Long live Russia!

Call me pro-Russian. A Russian sympathizer.  A friend of Russia. Yes, that may put me on the same track with Donald Trump. He talks kindly of Russia. Especially of Russia’s president Putin. I like Putin, too. That puts Trump and I at odds with many American politicians. Who are very leery of Russia and Putin. Which means that some of Trump’s proposed pro-Russian cabinet members may be in trouble. With Congress. They may not win approval. Of course, that goes to show that Trump may be, in some respects, more liberal than conservative Republicans. If so, hurrah for Trump. I like Russian culture, literature, music, history, architecture and socialist-leaning politics. I’ve met some Russians. And they impress me.  As people worth knowing. I’m for a cordial relationship between Russia and the U.S. We have much in common. Not least being a love for life. And a mutual desire for a better world. Which could come about. If Russians and Americans set an example. By working together. For the common good. --Jim Broede

One of a strange kind.

Some people are far more strange. Than fabulous. Take Donald Trump. One of the strangest characters to ever live. So strange. It’s impossible to figure him out. Not sure that I’d call him fabulous. But no doubt, he’s very, very strange. Not the run-of-the-mill strange. But impulsively strange. Don’t know if that’s a criticism. Or a compliment. He might legitimately be called very crazy strange. In a sane world, Trump might be locked up. Put away. But we live in a strange and crazy world. Therefore, Trump fits in. He’s heralded as a hero. Elected president of the USA.  His fellow crazies call him the most powerful man in the world, politically speaking.  But still, I’m disinclined to call Trump fabulous. He’s loved and revered by some. Hated by others. And considered a buffoon. Which makes him entertaining. A comedian. A court jester. And a successful politician, too.  Yes, Trump is Trump. An odd blend of strangeness. One of a kind.  --Jim Broede

On making human contact.

It’s too bad. That many, many people think of themselves as ordinary. When really, they are strange and fabulous. That is, if they think about it. I can pick out anyone. From a crowd. And in 10 minutes. Merely by quizzing him/her. Discover something strange.  And fabulous, too. Because every individual is unique. Different. Often without knowing it. That’s one reason why I am attracted to strangers. For the purpose of discovery. Of course, some strangers will clam up. They’ve been taught to not talk to strangers.  To be distrustful.  But I quickly introduce myself.  As a romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. A writer. Which means I appear to be strange. But no longer a total stranger. Therefore, I invite the stranger to open up.  To talk freely. In a revealing manner.  Soon, the stranger is no longer a total stranger.  Having been magically transformed. Into a strange and fabulous acquaintance.  Maybe even worthy of friendship. Yes. Yes. Believe me. I have a strange and fabulous way of making human contact.  --Jim Broede

A speck in human history.

I refuse to admire. Certain people. Yes, the ones who want to be admired. That’s their mission in life. To be admired by the throngs. To be worshiped. That fits Donald Trump. To a tee. To become a Trump devotee, one must learn to admire the egocentric. One’s heroes become the likes of Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan. And sadly, even Adolph Hitler. Yes, wide-ranging personalities. With one thing in common. Gigantic egos. Didn’t matter whether their pursuits were good or evil.  They coveted fame. Celebrity. In some cases, notoriety. Didn’t matter. There always would be elements from the anonymous masses that admired their accomplishments. They would be men that went down into the annals of history. For being recognized. For doing something or other. Albeit, in sometimes odd and curious ways. Most of us don’t need/desire such ego-soothing placement in the chronicles of time. We settle for merely having lived. And loved. In non-illustrious ways. Without ever being remembered. Lost in the flow of history. Never to be heard from again. As if we never lived. Other than knowing. Personally. The fact that we really lived. For a moment. A mere instant. As a member of the masses. In the space of unending time. That’s where my admiration goes. To the anonymous and humble individuals. In the teeming masses. That learned to love life. In their own unique ways. Which, of course, includes none other than fabulous me. An outstanding speck in human history.  -Jim Broede

A planet called Paradise.

Give me a world. In which the intelligent beings. Strive for the common good. Of course, that poses a big problem. Trying to get everyone to agree on a definition of the common good. For that to happen, it’ll take a world of very, very, very intelligent and loving beings.  And I’m not going to find that on Planet Earth. Therefore, I’ll have to be reborn on another distant planet in the infinite cosmos. There must be at least one. Somewhere. Some place. That’s where I want to be reincarnated.  I’ll concede. That token efforts are made to achieve the common good. Right here. But even if we humans survive for another 50,000 years, it won’t happen.  The predominant mentality, the essence of mankind, is everyone for one’s self. Thus the rich keep getting richer. And the poor sink deeper into poverty. A redistribution of the wealth is an alien concept. Billionaires are admired. Given pats on the back.  And even elected president. By the working stiffs. People barely able to keep their heads above the surface.  Yes, it’s a strange world. Maybe even more strange. Than my dream for an idyllic planet called Paradise. --Jim Broede

His name is Marcello.

Maybe lonely people lack love. As I see it, they wouldn’t be lonely. If they were in love. With someone. Or something. They wouldn’t necessarily have to be loved. All they need. Is to feel love for something. Such as nature. Or with an intellectual endeavor. With books, for instance. Or with the fine arts.  To be occupied. With a sense of love. That’s the stimulus. That makes one feel alive. And with it. It’s sad to think. That some people may be incapable of true love.  Of something or other. By the way, my cat Loverboy died recently. But I’m getting on. No longer grieving. Yes, another true love. Another cat. He’s four months old. Very rambunctious. His name is Marcello. Neither one of us is lonely. --Jim Broede

Time for major changes.

My best guess. Creation isn’t complete.  It’s barely started. And maybe the creator is open to suggestions.  As to what’s to come next. The creator may need help. Bountiful ideas. From those of us he’s already created. Supposedly in his image. I, for one, have plenty of ideas.  I’m willing to serve him. As a consultant. If he gives me a call, I’ll respond. With proposed design for higher forms of life.  Far better than humans. Of course, the creator may choose to start all over. But if he prefers to fine tune, that’s all right. After all, creating a perfect world may be impossible. I’m not sure that the creator knows what he’s doing. Maybe his efforts so far have been experimental. A feeling out process. And he always planned on revisions. Along the way. I’d like to see some major changes. --Jim Broede

A supreme test of spirit.

