Believing in fairy tales.

Maybe the best way to live life. Is to assume that there’s no ending. That one lives forever. So that one has all the time in the world. Therefore, there’s no reason to rush through life. No hurry. To get things done. Play it cool. I suspect. That’s the relaxed way to get through life. No reason to worry. About running out of time. Yes, I know. Most likely, there’s no forever. But there’s no harm in pretending. By believing in fairy tales that end with living happily ever after. --Jim Broede

Give me time to think.

Not sure. That I’ve flowed properly into modern times. Could be. That I’m not a model of a very modern man. Could be. That I’m still living more in the past than the present. Seldom use a cell phone. And so many other nifty gadgets.  Of course, I rely on my computer. Writing emails. And a blog. Pretending. That I have a foot in the modern age. I use the Internet. I’m on Skype. Daily. Connected to my Italian amore. Yes, I do what’s essential. To cultivate and advance my life. As a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer, a writer. Doesn’t really matter whether I’m living in the 17th or the 21st century. I always find ways to get by.  Fortunately, I still have the tools of a bygone era. Pens and pencils. Allowing me to write in the old-fashioned way. By scribbling my thoughts Anywhere. Any place. Think about it.  When I was in the sixth grade. I was an elite. The best in my class. With an A-plus in penmanship. Now my teacher. Would be aghast. Critical of my sloppy penmanship. Yes, I’m no longer a kid. Who took penmanship seriously. Not sure. If that’s good or bad. Give me time to think. About whether I want to be a thoroughly modern man. --Jim Broede

Drifting pleasantly.

I love getting up at 3 or 4 in the morning. Knowing that I have no place to go. But back to bed. Full of thought. Yes, I am free. To muse whatever I want. About life or anything. And best of all. Drifting pleasantly. Back to sleep. --Jim Broede

We need protection.

I’m beginning to wonder. If we are living in an era. Of too much information. From which we are challenged to separate truth from fiction. An almost impossible task. Because the world is full of millions and billions of ignoramuses. I hate to say it.  Many of us are being manipulated. Duped. Into believing the lies. We end up lying to each other. But even worse, to ourselves. That may include me. Once upon a time. I thought of myself as smart, astute, intelligent, aware, well-informed.  But now I have descended. Into the ranks of the hopelessly confused.  Overwhelmed. No longer knowing. With certainty. Right from wrong. Indeed, it has become Hell on Earth, so to speak. I wake up. Before daybreak. Scared. As if I’m living in a nightmare. Wishing. Wishing. That there were no mass media.  For a time when we were protected from too much information. --Jim Broede

New and awesome beginnings.

Maybe one should approach life as an endless series of new beginnings. Yes. That’s my thought. While pondering, at the ripe age of 82, that I’m much closer to the end of earthly life than to the beginning. But that ain’t necessarily so. As long as I’m in constant pursuit of new beginnings. Take the ever-changing nature of life. My life, in particular. I refuse to allow life to become static and rigid. Realizing that I’m not the same me of 10 or 20 or 30 years ago. In fact, I’m not the same guy that I was yesterday. I’m not stuck in a rut. I'm evolving. Though that may be open to dispute. I do pretty much the same things. Follow the same routine. Daily. Except when it comes to thinking. About life. I’m always looking for new twists. Or something never noticed before. Stuff that I overlooked. I muse and brood and reflect. In search of an elusive or totally new thought.  I don’t want life to be the same old, same old, same old. Give each of my days a new and awesome beginning, please. --Jim Broede

Anything but cruel.

Here it is. Almost 10 years after dear sweet Jeanne died of Alzheimer’s.  She’s still with me. In spirit. It’s as if she never died.  Never had Alzheimer’s. I have only the fondest of memories. The real Jeanne. My beloved wife. For 38 years. A true love of my life. Indeed, I am blessed. Life at the moment seems good. Anything but cruel. --Jim Broede

Strange and mysterious.

