For simpletons. Like me.

I’m feeling inundated. Overwhelmed. Preparing for my departure. Saturday. To France. Packing. And taking care of business. Such as arranging for a neighbor to come in. Daily. To care for precious Marcello. My 15-pound, well-fed cat. I got him. A year ago. When he weighed less than 3 pounds. He’s on a diet now. His goal. To be a svelte 13 pounds. By Easter.  I’m also trying to master my new smart phone. So that I can use it effectively. In France. The phone is far smarter than me. I’m a dunce. When it comes to handling new-fangled gadgets. Ah, for the days. When life was less complex. Designed for simpletons. Like me. --Jim Broede

The profound nature of life.

Here’s a fictional character. I’m creating. In a novel. That I’m writing. The character gives me a direct quote. About his true nature. Which I use. To open the novel’s first chapter.

Here it is: “I think I’m in depression. So maybe I’m not. I’d know it. If I were. I feel out of sorts. Pessimistic. Can’t offer an explanation. I’m thinking. In negative terms. Much of the time. Maybe it’s a form of panic attack. Anxiety. That really isn’t depression. What’s the difference anyway? Between anxiety and depression. Let’s call it foreboding. Bad vibes. A premonition. That something awful is going to happen. And I can’t stop it. I’m not smiling. Not laughing. I’ve dropped off an edge of a precipice. I’m trying to figure this out. By talking to myself. Trying to get a firm hold on what’s happening. To me. Maybe I need to go for a long walk. To clear my mind. Get away. Get away. Taking a long trip. To Europe. Will that be the cure-all for my blues?  Have to convince myself. That I’m a strong guy. Able to cope. With almost anything. If only I were more creative. Someone I could imagine myself being. Fictional, of course. And brutally honest. With himself. It’s easier that way. Trying to live. Temporarily. In the shoes. Of a make-believe character. That I could play. For the fun of it. In a stage play. Played with vim and vigor. Passionately. Sure. Maybe the character ends up being part me. And a blend of friends and acquaintances. Don’t novelists and playwrights do this all the time? Without driving themselves crazy.  Instead, the novelist gives himself uncanny insights. Into the profound nature of life.” --Jim Broede

Chance encounters.

I want to let France come to me. In unexpected ways. Over the next two weeks. To be flexible every day. Rather than sticking to a set plan. My best times. In foreign travel. Have been the unplanned stuff. Like meeting total strangers. Who opened up. And were no longer strangers. By the time we departed. That’s the stuff that makes my day.  Not seeing the usual tourist sites. But rather, the chance encounters with interesting people.  They don’t necessarily have to be French. But it helps. I’m intrigued by the French. And the soft, pleasant sound of their language. Even when I don’t understand the words. They flow beautifully. --Jim Broede

Our (lying) way of life.

As individuals. Many of us have reached the point. Of believing whatever we want to believe. And the truth be damned. Indeed, it’s a sad state of affairs. We accept bold-faced lying. Without cringing. As long as the lies suit our fancy. We allow politicians and businessmen and even clergymen – leaders in all walks of life --to feed us endless chains of lies. From which we can choose. Whatever lies we prefer. It’s uncanny. I used to shake my head. In disbelief. But I’ve come to accept lying. As the norm. Generally, I try to be truthful. But it really doesn’t matter. Lying has become acceptable and fashionable. Our way of life. --Jim Broede

Nemesis. Be gone.

My anxiety level will be up. When I leave for France. On Saturday. Because I’ll be out of my usual element. For 15 days. Speaking relatively little French. Having to make this and that connection. Of course, I should look at travel. As a wonderful adventure. And I do. Most of the time. When losing myself. In precious moments. Often coming. Musing. Upon my return. To the safety of my cocoon. I’ll milk the sojourn. For months. Even years. Though I was only gone for days. I’m still living fantastic misadventures. From long, long ago. Impressions. Etched forever. In heart and soul. No more nemesis. No more anxiety. --Jim Broede

To avoid the plague.

It’s amazing. The people I know. In a perpetual state of anxiety. It’s a modern age disease. People imagining. That the sky is falling. Of course, I feel anxiety. Occasionally. Not perpetually, fortunately. The anguished around me. Are helpful, really. Serving as a reminder. To avoid their perplexing lifestyle. Marked by psychosomatic stuff. Mental suffering, fright, feelings of distress, depression, grief. Little wonder. That I flee. To my cocoon. To avoid the plague. --Jim Broede

For pure pleasure.