Granted, physical existence isn’t all that bad. But there has to be something far better. Yes, the spiritual. I imagine being a spirit. Which isn’t all that difficult. Because I have a spirit. Living inside me. My inner sanctum. My soul. The spirit doesn’t feel physical. But still, it’s trapped. Inside my physical being. Occasionally, I have an out-of-body experience. A separation from my physical being. It’s as if my spirit wants to be free. But still wants a connection to the physical realm.  For a while longer. Maybe to complete a mission. Makes me wonder if spirits flit back and forth.  Entering and reentering various physical domains. Maybe on different planets. In different forms of physical life.  So very many habitable planets to choose from. After all, there are billions of galaxies. And probably an infinitesimal number of planets with intelligent physical life. Far beyond what we have on Planet Earth. Yes, I’d like to put my spirit to a supreme test. Of living inside a fabulous extraterrestrial physical being.  So advanced that it would make humans seem like primitives.  --Jim Broede

Tough decisions.

Problem is. One can care too much. To the point of being spread thin. One becomes exhausted. From overload. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. That spells trouble. One must recognize. That one can’t be all things to all people. One must make tough decisions.  Such as taking care of one’s self. Or one won’t be fit to care for others.  My dear Jeanne. With Alzheimer’s. Was in dire need of care. So was my elderly mother. In a city 300 miles away. Had to make a choice. Jeanne came first. Mother had to be relegated to another care-giver, my niece. I never felt guilty about that. Having recognized my limits.  And the circumstances.  Recognized that to be a decent and capable care-giver, I had to choose one or the other.  It was not a heart-wrenching decision. Because there was no doubt. Jeanne was my true love. The dearest and most important person in my life. Mother ranked second. Fortunately,  my mind was eased. Because my niece would be there for mother.  No need to go on a guilt trip. Yes, I’m good at avoiding guilt. After all, I’m aware. That I can’t be there for everyone in their moment of dire need. I can only do so much. And still retain my composure, my strength, my sanity. No reason to feel guilty about that. --Jim Broede

To follow one's nose.

Guilt is no more or no less than dealing with one’s conscience. Nothing wrong with that. Guilt is merely a reminder. Deal with it. By doing the right thing.  Next time. And if one can’t do that. Well, then learn to live with it. By getting on with life. We all do wrong things. Stuff that doesn’t jibe with our conscience. Thus we feel guilt. So be it. If one wants to feel better. Simply adjust. And start doing the right thing. Now. Maybe by making amends with one’s self. One is entitled to make mistakes. And to turn the mistake into learning experience. It’s an awakening. A pleasure. To feel guilt. Especially if one changes one’s ways. To become a better and more decent being.  Of course, some guilt is imagined. Or one doesn’t let go of guilt. But that’s reason to practice another virtue. That of forgiveness. Yes, forgive one’s self. Anyway, I’ve discovered that everything leads to goodness. Eventually. So-called bad turns into good.  Best to follow one’s nose. Out of the labyrinth. Into guilt-free happiness. --Jim Broede

A master plan for survival.

I cope. With adversity. Because I am a natural born survivor. I am Jim the Survivor. And my best and dearest friends. They are survivors, too. All of us. When we see injustice. We swing into action. Not to become martyrs. But to fight the wrongs. In effective ways. Allowing us to survive. To see another day. To ultimately reap the joy. Of having righted wrong. We must be patient. But shrewd. We have faith. In ourselves. And in our just cause. Knowing that decency will prevail. In politics and everywhere. Even if it takes forever. Yes, we have a master plan. Survival. At home. In the spiritual dimension. –Jim Broede

The lowest form of life.

I’m looking. For decent human beings. And I don’t know how to go about it. First of all, I have to decide what’s decent? And maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong places. Such as the political arena. I found Barack Obama. He’s decent. But he’s leaving office in 30 days. And guess who’s coming to the White House? A liar, a cheat, a money-grubber. A most indecent politician. By my definition, most politicians would qualify as indecent jerks. Obama is an exception. Maybe, if pressed, I could think of several others. That I would hold in high esteem. But most politicians turn me off. Especially the Republicans. They have virtually no redeeming traits. Of course, I am being judgmental. And that may not be the fair and decent thing to do. But I can’t help it. I have an inner drive. To single out the world’s most indecent people.  So far, I’ve discovered indisputable evidence of the lowest indecent form of life.  Maybe it’s mere coincidence. But they all happen to be politicians. --Jim Broede

No time to be lonely.

Can’t say that I’ve ever been lonely. Even when living alone. Maybe it’s that I like my own company. I’m constantly conversing. With myself.  Reading. Writing. Going for solitary walks. Communing with nature.  Cultivating the spirits. Keeps me immersed. In extraordinary life. A vivid imagination. Saves me from boredom. Allows me to create my own worlds.  Exciting. Idyllic. Romantic. No limits. I go anywhere. In an instant. Without notice. Without packing a bag. Transported to a primeval forest or to another planet. Nothing stops me. In pursuit of the good life. Little wonder. There’s no time to be lonely. --Jim Broede

A humiliation-free life.

Maybe I’m beyond being humiliated. Because I have a sense of humor. When anyone tries to humiliate me, I laugh it off. It’s so very funny. I issue invitations. ‘Please. Please. Humiliate me. If you can.’ I proceed with confidence. I have a very thick skin, likened to full-body armor. Jeers and insults bounce off me. Unfortunately, verbal missives sent in my direction have occasionally ricocheted and injured innocent bystanders. Makes me feel sad and bad. But not humiliated. As for people suffering from humiliation. I offer to come to their rescue. By teaching them to feel good about themselves. I have the counseling knack. Come to me. I work wonders. For free. Indeed, that’s a bargain. For a humiliation-free life. --Jim Broede

My definition of paradise.