My sister Babs and I call each other ignoramuses. Have done so. Fondly. For all of our lives. No need to take offense. Babs and I disagree. On numerous matters. Hard to keep count.  Like my friend Rosie. Babs is a devout supporter of Donald Trump. She does it with religious fervor. Sees Trump as a savior of the nation. Even when he lies, Babs forgives him.  Because she says there are many, many versions of political truth. And that it’s good enough for her. She has unquestioned faith. That Trump will guide us down a divine and righteous path. No reason to fret. Relax, Bab tells me. All will be well. Don’t worry. Be happy. ‘It’s all right to be an ignoramus,’ she blurts. ‘I love you anyway. Unconditionally.’  Turns out. I love my sister, too. Another sign. That life is strange and mysterious. -Jim Broede

Marcello puts me to shame.

I need a cat in my life. More so than a dog. Maybe it’s because cats are more independent than dogs. I like independent companions. Cats tend to steer their own course. And they take care of themselves. Though my cat, Marcello, puts demands on me. Such as being fed. Upon command. And he also requires that I clean his kitty litter box. Daily. In return, I require that Marcello speaks English.  So that we can converse. About any and everything. Marcello is also learning to speak Italian.  With an accent.  To show off. When my Italian amore is with me.  Either in the flesh or on Skype. Marcello puts me to shame. He speaks better Italian than I do. --Jim Broede

More like a lazy bum.

Lately, I’ve been feeling too busy. That I’m not getting everything done. Because there’s too much to do. It’s my fault. For allowing this to happen. I like to proceed. Daily. At a leisurely pace. Therefore, I have resolved. To reduce my workload.  And my commitments. I intend to start acting more like a lazy bum. --Jim Broede

A Rosie is a Rosie is a Rosie.

I wonder. How often we laymen resolve our differences. Over politics. By acknowledging the pettiness of it all. By refusing to take politics as seriously as gangs of humorless politicians.  My friends and I practice the craft of give and take.  Willing to see the other side of controversial issues. We seldom, if ever, break off friendships.  Over politics. Instead, we debate. Politely. And keep open minds. Always. Showing respect for each other. Often with laughter. Take my dear friend Rosie.  Here on the Alzheimer’s message boards. We became allies. A long time ago. In disputes with several other care-givers. Over hot issues related to the politics of care-giving. Yes. Yes. Much of life has political overtones.  Face it. Now it seems odd.  That Rosie and I are on opposite sides of a political fence. Rosie adores the politics and personality of Donald Trump. I despise the guy. And virtually everything that he stands for. If we acted like typical politicians, that could put our friendship at risk. I tell Rosie that she’s been duped. Suckered. Brainwashed. Rosie could take that as a personal insult. But she doesn’t. Instead, she laughs. I have no fear of feeding Rosie the cold and brutal truth. That she’s an ignoramus. When it comes to politics.  Rosie takes it in stride. Recognizing that our friendship is strong. Built on a solid foundation. We can be critical of each other. Doesn’t matter. Because I think of Rosie as a very decent human being. Meanwhile, I keep pondering. How did Rosie get to an unholy political stance? I have theories. Some of which are politically scary. But I adjust.  And remain committed to Rosie. Unconditionally. Knowing that a Rosie is a Rosie is a Rosie. --Jim Broede

Endless self-deception.

I’m in search of truth. And I wonder. If I’m deceiving myself. By losing my objectivity.  By creating truth. On the basis of what I want truth to be. Yes. Yes. I want truth that makes me happy. That gives me the opportunity to search for elusive truth. Forever.  That is my mission. The constant search.  Finding truth may be an impossible task. Truth is susceptible to change. Especially for me. Truth can change. From moment to moment. Or from circumstance to circumstance. And everyone has his/her right to their own truth. The right to lie to one’s self. And to others. Perhaps we live in a world of liars. Pretending to be looking for truth. Certainly, that’s the nature of politics. Maybe even the nature of life. Self-deception. Self-deception. Endless self-deception. --Jim Broede

On facing the brutal truth.