Once upon a time, I wasn’t going to retire. Ever. They’d have to haul me away.  In a hearse. Yes, I loved writing for newspapers. But 20 years ago, a change of heart. Dear sweet Jeanne had Alzheimer’s. I became a full-time care-giver. With no regrets. Never went back to work again. Though I’m still writing. Daily. Not for money. Instead, for the pure pleasure. Of the written word. --Jim Broede

Blissfully.

Preoccupation with aging. That’s my bugaboo. Now that I’m in the final cycle of life. I think. More than I used to. About nearing the end of life. I’m supposed to, aren’t I? An older man thinks differently than a younger man. Sure, I’m still active. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. But I’m beginning to feel a little scared. About aging. Not being able to do as I used to. No longer burning both ends of the candle. Odd thing. I’ve noticed. When I’m alone. It’s easier. Coping. Maybe growing old should be a private matter. It helps. Less embarrassing that way. But I’m different. I like to talk about the embarrassment of aging. Of trying to fit. Into this new life cycle. One to be avoided. If I had my druthers. The next best thing. Is to write about the experience. To share my thoughts. About the gradual passage into old age. In some ways, I am not yet old. Seems that I have avoided dementia. Though I have slowed down. I’m more methodical. I still have the capability. To understand. What’s going on. In my soul. In the depths of my being. To express my thoughts. To find the words. I’ve never been perfect at it. But I’m better than I was 40 years ago. Maybe I underestimate my ability. To understand me. And others, too. Maybe that’s my problem. I understand what’s going on. Too well. More proof. That knowledge can be baffling and scary. Yes, I got through life so far. Because I took advantage of my ignorance. Blissfully. --Jim Broede

Something was wrong.

It was a snowy night. Ideal. For my mom. To pull me on a sled. Through the neighborhood. In Chicago. To see the Christmas lights and decorations. When we came home.  Dad excitedly summoned us. To the radio.  To hear the news. I was six years old. I didn’t yet understand the significance of that historic moment. On Dec. 7, 1941. But I knew that something was wrong. Mom and dad were visibly shaken. --Jim

Makes one wonder.

I resent being given life. And then having it taken away. But maybe that’s wrong. Of me. I’d rather be given a choice. To be able to live as long as I want.  My decision. If I wanted to live 1,000 years. Or forever, for that matter. So be it. Same goes. If I decide to end it all tomorrow. Give me the full gamut of options. Could be. That’s the way it really is. When I die, the creator steps in and says, ‘Tell me, you little rascal, would you like to come back for more life? Or have you had enough?’ I’d give the thumbs up. And declare, ‘Please, send me back for more.’ Funny thing, though. I have a friend or two who would rather stay dead. Forever. Makes one wonder. If they’ve been around the circuit so many times – that they’ve become bored with life. Or find it too excruciating. --Jim Broede

A good time to drop dead.

If one has to leave this world. Maybe this is a good time to go. To drop dead. Because I am steadily growing disenchanted. I am no longer in love. With the political, economic and social systems. Oh, I am in love. With many aspects of life. With certain dear friends and cohorts. They keep me going. Of course, at age 82. I’m likely to not have much time left. I’ll have to bow out. Like it or not. I’d be lucky to reach my 90s. With full mental and physical vigor. Probably just as well. That I die. Before becoming hopelessly old and decrepit. In that sense, I can accept death. Willingly. Knowing that I didn’t die young. That I lived long enough. To get a reasonable shake. If not a full measure of life. Oh, I’d like to come back. To be resurrected. After positive change occurs in the world. To savor the best of life. More fully. Unfortunately, becoming enamored with it all. In this day and age. Keeps getting more difficult. I’d like to start all over. As a young man. With a boundless future. --Jim Broede

An idyllic moment in time.

Didn’t know. The source of the loud rumble. Until years later. When I made the connection. I was being wheeled. In an ornate baby buggy. Probably by mother. Before I was old enough to walk. I was asking myself . ‘What’s that I’m hearing?’ Out of curiosity. Rather than fright.  Anyway, I stored it away. In my memory bank. Able to retrieve it. Vividly. To this very day. Knowing for sure. That we were passing. Beneath elevated train tracks. Near our home.  On Chicago’s west side.  It’s as if I’m there. Now. Listening to the rumble. And breathing fresh air. From an idyllic moment in time. --Jim Broede

I'll settle for envy.

I envy good actors. Because they know how to immerse themselves. Into playing their roles. They become the character. In a sense, they live the part. They feel it. Almost as if it’s part of their souls. Their very being. Of course, that could be dangerous, too. Losing one’s self. Getting too carried away. So that it’s difficult coming back. To reality. That’s the way I imagine a good actor. Flirting with danger. By living another being. But hey, it must be a thrilling experience. Anyway, I’m probably best off. Not being a good actor. I’ll settle for envy. --Jim Broede

The eternal optimist.