Let's lock up Republican and Democratic politicians. Together. In the same room (it could be a prison). And not let them out. Until they learned to respect each other. And learned to cooperate. And to compromise on the big political issues. Yes, true give and take. On both sides. That’s the way to bring a divided nation together. By working out our differences. In a reasonably friendly and trusting manner. For the good of the country. That’s the kind of politics I want. For instance, a president that brings Republicans and Democrats and Independents and even some non-politicians into his cabinet. Yes, a blending of political thought. Aimed at benefiting the nation. As a whole. A serving of the common good. That’s my dream for America. A country that sets a stellar example for the rest of the world. Of course, that ain’t the nature of American politics. Instead, it’s a selfish and mean-spirited game.  So partisan. So destructive. So self-defeating. Makes me want to flee. Far, far away. Into the wilderness.  Or to a desert island. Maybe to another planet. Where there would only be me. And a few choice loved ones. And no politicians. Yes, there it is. My definition of paradise. -Jim Broede

Then what is this?

I wonder. What it means. To be on the decline. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I try to resist. Refuse. Any deterioration. In my abilities. Especially in spirit. Seldom conceding anything. Physically, I’m slower. No more 7-minute miles. Now it’s settling for endurance. A 10-mile trek. Ain’t bad. Every day. Even when it’s sub-zero. Cold. Cold. Crisp fresh air. The reverberating crunch of snow. Beneath my feet. Sounds like sweet music. Another reminder. That I’m not on decline. Instead, I’m adjusting. Adapting. No. No. I’m not enduring. Call it savoring.  The precious moments. And here I am. Writing. Writing. Writing. In a rhythm. That blends with the syncopated pulse beat of life.  Now I must go to Skype. To connect. With my Italian amore. For a taste. Of true love. If I don’t have it all. Then what is this? --Jim Broede

Please. Please. Let me be.

Life is meant to be on the go. In constant state of motion. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. That’s why. When I retired. There was no stoppage.  I revved up my engine. And refused to quit. I walk 10 miles a day. Adds up to 70 miles a week. I write every day. More than before so-called retirement. But now I have no boss. Other than me. Therefore, I dictate the subject. I do my own editing. I am a free spirit. So free that I have taken up with the second true love of my life. My beloved  Italian amore. Yes, I am sustained. Emotionally. By love.  I am up at 4 in the morning. After a blissful sleep. Ready and raring to go. With one enchanting loving thought after another. Happy. Happy. To be alive. And functional. In meaningful ways. I want to go. Forever and ever. Non-stop. Please. Please. Let me be. --Jim Broede

My persuasive case.

I feel confident. About having another tomorrow. I haven’t missed a single tomorrow. In 81 years, and counting. I’m so used to having tomorrows. To the point that I’ll be surprised.  Flabbergasted. If tomorrow doesn’t arrive. For the first time ever.  I’ll ask, ‘What’s going on?’ Of course, I’ll be dead. It’s impossible for dead people to have tomorrows, I’m told. But that won’t stop me from protesting. Today. Now. Directly to the creator. ‘It’s reasonable,’ I’ll declare, ‘that dead people should have a right to tomorrow.  So that we can remain in the picture of life. Just because we’re dead, doesn’t mean certain rights should be taken away. I’ll give up some of the living stuff. But not tomorrows.’ I’m for direct negotiations over the matter. With none other than the creator himself. I’ll demand a fair hearing.  And ample time to make my persuasive case.   --Jim Broede

It's not too late.

I want to live in another dimension. Way, way beyond what I’m living in now. A completely different kind of conscious existence. What I have now is all right. Better than nothing. But I want more. Of course, I imagine existing as a spirit. Free of physical restraints. But I suspect that there’s a dimension that transcends the spiritual. One so profound and so complex that I’m incapable of imagining it.  Our three-dimensional existence is one of the simplest forms of life. Maybe when we leave the third dimension, we automatically advance to the next dimension, the fourth. And eventually to a fifth, sixth and seventh. Ad infinitum.  Can’t tolerate the notion that nothing lies beyond the third dimension. I’ve put the creator on notice. That I’m entitled to eternal life. And that if there aren’t other dimensions – hey, it’s time to create them.  It’s not too late. Time for action. --Jim Broede

Beyond humiliation.

I’m a lucky fella. Because to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never been humiliated. In my entire life -- 81 years, and counting.  Fact is, I don’t allow myself to be humiliated. Therefore, I’ve never felt humiliated. Yes, even when someone tries to humiliate me. It’s totally ineffective.   Doesn’t work. I’m humiliation resistant. I absolutely refuse to accept humiliation. I brush it off.  Every time.  Without remorse.  I’m too proud. Too confident. To be humiliated. I encourage others to take a similar stance.  Yes, erect an impenetrable barrier to any form of humiliation. And live a life. Beyond humiliation. --Jim Broede

A happy fool, am I.

I  have a choice. In picking and choosing the stuff that bothers me. Today, it is snowing.  It doesn’t bother me. I enjoy the wintry scene.  The snow. Even when I’m out shoveling the drive way. It’s good exercise. Exactly what I need. Yes, I’m feeling good. About life. On another day, I may lament. Over the outcome of the presidential election. But I also can choose not to lament. To instead, focus on something that makes me happy. My friend, meanwhile, may choose to feel bad about herself. Humiliated. Over a remark made about her on Facebook. That’s not a very good feeling.  However, that’s her choice. But I, as a friend, tell her how wonderful she is. That gives her the option of feeling wonderful. But she has to take the bait. And actually feel wonderful. I can’t compel her. She has to compel herself. Fortunately, I’ve mastered the art of channeling myself into positive thinking.  Oh, it feels so good. So wonderful. To be alive. And in love. With life. Sure, maybe I’m fooling myself some days. But what the heck? Doesn’t matter. A happy fool, am I. --Jim Broede

It's all in the mind.

I have a friend. Who feels ‘humiliated.’ Because someone poked fun at her. On Facebook. I encourage her to lighten up. To laugh it off. Another option is to not give a damn. And that if she finds it necessary to respond. To do it with self-effacing humor. To take it all in stride. Perhaps as a compliment. That anyone would take time and effort to poke fun. At her, in particular.  Funny thing about jokes. The same joke can be taken in many, many ways. One can laugh or cry – or even feel humiliated. Especially if it’s a mean-spirited joke.  Often, it depends on whether one is thin-skinned or thick-skinned. I’m encouraging my friend to grow the hide of an elephant.  And to never feel humiliated. Better to feel superior and confident. It’s all in the mind. --Jim Broede

Strange and fabulous ways.