I wonder. How many people talk to themselves. Shut out everything. Turn off the radio. Set aside the book. And then carry on a conversation. With their inner being. I do. Every day. That’s how I spend most of my idle time. Alone. Often, I sit down. And record my thoughts. In writing. In the process, I want silence. Solitude. No interruption.  Yes, I call it thinking time. Opportunity to get my act together.  To better understand what I am all about. Oh, I could socialize. Engage my friends and associates in conversation. And I do. But I find the confabs with the inner me to be more interesting, more penetrating, more revealing. I try to be truthful. To hide nothing. Even my most embarrassing moments. Of course, I also aim for the truth. In my conversations with others. But that’s harder to do. Because the truth sometimes hurts. Don’t know if I have the right to hurt others. It’s easier turning the truth on to me. Better to offend myself rather than others. Many, many people, I surmise, are unprepared for the brutal truth – about themselves. --Jim Broede

In a happy frame of mind.

Learning to deal with disappointments. Maybe that’s the key to a happy life. No doubt about it, I’ve had disappointments. Doesn’t everyone? I keep telling myself. Take each disappointment in stride. By keeping track of the times when I wasn’t disappointed. When stuff worked out. To great satisfaction. Like last year, when the Chicago Cubs won the World Series. There’s a chance I’m going to be disappointed this time around. But hey, I’ll remind myself.  The Cubs still have a good team. It’s unrealistic to expect the Cubs to go all the way every year. Yes, I refuse to be disappointed. If the Cubs fall short. Instead, I’ll look forward to waiting for next year. In a happy frame of mind. --Jim Broede

I'm delightfully nuts.

I don’t mind doing stuff alone. Going for a walk. To a movie. Out for dinner. Traveling. Name it. Almost any activity. I don’t require company. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sociable. I do things with other people, too. But I also relish doing things all by myself. Unencumbered. Flexible. Doing as I please. Not having to accommodate another. Being lonely. That’s never been a problem. I adjust. I’m in touch with my inner being. I get up in the middle of the silent night. And write letters. To myself. Pondering anything that comes to mind. When I’m walking. I often mutter. Out loud. To myself.  Doesn’t bother me. If passersby think I’m  crazy.  Let the truth be told. I’m delightfully nuts. Especially when I’m alone. And proud of it. --Jim Broede

The decent thing.

It really shouldn’t matter whether the Cubs win or lose. But it really does matter. Because if the Cubs lose a critical/crucial game, especially in the playoffs, I go into a funk. Oh, I’ll get over it after a while. I’m not suicidal. Only momentarily depressed. I keep telling myself, it’s only a ball game. Not a matter of life or death. And I remind myself that the Cubs won the World Series last year. For which I am grateful. To pine for two World Series in a row – well, that might be asking for too much from the baseball gods. It takes audacity.  When granted one’s wish  last year. To wish for more and more. Endlessly. The time has come. For me  to tell the kind gods, thank you. I don’t need more blessings. I have more than  enough. Better to spread the bounteous wealth.  To the deserving fans of the Cubs’ rivals. It's the decent thing to do.  --Jim Broede

A merry hypnotic adventure.

I’m learning how to hypnotize myself. Or so it seems. Don’t know if it’s true hypnosis. Or even if there is such a thing. But that’s all right. Whatever I’m doing. Makes me feel good. Relaxed. And mentally sharp.  More like what I want to be. If I leave my body. And become spirit. Maybe it’s a form of biofeedback. A way to trick myself. Out of a state of anxiety. And into bliss. No. No. I’m not on drugs.  It’s mind over matter. I’m on the Internet. Doing research. On hypnosis. The alleged experts. Tell me it’s not like what you see in the movies. Instead, they describe hypnosis as a natural state of selective, focused attention. And one of the most fascinating phenomena of the human mind. For me, it could well be the entry way to the spiritual realm. Yes. Yes. I’m on a merry hypnotic adventure. --Jim Broede

In a world gone bonkers.

I know. I know. It’s wrong for me to call Trump and others downright crazy. When really, I’m the one who’s the craziest.  Yes, I concede. A case could be made that I’m crazier than Donald Trump. Both of us have a right to be given free rein. To act out our crazy lives. Unless we cause harm. Hurting ourselves and others. But who’s to be the arbiter? The decider? In a world where everyone has gone bonkers.  --Jim Broede

An insane world.