Think about it. You’re writing. Or reading. You’re musing. On these message boards. Helps to sustain you. Getting you through the Alzheimer’s experience. Doesn’t matter what you muse about. Whether it’s directly related to the subject of dementia or not. As long as it gets you through. You come here. Because you feel like it. Some of you to write. Others merely to read. Hopefully, to ponder what’s happening to you and your loved ones. You are trying to survive. Tough and emotional times. You don’t agree with everything going on. On these message boards. Or in your beleaguered life. But you choose to participate.  To stick around. For varied reasons. Makes me wonder, too.  Why I keep participating. Almost on a daily basis. Ten years after Jeanne died. Maybe it’s that I’m hooked. On the camaraderie. Of musing. With those that are mostly where I was at. Ten years ago. I want everyone to know. That you can do it. You can cope with virtually anything. By thinking about. Where you go from here. All I can say. Life remains a wonderful and beautiful experience. I wish for life to last and last and last. So that I can savor more and more and more. By musing my way through. Yes, I am aboard. The good ship. Called Musing. Convinced. Beyond a doubt. That I’m sailing. To Paradise. What can be more optimistic than that? Please. Call me the eternal optimist. --Jim Broede

A wish.

I get down in the dumps. When I encounter mean-spirited people. I don’t know how to deal with them. I try to ignore. But meanness is meanness. There is no getting around it. Especially in the realm of politics. Wish I weren’t so bothered by it. --Jim Broede

So simple. So easy.

I yearn for the spiritual life.  As a so-called afterlife. That comes after I die. Physically. But I wonder. If I have to wait.  Can’t I have the spiritual life now? While still a physical being. Perhaps the spirit is a state of mind. Existing. Inside me. I should be able to grasp my spirit. Or is it that my spirit should grasp me? I have been endowed with a spirit. That I don’t fully know.  I reach my spirit. By turning inward. So simple. So easy. --Jim Broede

Flicking the switch.

I’m tempted. To withdraw. From the world as I know it. But don’t. Because that’s impractical. If not impossible. Withdrawal. Remains an unfulfilled dream. Because I prefer staying alive and functional . A survivor. In what I occasionally perceive as a hostile world. I know. I know. That some day I’ll die. And be no more. That is the ultimate escape. Sounds like a dreadful alternative, doesn’t it? Really. When it comes down to the bottom-line. There’s far more to love and cherish. In both my real and fantasy worlds. Than to dislike and despise. My impulse is to make the best of it all. But some days, I lose faith. I anguish. I deplore the state of affairs. As a writer, I have that right. To express my glumness. Cohorts tell me. That perhaps I am falling into melancholia. An old-fashioned and romantic term for depression. But I scoff. I am, fortunately, still fully able. To pick myself up. By the bootstraps. I am wily. And innovative.  Able to sit down. And write myself. Out of the doldrums.  Makes me an able writer. And an able upbeat thinker, too. I merely flick the switch. And here I am. Falling in love. Again and again. With this wonderful thing called life. --Jim Broede

As I darn well please.

Maybe it’s wrong to live one day at a time. I keep telling myself. That’s what I should do. But I find pleasure. In anticipating tomorrow. And even planning for it. Yet. I’m advised by some of my trusted cohorts. To not get too far ahead of myself. To live for the day.  For the moment. That doesn’t seem totally right. Instead, I’ll do as I always do. As I darn well please. –Jim Broede

Oh, what a relief.

I’m for plugging away. Living life. Without worrying about running out of time. That’s when I feel best. Most confident. Keep going. Never stopping. Until the day I drop dead. But practicing what one preaches – well, that’s another thing. I fret too much. About my inability to live forever. Knowing that I’m gonna die. Sooner or later. Though I often tell myself, ‘So what?’ Maybe oblivion is the best option. Easy come. Easy go. Just as well. That I revert back to where I came from. To nothingness. I’ll no longer know that I ever lived. Yes, I’ll have nothing to worry about. Oh, what a relief. --Jim Broede

Until I drop dead.

My problem. Could be. That I don’t want to fit into the modern world. It’s too much trouble. I’d rather be left alone. To pursue my old ways. Face it. I’m uncomfortable in modern times. I have no, or little, desire to adapt. Instead, I’ll plod along. Like a slow motion tortoise. Not a wily, speedy hare. I’ll take my time. Getting to my destination. Maybe I’ll never arrive.  But that’s all right. After all, there may be no such thing. As a finish line. Meanwhile, it ain’t over until it’s over. Until I drop dead. --Jim Broede

Finding myself alone.