I am primarily trying to find and understand myself. First and foremost. Prior to finding and understanding others. Don’t know if that’s necessarily a fault.  Because if I don’t grasp who I am. How can I be expected to grasp and savor the others in my strange and fabulous life? Yes, that’s what I am. Nothing less than strange and fabulous. Knowing that. Helps me to welcome other strange and fabulous beings.  The nicest thing about it. Is that we are all different. In our own strange and fabulous ways.  My Italian amore, for instance. Is even more strange and fabulous than me  Which makes her superior. And different. In so many, many ways. It’s a privilege and a blessing to have her in my life. I accept her. Totally. For who and what she is. Unique. One of a kind. Just as I am to her. Unique and one of a kind. That’s what I try to do with everyone. All of my friends and acquaintances. Even with strangers. As I get to know them. So they no longer remain strangers. I draw them into my inner sanctum. And often they allow me to enter theirs. In strange and fabulous ways. --Jim Broede

Happy. Just being me.

Maybe one can be too famous and too rich. Because then it becomes too easy to be spoiled. Too much of everything. Becomes a trap.  One that I don’t want to fall into. I’m a nobody. And while not impoverished, I’m far from rich. I have no desire for celebrity. Or for more moola. I can settle for obscurity, too. Anyway, I have been blessed. With what really counts.  True love. Twice, so far. Also, good health. Never. Never. Would I trade all this for being the equivalent of a Donald Trump. Yes. Yes. I’m perfectly happy. Just being me. --Jim Broede

Finally, a sigh of relief.

I have to be against something or someone. It’s my nature. The day I was born. The muttering began. ‘What can I be against? After all, I can’t be for everything. That would be so unnatural. So wrong.’ So here I am. Searching. Searching. Searching.  All my life. Trying to counter the image. That I’m a totally positive thinker.  That would be a shame. I need more balance. More negativity in my life. I don’t want to be a 100 percent Pollyanna.  So here I am. Finally. In my 81^st year. Deciding that I’m against Donald Trump. And virtually everything he stands for.  Yes, I have found a true reason. To be negative.  Gives me reason. To breathe a sigh of relief. --Jim Broede

Life is but a dream.

Here I am. Living. In a cosmos billions of years old. And suddenly, I arrive. On Planet Earth. In a galaxy of billions of suns and  most likely billions of planets. Many of which could be teeming with intelligent life. Like I said. At the outset. Here I am.  What’s going on?  Is  this mere happenstance?  Or is there rhyme or reason to my existence. In my 81 years. I’ve accumulated some knowledge. Some idea. About this world. About the vastness of the cosmos.  Some of it surmises. Accumulated. By those who have long come and gone. And I’m to join them, too. Perhaps on a journey into oblivion. Makes me wonder. If this is all preposterous make-believe.  And that there never was a real me.  Yes, chalk up my life. And all of creation, for that matter. As a figment of a creator’s fertile and wild imagination. Which means I'm not for real. Time to face the truth. Life is but a dream. --Jim Broede

Please, give me the facts.

Facts don’t matter anymore. People believe what they want to believe. All sorts of weird fiction.  As the gospel truth. Wish it weren’t so. Especially in the realm of politics. Truth was never essential to be a successful politician. Liars. Liars. With their pants on fire. Have learned to captivate their audience. And to win votes in the process. Donald Trump can get away with not a single word of truth.  He can babble. Preposterous stuff. And then vilify honest people. For being the liars. Trump gets away with it. And he knows he can. Trump quips that he could go out on  Fifth Avenue and shoot someone. And get away with it. Because people are in the mood to let anything go. There is no truth anymore. Because we are being fed truth through a kaleidoscope. Ever-changing images. News media and social media are constantly bombarding us with 1,000 versions of truth. All embellished. To confuse us. To distort the actual truth. Because that’s the entertaining thing to do.  What am I to do? In my search for the elusive  truth. Well, for now, I pick up the New York Times. And tell myself that this is the way life used to be. A reasonable semblance of objectivity. Of truth.  Something that I’ve always coveted. But has become harder and harder to find. Please. Please. Give me the facts. That’s all I want. Opinions aren’t necessary.  --Jim Broede

Sitting under an apple tree.

If I got into a time machine. Wouldn’t be sure which button to push. Into the past. Or into the future. Yes, a tough decision. At least, I already have a hint about what life was like long ago. But as for the future, there’s no predicting. It could be cataclysmic. Maybe our planet would have been destroyed. Maybe going back to before the dawn of civilization. That would be my best bet. Before it all started. I suspect that would have been an  idyllic time.  Wonder if survival would be difficult. What would I eat?  Maybe an apple. No. No. On second thought. That got someone into big trouble. Too much knowledge.  A curse? Or a blessing? I’ll sit under the apple tree. And ponder that for a while. --Jim Broede

On taking control.

I have friends. Some of whom suggest that I remain docile. In my approach to life. To be more complacent. To not allow stuff to bother me. Often, I acquiesce. And do precisely that.  Behave. Like a good boy. And pretend. That there’s nothing I really can do. To deal with problems over which I have no control.  But that’s baloney. Because I have opportunity to take control. Maybe only in small ways. But that’s a beginning. Merely by expressing myself. By exercising my freedom of speech. That’s why I became a writer. At a very young age.  I had to get it all out. By telling my mother.  My father. My siblings.  What I am all about. What I am feeling. Intellectually. Emotionally.  That’s how I came to better understand the most coveted and durable emotion of all. Love. I began to compose my own unorthodox love sonnets.  In letter form. In my way.  In my style. And not always in writing. To do it all spontaneously. Intimately. In the presence of a loved one.  Gives me a sense. Of having taken control. Of my life. Yes, it was meant to be. --Jim Broede

I'm asking anyway.

