of deep depression. I listened and listened and listened.  Figuring that was the appropriate thing. Tried to say nice things to Julie. Tried to buoy her spirit and confidence. To no avail. She was home alone. Husband Rick was at work. And he took their dog Sasha with him. Anyway, being alone isn’t good for Julie. Especially when she’s in depression. Tried to get Julie to occupy her mind. With upbeat thoughts. Again, to no avail. Julie said she missed ‘the dog.’ Yes, she called Sasha ‘the dog.’ She’s done that before. I call it to Julie’s attention. It would be the same as me calling Julie ‘the woman.’ Anyway, it was something for Julie to think about. To divert her mind. I try all sorts of things. Often to no avail. But I keep trying. This and that. There’s an occasional breakthrough. Julie saw that I was becoming beleaguered. Frustrated. So she kindly encouraged me to go for a walk. I did. Went two miles. Cleared my mind. Then I returned. Rang the doorbell. Several times. No answer. I tried the door. It was locked.  By now, I know Julie’s predictable routine.  She’s up in her bedroom. Sipping wine. Maybe even guzzling it. All the more reason. For Julie to get help. To go into treatment. Until she learns to take care of herself. Meanwhile. I’m taking care of myself. Walking. Walking. Walking. Immersing myself. In good vibes. Getting Julie off my mind. --Jim Broede

More meaningful.

I can choose. To not let my loved ones die. They still live. Inside me. I wonder. Why I don’t grieve or mourn. Maybe it’s that I recognize. That I have not lost. But gained. A spiritual connection. More meaningful than the physical. --Jim Broede

I'm a loverboy, too.

I clean the house. And put everything in neat order. Makes me feel good. Relaxed. No more clutter. Clears my mind. I go for a walk. In the great outdoors. Breathing deeply.  Upon my return. Beloved cat Loverboy. Asks to be loved. Reminding me. That I’m a loverboy, too. --Jim Broede

My ritual: Dining by candlelight.

Candles. Candles. Candles. I have a huge collection of candles. I could live without electricity. For a long, long time. And still see my way through the night. With ample light. From candles. I often eat supper. By the light of a half dozen candles. Bright enough for me to read. Without straining my eyes. But more often than not, I play music.  Soothing classical music. Yes, candle light and music. They go together.  Makes the food taste better, too. Yes, I savor it all.  It’s a ritual. Dining by candlelight. An essential part of my incredibly good life. --Jim Broede

Rare events.

Some days. I find it better to be an observer. Rather than an active participant in life. I learn very much. By sitting on the sidelines. Watching. Watching. Listening. Listening. No need to give advice. I’m accused. Often. Of talking too much. It’s better. To be accused. Of being too quiet. But that rarely happens. --Jim Broede

Shared thoughts.

I have nothing to hide. If a friend asks me, ‘What’s on you mind?’ I’ll answer. Truthfully. To prove that I have nothing to hide. That can lead to engaging conversation. It’s the closest I come to going naked into the world. Maybe that makes me a psychotherapist’s dream.  Of course, I open up. Mainly with me. Therefore, most of my thoughts are private. Just the way they should be. But I write a blog, too. Daily.  I’ve made over 8,300 entries. In the past seven years or so.   Revealing much of my thought process. Thing is. I have so very, very many thoughts. I wouldn’t have time to share them all. Imagine. The rest of you.  Sharing a single personal thought. Each day. That would tell me a whole lot about you. I’d like to make that a requirement. --Jim Broede

I believe in fairy tales.

My friend Julie is living a life of illusion. As are so many others. Julie is in the same boat as politicians. Such as the Republican presidential aspirants. Donald Trump. Ted Cruz. Marco Rubio. I’m listening to everyone these days. And I can hardly believe. What I’m hearing. From Julie. All the way to men that might easily become our next president. And I swear. They’re all crazy. Maybe the world has gone complete bonkers. Is all this stuff real? Or am I imagining it all? Maybe I’m crazy, too. For thinking. That I can save Julie. Rescue her. From her life of illusion. As a manic depressive. As an alcoholic. By arranging an intervention. Yes. Yes. I’m under the grand illusion. That it’s possible for Julie to come out of her illusion. And live happily ever after. I believe in fairy tales. --Jim Broede

In life's many compelling scenarios.