More and more, I’m inclined to take a safe approach to life. Becoming less adventuresome. Taking fewer risks. Staying home. Hibernating. In my cocoon. I attribute this to aging. Perhaps to loss in confidence. In my ability to cope with life. Especially with a rapidly changing world. I’m apprehensive. About wandering too far away. From my familiar environs. Finding myself alone. In the modern-day congested wilderness. --Jim Broede

In musing and amusing ways.

There’s danger, I suppose, in speaking one’s mind. In letting people know. Who and what you are. I call it. Walking naked into the world. Daring to think out loud. Rather than to live an entirely secretive life. I know. I know. Others can misconstrue. What they see and hear. As they often do. Especially if you are a different sort of guy. I am fanciful, for instance. A romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. And much more. And I don’t hide it. I even use my real name. Rather than hide behind pseudonyms. Better that. Than to pretend that I am someone else. Of course, I don’t fully know. Who and what I really am. I’m in a constant state of evolution. Of defining myself. Maybe I’m taking great risks. By allowing others a daily peek. At my journey. Along the way. By becoming a journalist. In musing and amusing ways. --Jim Broede

In indelible ways.

When I travel. To France. For the holidays. With my Italian amore. I’ll not be the typical tourist. I shun the usual touristy stuff. I’ll leave that to dear Cristina. Of course, I’ll tag along. But I'll also be internalizing the experience. From inside my soul. Looking for a long-lasting spiritual perspective. Real meaning. It may well be. How I relate to Cristina. And to France, the country.  I expect it all to percolate. Beyond my stay. In indelible ways. --Jim Broede

In my funny way.

I suspect that many comedians live their humorous skits. In real life. Similar to the way I do. As a would-be stand-up comic. Performing at a comedy club. With a mix of self-styled humor. Some hurtful and offensive. Yes, I risk living dangerously. On and off stage. For the raucous laughs. Testing my routine. On friends. And strangers, too. Pushing the limits. Maybe I go too far. Doing a put-on. Pretending I’m serious. When, of course, I’m not. To the humorless and strait-laced, I may not be the least bit funny. But I proceed. Poking riotous fun. At those who don’t get it. I feed off them. They are the butts of many of my jokes. Yes. Yes. I concede.  I’m a little bit cruel. Trying to succeed. In my funny way. --Jim Broede

An art. We taught each other.

I’m capable of unconditional love. Yes, I dare say it. But one never knows. For sure. Unless put to the test. I’d like to think. That maybe I have. Only my creator knows. I’ll abide by his definition. For which I have a clue. All I know. Is that I stuck with dear wife Jeanne. Through thick and thin. For 38 years. Even when she had Alzheimer’s. I wasn’t always the perfect care-giver. But I genuinely tried. Right up to the end. Even now. Ten years after Jeanne’s death. I feel love. Of course, I’ve gotten on with life. That’s what Jeanne would have wanted me to do. I speculate. That Jeanne’s spirit. Has intervened. To see to it. That I remain happy. And in love. With life. She put my Italian amore, Cristina. On my life’s glide path. To see to it. That I remain happy for the remainder of my Earthly life. Jeanne is looking down on me. At this very moment. From her perch in spiritual paradise. Smiling. Over the thought. That I have cultivated a second true love. With whom, I’ll spend the upcoming holidays. In France. Jeanne isn’t the least bit jealous. Instead, she’s practicing the virtue of unconditional love. It’s an art. That we taught each other. --Jim Broede

Unconditional friendships.

I’m willing to forgive my senator, Al Franken, for his indiscretions. Being disrespectful to women. But that’s really not my call. It’s up to the women. To forgive or not to forgive. It’s easier for me. I’m not the victim. I’d not do what Franken did. Thing is. I consider Franken a friend, of sorts. Though I’ve never met him. But what I’ve seen of him. Convinces me that he’s a funny comedian and a decent human being. With foibles, of course, like most every politician. He’s been good for Minnesota. And I’d vote for him again and again. Because he’s for what I deem a very moral political agenda. Yes. Yes. He needs to cultivate more respect for women. Which I have faith he will do. I sense he’s learned his lesson.  And that he will be a better man (and senator) for it. Like everyone else, Franken isn’t perfect. But he’s a good enough politician. For me. Fair and mostly honest and forthcoming. Willing to cross the aisle. To get things done. Anyway, count me as a forgiving guy. Especially when it comes to my dearest friends. Yes, I believe in unconditional friendships. --Jim Broede

Finding my way. To the lounge.