The game of politics doesn’t have to be nasty. It can be bipartisan. Respectful. Erudite. Friendly. Courteous. Yes, imagine that I have a disagreement. With another human being. On the other side of the political spectrum. How can we resolve our differences? Is it possible to see and grasp each others' perspective. Objectively. In an attempt to find common ground? And thereby work for compromise. For the sake of our country. For the common good. I think so. Maybe that makes me naïve. Too stupid to know that isn’t the way politics works. And maybe never will. Instead, by its very nature, politics must be partisan. Downright nasty. A take-no-prisoners approach. With clear-cut winners and clear-cut losers. One side or the other has to prevail. Of course, I don’t believe that. I’m a political Pollyanna. Thinking our differences can be ironed out. Without going to bloody war. If only we became  rational and reasonable. And respectful of each other. If we learned to not lie and cheat. And acted like decent human beings. Rather than like disgusting political scoundrels. Hey, maybe that’s too much to ask. But I’m asking anyway. --Jim Broede

On going to Hell.

I often fly away. On mere whim. Yes, flights of fanciful imagination. That’s my favorite way to travel. Because it’s free and exciting. Also, I’m able to pick my own destination.  Don’t even have to stay on planet Earth. I’ve already gone to the moon and to Mars and to Neptune. Recently, I went to Hell. It really wasn’t nearly as hellish a place as I thought it might be. Having had an enjoyable and enlightening chat with the devil himself.  He’s really a nice and personable guy.  Well-educated.  Handsome, too. And he has a great sense of humor. Plus a devilish imagination.  Equal to mine. --Jim Broede

Thank gawd for that.

You realize, don’t you, dear Rosie, that America is a divided nation?  Politically. Socially. Economically. But especially politically.  Even many households are divided. Politically.  Look at the two of us. You and I. You are a faithful Trump supporter. You accept him. Unconditionally. I  reject him. As a scoundrel.  You, on the other hand, look at Hillary with the same sort of disdain that I look at Trump. As a people, as citizens, as voters, we are divided. Look at the results of this election. Objectively. Trump won the electoral vote. Hillary won the popular vote. What does that tell you? Yes, we are a sharply divided nation. Almost 50-50. And it’s imperative that we come together. In a bipartisan way. But Trump is putting together an agenda and a cabinet that only serves to divide us more.  Trump is out to ramrod his way through. Only in a manner that suits his ego. Otherwise, he’d try to bring feuding factions together. He’d name some Democrats and liberals and independents to his cabinet. He’d force liberals  and conservatives to work together. He’d name non-politicians to his cabinet. Maybe a respected clergyman, a respected philosopher, a respected poet. He might even appoint an ex-president, such as Obama, to the Supreme Court. He might even bring Hillary into his panel of advisors. But no, no.  He taunts Hillary. And says she belongs in jail. That she’s a crook. Trump is all bluster. A showman. He seeks fame. Celebrity. Controversy. He refuses to compromise. With the other side. Maybe the same would go with Hillary. If she had won. I don’t know. But I know what Trump and his transition team are doing. And I don’t like it. Because Trump is further dividing us. Makes me sick. To my stomach. In spirit, too. Makes me depressed. Melancholic.  But yes, I will get on with life. Just like I did. When dear Jeanne died of Alzheimer’s. Worse things have happened to me. Than having to live in a divided nation. I’ll survive. As a whole and dynamic and loving human being. Because I must. I know my priorities.   I don’t allow politics to rob me of my true friends. You are one of them, dear Rosie. Friendship is bigger and more profound than politics. Thank gawd for that. --Jim Broede

My state of gratitude.

I live in a constant state of gratitude. I revere life. I savor life. Every day. But that doesn’t stop me from taking issue with all sorts of people. Especially politicians. The ones that destroy the goodness of life. Many, many do. Hitler. Stalin. Assad. Mussolini. An endless list. They did it to a huge degree. A disgrace. George Bush did it. Think of  how he sucked America into an unnecessary war. That not only killed tens of thousands of Americans. But hundreds of thousands of innocent people in other countries.  Nasty. Nasty politicians. Exploit people.  Daily. For their own selfish gain. They sacrifice lives. They lie and cheat. They are deplorable characters. And we are suckered into supporting them. Because they sell us a bill of goods. We vote for them. As the lesser of the evils. They don’t revere life. They don’t treat people fairly. Many are racists.  Please understand. I don’t blame Trump for all the bad in our world. There’s plenty of blame to go around. I’m to blame. For not taking a stand. Or for being indifferent.  For withdrawing into my cocoon.  For giving up. Donald Trump is my enemy. Because he’s assuming a position of power. Where he can wreak havoc. And destruction. He portrays himself as a savior.  He’s no savior. He’s no Jesus. He’s more an anti-Christ.  He’s for Donald Trump. First and foremost.  He’s an egomaniac. A politician. If he has any values, many of them are values that I reject. I’ll grant. Trump is in love. But with the wrong stuff. With power. With money. With himself. As are many politicians. And non-politicians, too. I’m looking for people in love with the spiritual side of life.  On my calling card. I list myself as a spiritual free-thinker, a romantic idealist, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. Does that tell you something?  Trump is against everything that I am for. But that doesn’t stop me from being in a constant state of gratitude. For being an alive and conscious being. Capable of standing up. For my beliefs. And taking time out. To fall in love.  With life.  -- Jim Broede

More than forever.

My conscious life.  Really. Is no more than the blink of an eye. In the grand setting of time.  Of course, I’m an octogenarian. Which is relatively old and long for a guy. Such as me.   But if this is all I get. It ain’t much. When measured against the rest of time.  No more than a blink.  Still, the blink is better than nothing. Though I’d rather have several blinks.  More time to get it right. Forever? No. No.  Knowing lackadaisical me. I'd need more than forever. --Jim Broede

How to stop grieving.

I stop grieving. When I begin communing. With a loved one’s spirit. Hardly ever takes more than a week or two. I learn that a spiritual connection is just as good, if not better, than a physical one.  Really, I haven’t lost. I’ve gained. A feeling of deeper and more intimate closeness.  --Jim Broede

A solitary traveler.

Each of us. Must find our way. On life’s journey. We must be our own guide. I feel safest. In the primeval forest. Or in a barren desert. Far away from the crowd. Yet I am not lonely. Because I have the forest and the desert. Oh, yes, there’s the seashore, too. And a mountain top. And a grand canyon to behold. I am in awe. Wherever I go. Though I be a solitary traveler. --Jim Broede

In virtual reality.