One of the nicest things about life. It’s entertaining. Sure, there are dull moments.  But overall, life is a little like a stage play.  Lots of stuff going on. I spend much of my time. In the audience.  Watching plots and subplots. Laughing most of the time. Occasionally, crying. Can’t get through life without moments of sadness. But hey, when I feel like it. There I am. On stage. Playing a big role.  Taking charge.  Steering the drama. In the direction  I want it to go. In a happy-go-lucky way. I’ve thought. About becoming director of life’s stage play. But that’s too big of a responsibility. Instead, better to settle for being a mere actor. One of many players. Capable of playing big roles in life’s many compelling  (and entertaining) scenarios. --Jim Broede

Without explanation.

One might as well dream. And imagine the finer things of life. Not necessarily the perfect life. But what one wants life to be.  Makes me wonder. If that went through the creator’s  mind. Just before he decided to create. Was there forethought?  But then, why must there be a creator? Maybe creation is mere happenstance. Or maybe creation always existed. Forever and ever. Why must there be a beginning? Or for that matter, an end?  Because it’s logical, I suppose. It’s reasonable. To think that way. To give limited sense and meaning. To everything.  Yes, an explanation. But it’s also nice. To merely savor life. This moment of reflection. Without explanation. --Jim Broede

Serving the common good.

Let’s  face it. Some people are unable to help themselves. And they are neglected. By friends and acquaintances. And by society.  They are allowed to waste away. Because they don’t get assistance. Don’t get care. That’s the nature of things. Nature of the world. Survival of the fittest. Or is it survival of the richest? The luckiest people are the ones able to take care of themselves. The ones that are healthy and able. With the know-how and the resources to deal with life. I’m of the political, economic and social mind that there’s such a thing as the common good. Which means that the needs of the needy should be met. One way or another. But mainly with political, economic and social programs – serving the common good. --Jim Broede

Give me a better Julie.

It’s no coincidence. That I have no desire to change my very best friends. I’ve learned to  accept them. Unconditionally. Just the way they are. Even their weaknesses and foibles. But I confess. That I try to change some of my friends. Particularly, Julie. I keep insisting that Julie find ways to become happy.  Instead of what she has become. A recluse. In depression. An alcoholic, too. I still accept Julie. As a good friend. Despite her shortcomings. But Julie isn’t my best friend. It’s difficult accepting Julie. Unconditionally. I try to, of course  But it’s a struggle.  Being around Julie can be disconcerting. Because she’s almost always unhappy. Her dour mood rubs off on me. In negative ways. Therefore, I sometimes steer clear of Julie. For my own sake.  I’m not particularly proud of that. But that’s the way it is. I simply want a better Julie. The present one is unacceptable. --Jim Broede

An explanation.

My  beautiful Italian amore is a year older today. But she could be so much younger. If she had been born in a leap year. She could claim to have a birthday only once every four years. Who knows? Maybe she was born on Feb. 29.  Yes, an explanation. For why she looks so young.  --Jim Broede

My endearing illusion.

The nicest thing. About being a writer. I can choose. To write about anything. The same goes about thinking. I’m free. To think about anything. Maybe I can’t always do what I want to do. But so far, I’ve been able to write and think. As if I’m a free man. Of course, maybe I’m not totally free. But it’s close enough. For me to have the endearing illusion. That I’m a spiritual free-thinker. --Jim Broede

Significant. From my perspective.

I tend to find significance. In things. That initially seemed insignificant. Because I allow the thought process to percolate. To evolve. In essence, I search for reasons to make the insignificant become significant. For instance, the premature deaths of my maternal grandparents. At the relatively young ages of 26 and 38. Both of whom I never knew. Anyway, their early deaths turned out to be a blessing. For me. Because it prompted my mother into a marriage of convenience. For reasons of security. Rather than love. She probably would never have married my father. If her parents had lived a normal life span. That would have been bad news for me. I’d never have been born. But here I am. Alive and happy, 80 years later. Indeed, that’s very significant. From my perspective. --Jim Broede

One can do only so much.

I’m bothered. And not bothered. By other people’s woes. It’s a strange phenomenon. I’m bothered enough. To help others search for practical solutions to their problems. And then I get on with life.  Without being bothered.  Without losing sleep. Maybe it’s recognition. That one can do only so much. --Jim Broede

...immersed in happiness.

Not unusual. That I wake  at 3:40 in the morning. Because I have good thoughts on my mind. Amazing, isn’t it? A blessing, too. After all, I know people who can’t fall asleep. For being plagued  by bad thoughts. By depression. And here I am. After a pleasant sleep. Waking. With blissful, happy thoughts. I speculate. That maybe it’s my splendid spirit. That has taken control. Of my innermost being. Anyway, I savor it all. I’m in love. With being alive and conscious and immersed in happiness. –Jim Broede