I lounge for a day. Without feeling guilty. Yes, I’ve come to this. Enjoying life. My way. Without guilt. Instead. Here I am. Defending my right to lounge. To take the day off. Doing as I please. Without an ounce of guilt. I’m not obligated. To do something useful and practical. For the benefit of others. I was put on this Earth. To make time. To lounge. It’s a mission. That I long neglected. But alas, I have found my way. To the lounge. --Jim Broede

Life ain't always fair.

When will the moral outrage end? If I were to compare (judge) the immorality of Al Franken versus the political and social and economic immorality of Donald Trump. No doubt about it. Trump ends up the less moral one. But could be. That Trump gets away with it. And serves a full-term as president. While Franken leaves the Senate. Is that equal justice? And what if Roy Moore gets elected, next Tuesday, to the U.S. Senate? Another sign. That life ain’t always fair. Makes one wonder. If there’s such a thing as equal justice. Consider, too. Some of us, by chance, are afflicted with Alzheimer’s. While others escape life with a fully intact mind. A matter of luck. --Jim Broede

When I flee to France.

My Trumpian friend Rosie. Tells me. Don’t let Trump bother you. It’s easy for Rosie to say. She adores Trump. She voted for him. And seems to have no regrets. Meanwhile, Rosie encourages me to get on with life. Reminding me. That there’s so much to savor. With or without Trump. Shouldn’t really matter. Whether Trump exists. It’s merely a matter of inconsequential politics. There’s much to life. Above and beyond politics. For instance. Later this month. I’m fleeing America. Going to France. To spend the holidays. With my Italian amore, Cristina. Yes. Yes. It makes sense. I’ll focus on Cristina and France. And all there’s to love and cherish about life. Far better than sinking into depression. Thinking about Trump and Hell. You are a wise woman, dear Rosie. You give me good advice. To ignore Hell and Trump. It’ll be a little easier. When I flee to France. --Jim Broede

To satisfy my curiosity.

Almost everyone I know. Quite well. Has serious problems. Which makes me think. That even the people I don’t know. Have serious problems, too. If so. We live in a problem-plagued world. Makes me wonder. What to do about it. This may sound selfish. Because most of my life. I’ve focused on solving my own problems. Rather than other people’s. That’s understandable. After all, I have so many problems – that I can’t possibly deal with ‘em all. I set priorities. And concentrate on the ones that get me by well enough. So that I can  cope with life. In a reasonably happy manner. What about the rest of you? Meanwhile, I’m looking for someone without any problems. To satisfy my curiosity. About whether such a being exists.--Jim Broede

Cryptic messages.

Odd as it may seem. I feel best. When I am tired. When I go to bed. And fall asleep. So soothing. Perhaps my body. My mind. Telling me. Rest in peace. Something so simple. So automatic. Yes. Yes. One of the great pleasures of life. Taking time. Every night. To replenish spirit and soul.  In a dream world.  Where I receive cryptic messages. From my creator. --Jim Broede

My puzzling dream.

I had a dream tonight. Of destroying everything I ever created. Every word. Every thought. Every trace. All evidence. That I ever lived. Don’t know exactly. Why I was doing it. But I was armed. With a powerful leaf blower. All my written words and thoughts. Scattered on the ground. Like the leaves of autumn.  I was blowing them away. Into oblivion. I awakened. Annoyed. That I had not completed my task or mission. And here I am. In the dark of night. Pondering. About the significance. Of my puzzling dream. --Jim Broede

How long?

Putting it bluntly. I’m for soaking the rich. In order to redistribute the nation’s wealth. Instead, we have a taxing system. Taking from the poor and middle classes and giving to the wealthy elites.  Seems unfair, doesn’t it? Still, that’s real life. The minority rich call the shots. They wield the political power. Their money speaks louder than our words. Don’t like it one bit. I keep protesting. But to no avail. My voice is lost. In the vast wilderness. Oh, how terribly frustrating. I am told. Perk up. The poor and meek shall inherit the Earth. My question. How long do we have to wait? --Jim Broede

Freedom forever.

When one becomes an octogenarian, doubts start to creep in. Mostly because I see others. Losing it. Causing one to ponder, ‘Am I going to be next?’  Of course, I tell myself: ‘Live for the moment. Stop getting ahead of yourself.’  Thing is. Used to be that I was young enough to think 20 years in the future. And persuade myself. That I could still be alive and functioning. Now I know it’s a pipedream. Better to catapult a year or two ahead. Making the most of it. But better yet. Imagine becoming spirit. Shedding one’s physical being. For true freedom. Lasting forever. --Jim Broede