I wonder. If I am living in a virtual reality. Placed into a machine. That carries me. Into a dream. That seems like real life. Occasionally, it feels like a nightmare. But still, very real. Mostly, it’s a pleasant experience. I was told it would be. That’s why I volunteered. To step into the experimental machine. Yes, I’m beginning to recall the details. To recognize what I am doing here. In virtual reality. --Jim Broede

Sinking into depression.

What if there is no god? To help us. To save us from Donald Trump. Then who steps in? Yes, we Americans. As a nation. Are in big trouble. That’s the way I see it. Because a wild-eyed minority. The Trumpians. Or is it the Trumpites? Elected Donald Trump. A court jester. An entertainer. A nincompoop. As our next president. It’s gonna happen, folks. The inauguration is several weeks away.  Here I am. In danger. Because I’m an outspoken critic. Of what’s happening to my country. No. No. Wait. It’s no longer my country. My country has been stolen. By the avid supporters of Donald Trump. I must go into hiding. Into my cocoon. Into the underground.  Pretending that I have created a safe haven. A place to mark time. In the lonely darkness. Waiting. Waiting for the day that the sun shines again. --Jim Broede

No finer way to cope.

I have a tendency. To become momentarily perturbed (pissed). About politics. And about other personal matters. But then I quickly back off. For obvious reason. I can’t really do anything to bring about change. It’s out of my hands. Out of my control. I’m a lone voice in the wilderness. Shouting. Writing. To release my pent up emotions. A nice consolation. Doesn’t bother me when my only audience happens to be the squirrels and chipmunks and rabbits. Scampering across the yard. Paying me little heed.  Nobody really does. Might as well talk to myself.  Finally, I go to bed. Close my eyes. And fall asleep. Come morning. I wake. Rejuvenated. Able to walk my usual 10 miles. My opportunity to listen to the soothing language of chirping birds. No finer way to cope. With the rigors of life. --Jim Broede

On instinct.

Maybe I’m too hard on people. Especially those I care about. Yes, I know. Sometimes I should be softer. And more understanding. But I wonder. If there’s a difference. Between hard and soft. Could be. It doesn’t hurt to be both. Depends on the circumstance. And the target.  Often, there is no clear cut right or wrong. Better to proceed. On instinct. --Jim Broede

Is that fair?

I’m adjusting. To the idea. Of possibly not living forever. Yes, being no more. That’s a blow. To my ego. And my contentment. Because  I like being me. But what if the world is designed. To give us no more than a glimpse. Of the miracle of life.  And love. We have been blessed. With a chance to grasp it all. In our elusive moments. We either do. Or we don’t.  Often, it’s by random chance. Pure luck. Some of us are given more time. More opportunity. Than others. Makes me wonder. Is that fair? --Jim Broede

Less than perfect.

Just happens. That I don’t like some people. And some people don’t like me. But I keep an open mind. So open. That under the right circumstances I could even learn to like Donald Trump.  It’s unlikely. But not impossible. After all, some people that I disliked initially. Have become friends. Good friends, in fact. Yes, it’s a strange and mysterious world. Also, it helps to recognize that I am a fool. I make mistakes. Colossal blunders. About things. And about people.  Wish I were perfect. And that I had keen and accurate and instant  insights. About everything and everyone.  But that will never happen. Especially when I form opinions impulsively. Without all the facts. Goes to show that I am human. Prone to error. I ultimately admit it. And face the shame. Of being less than perfect. --Jim Broede

No complaint.

Here I am. A reasonably happy survivor. Driving a 2007 Chevrolet Trail Blazer. After a two-week negotiation. With a used car salesman. I negotiated down. The asking price. By $638. Still, admitting. That I may have been taken to the proverbial cleaners. But so what? Wouldn’t surprise me if the dealer profited by over $2,000. I’m told by an insider that dealers make most of their money on used cars. Not new ones (where the profit margin is much lower). Anyway, my forte isn’t in playing games. Whitaker Buick salesman Dan Adams is much better at it. He practices every day. However, I came away feeling that Dan is a nice guy. And that he was fair. Though I would have liked to haggle even more.  For the sake of cultivating my business acumen. At the very end of the negotiation process,  I pleaded with Dan for an additional $100 markdown. He declared ‘no,’ there was no more room for negotiation. Take it or leave it. I ignored Dan. And asked for $50. Telling him I’d spend the money at the local animal shelter. To buy a cat.  A replacement for my dearly beloved cat Loverboy.  Who recently died. And I’d  promise to name the cat Whitaker, in honor of the car dealer.  Sure enough. That was the clincher. Dan gave in. Of course, if he hadn’t, my next offer would have been to name the cat after Dan. Meanwhile, I’m happy with the vehicle and the transaction. The Trail Blazer is in mint condition.  Not a speck of rust. Has relatively high miles. But everything seems to be running good. New tires. A compass built in the rear view mirror.  Thereby, making it hard to get lost. Plush leather seats. That contain heating coils. So that on cold winter days in Minnesota, I’ll be guaranteed a toasty warm ass. Yes, another reason. To not complain about the deal. --Jim Broede

A dream. No nightmare.

If this is life. With no afterlife. I won’t be disappointed. Because I won’t know it. I came from nothing. And I’ll have returned to nothing. Yes, that’s a possibility. I should still feel blessed. Because I caught a glimpse of life. And discovered love. Albeit, I’ll be gone. And without any memory of ever having lived or loved. That’s the nature of being nothing.  There is no memory. Simply, nothing.  I used to dread, if not fear, the prospect of becoming nothing again. But then, I imagined. That I am spirit. Dreaming. That I exist in a physical state. And that what seems like my inevitable demise – well, it won’t be. Instead, I’ll awaken. With a sigh of relief. Finally knowing who and what I really am. A blessed spirit. Having had a pleasant dream. And not a horrible nightmare. --Jim Broede

A neat way to go.

What matters and doesn’t matter?  That’s what I’m faced with. Daily. Deciding what matters. What’s worth pursuing now? This or that? Most days, I can’t easily decide what should matter most.  Therefore, I take the day off. And put off a decision. Which, really, amounts to a decision. Yes, I’ve decided to take care of myself. First and foremost.  And ignore all the other crap. And decide the other matters tomorrow or next week. Or maybe never. I’ll merely live for today. And be happy and contented about it. A neat way to go. --Jim Broede

Taking control.