I am convinced. Beyond a doubt. That Donald Trump is insane. A madman. With no business being on the loose. Especially in his role as president of the United States. Trump should be required. Compelled. One way or another. To go into treatment. For serious mental disorders. But it won’t happen. Because such action will be construed as political. Throughout history.  I have no doubt. That madmen remained in power. Simply because they held power. And nobody dared challenge them. Mostly for political reasons. That’s the state of politics. In America.  And as an isolated and powerless citizen. Off the beaten track. In remote Minnesota. There’s nothing I can do about it.  Other than to write about my concern. It’s almost enough to drive me wacky. Here I am. Helpless. Fretting over the possibility. Of World War III. Initiated by a madman. That no one stopped. Makes me wonder. If we live in an insane world. --Jim Broede

A way to evade guilt.

The word albatross is sometimes used metaphorically to mean a psychological burden that feels like a curse. It is an allusion to Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The albatross is then literally hung around the mariner's neck by the crew to symbolize his guilt in killing the bird. Yes, this is how I feel guilt. As if an albatross has been hung around my neck. But I hastily get rid of guilt by casting the albatross into the sea. But there’s an easier, preventive way. Never kill an albatross. And by all means, never allow a dead bird to become your necklace. --Jim Broede

Not knowing any better.

I’m thinking. Seriously. About shutting myself off. For a week or two. From the media. No TV. No newspaper. No radio. No Internet. Instead, I’ll listen mostly to blessed silence. Interrupted only by tranquil and soothing music. It’ll be a plus. Not knowing what’s going on.  Could have a positive effect on my morale. Discovering that ignorance is bliss. Some of the dumbest people I know are happy. Apparently, they don’t know any better. --Jim Broede

To think and live big.

I choose to be an Earthling. Not an American. Though I am arbitrarily labeled American. When I become a full-fledged spirit someday, I’ll officially be a resident of the vast cosmos – a cosmopolitan. Free to roam anywhere. Even a billion light years away. Yes, I’ll be an explorer of entire creation. No limits. No restrictions. On the same profound level as the creator. Yes. Yes. My ultimate goal. To think and live big. --Jim Broede

Keeping us humble.

To heck with positive thinking. When it comes to baseball and the Chicago Cubs. I always approach the Cubs with low expectations. That’s the safe way. Think about it. If Cub fans have high expectations. And the Cubs let them down. By blowing games they should have won. It’s a real downer. But if fans psychologically brace for the Cubs following tradition. By finding new and novel ways to lose – well, that was expected all along. True Cub fans always try imagining the worst of all possible scenarios. As being a near-certainty. Keeps fans like me from being totally chagrined and disappointed. Yes, the mean-spirited  baseball gods know how to keep us humble. --Jim Broede

Love ain't all that complex.

The world, as I see it, is a mixture of tranquility and turmoil. I have the option. To focus in either direction. Mostly, I choose to participate in peace and tranquility.  As for the turmoil, I prefer remaining on the sidelines. As an observer. Without getting too upset.  Easier said than done. But I manage. Mostly by remaining aloof. Fixing the world is impossible. At best, I can steer clear. Rather than be dragged into the muck. Instead, I keep finding new ways to fall in love. With something or someone. Yes, that is my salvation. Something as simple as love. Really, love ain’t all that complex. --Jim Broede

No sweat.

I can’t avoid some bad moments. After all, stuff happens. But I find ways to turn bad experiences into lessons learned. Salvaging something beneficial from the worst of times. I become uneasy when life flows too smoothly. Makes me too complacent. I need disruption. Inner turmoil. Challenges. Life wasn’t meant to be trouble-free. Doesn’t bother me. If I’m put to the test. And if I fail. No sweat. After all, failure often leads to success. --Jim Broede

A cursed toll.

My imagination. Can be a curse. Rather than a blessing. Because I imagine all sorts of scenarios. Including the worst case. Of course, I try to focus on the best case. A happy resolution to troubling situations. But too often, I worry, worry, worry. That there’s a chance for disaster. For everything to go wrong. I keep repeating my mantra, ‘Don’t worry, be happy.’ Usually, it turns out that things go right. Reason to breathe a sigh of relief. But still, all that unnecessary stress takes a cursed toll. --Jim Broede

A healthy disease.