I’m told. To let things be. Especially the stuff over which I have no control. Such as having Donald Trump as our president-elect. I’m not supposed to let it matter. In the grand scheme of life. But it does matter. To me. I can’t help it. Some things matter. Other things don’t. I’m upset. To have a man such as Trump. Becoming our next president. It would be frustrating. At least I can write about it. I  can protest. In words and thoughts. I can call for a political revolution. For a taking to the streets. For a cleansing of the American political system.  People that voted for Trump tell me that’s what Trump will bring. A revolution. A changing of the body politic. But I’m afraid. That it’s not the change I want. I don’t want a conservative agenda. I’m a political liberal. Have been. For a long, long time. I would have voted for Bernie Sanders. If he had been the nominee.  Trump represents much of what I abhor. To tell me that I can’t do anything about it. Is to take away my freedom of expression. My freedom of speech. My right to call for and work for a revolution. That brings a liberal political agenda. To America. On my calling card. I identify myself as a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover and a dreamer. I’m a writer, too. Yes, all this happens to be me. And I will stand for what I am. And for what I believe. There’s no stopping me. When it comes to what matters most. To me. Yes, I intend to take control of my life.  --Jim Broede

Before the dawn.

I’d probably be better  off.   Mentally and emotionally. If I didn’t know what was going on in the world. Another example of ignorance being bliss. I get too wrought over politics. The lying and cheating. And I find reason to fret. Almost every time I turn on the news. There’s been a catastrophe of one kind or another. Or a terrorist attack. Or an endless war. Little wonder. That I’m flirting with the option of becoming a recluse. A hermit. Safely hidden from the rest of the world. No TV. No newspapers. No Internet. Maybe I’d venture out. At 3 in the morning. As a solitary wanderer. Feeling. What it was like. Before the dawn of civilization. ---Jim Broede

The dysfunctional norm.

Never knew I grew up in a dysfunctional family. Until I went to college and into the army. Yes, until I got out on my own. Distancing myself. So that I could understand. Better. How to cope with life.  In magnificent and extraordinary ways. I suspect, really, that there ‘s no such thing as a normal functioning family.  They’re all dysfunctional. Of course, that would make dysfunctional the norm.   --Jim Broede

Never wavering.

I live with my Italian amore. Year-round. Don’t miss a single day together. Even when she’s in Sardinia. And I’m in Minnesota. Because we are connected. In meaningful ways. If not always in the flesh. In loving spirit. We see each other, too. By video. On Skype. One of the many benefits of the technology age. I dare say. That we are closer to each other. Than some of my married couple neighbors. Going through the motions of living together.  In the same house.  Yes, it’s possible. To go through the motions.  Little wonder that marriages break up. Anyway, I’m assuming that my amore and I have the real thing.  At least it feels like genuine love. Doesn’t matter that at the moment we are on separate sides of the ocean. We don’t demand more.  Or less.  From each other.  Love isn’t a demanding thing. It’s unequivocal, unconditional acceptance. Of each other. Never wavering. A mutual belief. In the impossible.  Yes, that’s true love. --Jim Broede

Dumbbells of the cosmos.

Maybe we humans are no more than glorified animals. Our distant ancestors were apes. With slowly evolving brains. We still look like apes. Only with less hair, less brawn  and smaller snouts. In many ways, we still act like apes. The only positive difference being that we’ve learned to embellish. To glorify ourselves. Into imagining that we are the highest form of intelligent life. Yes, perhaps on Earth, a remote isolated planet hidden in   the Milky Way galaxy. But hey, with billions and billions of suns and planets strewn across the cosmos. The odds are astronomical. That better and higher forms of life exist out there. Therefore, I surmise that we humans may be an example of the lower forms of not-so-intelligent life. Yes, the dumbbells of the cosmos. Sad, isn’t it? --Jim Broede

A divided world.

I’m affected. By what’s happening around me. By daily events. By my encounters with all sorts of people. Friends and foes. Yes, foes. People who cause me consternation. That I lovingly and jokingly call foes. Or opponents. Because they may rub me the wrong way. Probably my fault. More than theirs.  Of course, I try to make friends with my foes. Because that’s the right thing to do. But I don’t require everyone to be my friend. Acquaintanceship often suffices.  And yes, some people don’t want to be my friend. That’s their choice. I believe in choices. That’s the way I would design the world. Freedom of choice. For everyone. Though that may be troublesome. With one person’s choice infringing on another’s. Maybe that’s why many of us have quite a blend of friends and foes. Yes, we live in a divided world. --Jim Broede

My own peculiar rhythm.

I wonder. Sometimes. Why certain friends and acquaintances. Don’t live at a more leisurely pace.  When they could.  Instead, they seem to be in a hurry. Maybe it’s my imagination.  Or maybe it’s that I consciously try to slow down. To take my time. To savor the moment. And therefore, everyone else seems to be going at a breakneck speed. Doing too much, too fast. I don’t mind living by a schedule. But don’t give me a grueling one. I want my space and pace. Time to reflect and ponder my next move. Like playing a game of chess. Slow. Slow. Methodically.  Leisurely.  Maybe it’s just me. My way. To live and love. By my own peculiar rhythm. --Jim Broede

Beats playing politics.

I love life. But not everything connected with life. Such as politicians. And how they often operate. In despicable and dishonest and selfish manner.  Furthermore, I’m saddened. Because society allows politicians  to get away with their chicanery. My fervent wish is for  government run by non-politicians. Perhaps poets. Unfortunately, no self-respecting poet would take on such a slovenly pursuit. They’d rather settle for being poets. Yes, that’s a much more respectable and natural way to savor the inherent goodness of life. Sure beats playing politics. --Jim Broede

Egads!!! That's sad.