It’s time to be funny. To not take life so seriously. Especially in the worst of times. Funny, isn’t it? That I forget. That I’m preparing for my stand-up comic routine. I’m supposed to make people laugh. And if they refuse to laugh.  I should construe that as hilarious. So that I break out in uncontrollable guffaws. Which become contagious. Causing everyone in the comedy club. To rollick. To roll in the aisles. With laughter. As if afflicted with St. Vitas Dance. Yes, Yes, folks. That’s my aim. To make laughter a healthy disease. --Jim Broede

Life in a blink.

I am.  For me, that’s hard to believe. But it must be true. Because I sense. That I really am. And not merely a figment of a wild imagination. I exist. At this moment. In time and space.  In flesh. That I can touch and see. How can this be? Why am I here? Capable of consciously knowing. That I am. Specifically me. And that I have a history. Of having become me. Eighty-two years ago. In Chicago. To the best of my knowledge, the vast cosmos in which I live, has existed for billions of years. Perhaps forever. Without me. Until I suddenly show up. So very recently. Why not sooner or later? Why now? Maybe it’s just random happenstance. With no rhyme or reason. A roll of the dice. And surprise. Here I am. Quite likely. For no reason at all. Makes me wonder. If that’s all there is to life. Here for a blink of an eye. And gone forever. In the next blink. --Jim Broede

Of wonder and awe.

Thank goodness. I believe in a future. In change. Yes, in true goodness. Prevailing. Some day. I may be living. In the wrong time. I fervently believe. That the right time is coming. Yes. Change. Change. Change. The world is not static. I am free. To enter my dream world. By falling asleep. Thereby escaping the nightmare of reality. To dream. Of forever. And a flight to the great beyond. Into an everlasting bright future. Of wonder and awe. --Jim Broede

Another everything.

I’m convinced. It’s a crazy world. Unfortunately, a bad crazy. More so than a good crazy. I hate to turn on the TV news. Or to read the New York Times anymore. Because I’m being fed stuff unfit to hear and read. I’d rather live in isolation. In my cave. Pardon me. If I don’t want to stay connected. Please allow me to create my own world. To escape an imposed reality. To block it out. I’d be better off. Mentally and emotionally. Living imaginatively.  So I could become sane again. And pursue my life. Uninterrupted. As a romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. I’m better off, too. As a writer. Able to exercise my imagination. Able to fly off. Far away. To another planet. Another galaxy. Another time. --Jim Broede

Like real people.

I can imagine. Being a cat. We speak each other’s language. And we have a spiritual connection. And an intimate understanding of each other. I suspect. That I might have been a cat. Once upon a time. For almost a year now, Marcello has lived with me. He’s an orange tabby. I nabbed him. From an animal shelter. Two days before Christmas. When he was still a kitten. I had been without a cat. For several months. Since the death of longtime companion, Lover Boy. I wasn’t quite ready. For another cat. But now I’m ready. I’ve grieved long enough. Over Lover Boy. Marcello sees to that. He reminds me. That it’s time to get on with life. I’ve always talked to my cats. Because they are like real people. More real than some of my acquaintances.  --Jim Broede

Free to be whatever.

I’m divided. Inwardly. Over whether I should accept the inevitability of my own death. I prefer imagining an afterlife. A continuation. Of my existence. Outside and beyond my physical being. I have nothing to lose. By imagining such a scenario. To the point of belief. Yes. Yes. It’s comforting. To believe in the preposterous. With no scientific proof. I need none. I am not a scientist. Better to go far beyond science. I am free. To allow my mind. To wander. Wherever it instinctively wanders. Maybe it’s not my mind. But more likely, my spirit or soul.  My indestructible, non-physical being. My true essence. Wandering. Not for religious reasons. Instead, I am a spiritual free-thinker. A believer in the existence of a spiritual realm. It simply is what it is. Real life. Without a creator. Other than one’s own creative self. Free to be whatever one wants (life) to be. --Jim Broede