It’s reasonable. To live happily. At least 350 days a year. That leaves only 15 days of unhappiness. Or 16 days in a leap year. Goes to show. That I’m not a Pollyanna. I leave room for days that don’t come off too well.  Yes, I’m willing to concede that 365 straight days of bliss may be unrealistic. Some may achieve it. And gawd bless them. Occasionally, I slip into the doldrums. By harboring negative thoughts. That make me more unhappy than happy. Usually for no more than a day or two. Even when I profess being in love. With life.  Of course, I wish for a full year of uninterrupted happiness. And that’s my goal. But I have yet to attain such perfection. The closest I’ve come is 354 days. And if I go way, way back, I recall a year or two when I barely exceeded 300 days of happiness. Imagine that, being unhappy. For 8 or 9 weeks in a single year.  But even more difficult for me to imagine are reports that some people live an entire year. Without a single happy day. Egads!!! That’s sad. --Jim Broede

How. How. Tell me how.

I know. I know. I have to blame my anxiety on something. Doesn’t matter if it’s legitimate. As long as it’s a remote possibility.  So that I can better deal with my burgeoning anxiety. By pretending. That it has a real cause. Capable of being dealt with. So that I can let go of the anxiety.  And lead a more calm and normal and blessed life. More or less free of worry and regret. Anyway, I’m blaming my anxiety on Donald Trump. The clown. The court jester. The politician with asinine ideas.  Hard for me to believe that Donald Trump exists. I’d like to write him off. As a nightmare. That I need only to awaken. For him to go away. But Trump is more than a figment of my ghoulish imagination. He’s real. He exists. And as preposterous as it may seem,  he’s become a hero. A potential savior. For enough of my fellow Americans. To emerge. As president-elect.  I don’t want to believe it. Please, let me go into denial. Instead of lapsing into dreadful high anxiety. Not even gawd can help me. How am I to find my way out of this horrible mental and emotional morass? --Jim Broede

One way or another.

I suspect. That levels of depression and suicide. Will increase dramatically. Over the next several years.  Because Donald Trump is president. My friend Rosie, a Trump supporter. Tells me no, no, no. Give Trump a chance. That Trump is worth the risk. That he will do much good. That he won’t wreak the ruination of the nation.  That Trump is what this nation needs. To solve our political problems. And to make life right again. Yes, this from Rosie. A retired psychiatric nurse.  A dear and trusted friend. Rosie remains dear. But I’m not so sure about the trusted part anymore. Especially when it comes to politics. I’m in the doldrums. And I blame that on the rise of Trump. Of course, I’ll never commit suicide. I have more reasonable and sensible alternatives. Such as retreating to safety in my cozy cocoon. Or by fleeing to another country. Maybe even to my own concocted fantasy land. An insane asylum in the sky. Staffed by the best psychotherapists of the spirit. Yes. Yes. I am committed. To remaining steadfastly in love. With life. One way or another. --Jim Broede

A place called Paradise.

Can’t think of words foul enough. To describe how I feel about our political climate.  I’d have to invent new cuss words. That go way beyond existing gross language. Words so gawd-awful they’ve never been uttered before. By anyone. Even by the foulest of mouths. I’d have to invent a new swear language. In order to express myself adequately. Of course, I have other options. Such as surrendering. Giving up.  Distancing myself. From politics. Completely. Totally.  By moving into another world. Another dimension. Devoid of politics. A place called Paradise. --Jim Broede 

A bad connection.

A solicitor called me today. I wasn’t sure. If it was a recording. Or a real live person.  So I asked, ‘Is this a recording? Is this a recording? Is this a recording?’  Finally, she paused. To tell me it wasn’t a recording. ‘You sound like a robot,’ I replied. She reaffirmed. She was a real person. ‘You are reading mechanically from a script,’ I declared. ‘Please deviate from the script. Tell me. In your own words. What you want to tell me.’  She said we had a bad connection. And abruptly hung up. --Jim Broede

Either way. I feel great.

When seated upright in a chair, I have taken to running my palms over my upper thighs. For good reason. Feels good. Relaxes me. A friend tells me it’s a sign of nervousness. But ain’t so. Just the opposite.  Helps me avert becoming nervous. Sets me into motion.  A soothing form of exercise. Yes, I’m an exercise freak. Addicted. Needing daily workouts. Whether on foot.  In the great outdoors. Or seated. In the great indoors. Either way. I feel great. --Jim Broede

Worth some thought.

By my definition. One can be melancholic. Without being depressed. A good friend tells me I’m melancholic. And she makes no distinction between melancholia and depression. Suggesting that they are one and the same. Well, I have news for the friend. Melancholia isn’t the equivalent of full-scale depression. Really, it’s no more or no less than thoughtful sadness. Easily dealt with. In thoughtful ways. In fact, I routinely become upbeat and happy. As I ponder my melancholia. Might be wise for those in depression to try becoming melancholic. As a route out of depression. Certainly, it’s worth some deep thought. --Jim Broede

Celebrating life again.

Deprived. I’ve lived deprived. For several months. Ever since one of my dearest friends and longtime companion died. Yes, Loverboy. My cat. Exists only as spirit now. His ashes. On the mantel. I need more. Another living cat. A replacement. For Loverboy. Think about it. How much difference a solitary cat makes in one’s life. In my life. Yes, Yes. I must search. For another cat. Another daily source of loving sustenance. Amazing. Amazing. What a difference a cat makes. An opportunity to fall in love again. To rejoice. To celebrate life again. With a pulsating cat.   --Jim Broede

Precious waking moments.

I adapt to life. Mostly by doing whatever comes naturally. Usually by drifting into a comfortable rhythm. For instance, when I’m tired. It makes sense. To go to bed. To rest. To doze. To sleep. To dream. The natural thing. Don’t even have to think about it. Comes automatically. Naturally. I’m sitting at my computer. Writing a thought. When I find myself drifting into slumber land. Happened last night. So I shut down the computer. Turned off the lights. Plopped into bed. And slept. Peacefully. Contentedly. Now I’m up. In the wee hours of morning. Feeling refreshed. An opportunity to resume my thought. Of living a wonderful life. Ever so naturally. Next. I’m going to read. A novel. ‘The Photographer’s Wife.’ By a Frenchman. Robert Sole. About life. In Egypt. In the 1890s. Don't like the focus. On the depressing colonial politics of the time. The ruination of an otherwise good life. Salvaged. Saved. Only by the power of love. Between two protagonists. Really, that’s our saving grace. The ability to fall in love. Makes life so much easier. During our precious wide awake moments. -Jim Broede