My great experiment: Marking time.

I'm marking time. And not feeling bad or guilty about it. As I perceive it, marking time is like marching in place. In the time or beat of music. It's good exercise. I'm in no hurry to go any place. A way to relax. And feel secure. To contemplate. My next move. Too often, one feels it's necessary to be on the move. Constantly going. From one place to the next.  That could serve as the definition of a liberal. Never holding the same position two days in a row. That it's evil and a waste of time. To mark time.  I'm not so sure about that any more. I've decided to experiment. By marking time. For a few days. Or maybe longer. To see what it feels like. --Jim Broede

       

Living a dream.

I could spend the rest of my life. Reading books. Listening to music. Writing. And being perfectly happy. Of course, I'd exercise, too. Taking long walks. For contemplation. Time to corral my thoughts. I'd go non-stop.  Round-the-clock.  Even when sleeping. I'd dream of imaginary worlds. Makes me wonder. If that's what I'm doing now. Living a dream. --Jim Broede

The wherewithal to dupe myself.

I wonder. If god/creator is merely a concept. An idea. A state  of mind. At best, a creation of one's fertile imagination. Perhaps no more or no less than a spirit. Exactly what I want to become. By shedding my physical being. Yet remaining fully alive and conscious.  Living on the same plane as my imagined god/creator. Is that too much to ask? Certainly, it isn't blasphemy. To have such a thought. To evolve. Some day. Into the exact image of god/creator. As an equal. Achieving the highest form of life. Even if it's only imaginary. As long as I have the ability to make it feel real. The wherewithal to dupe myself. Into believing any and every thing. --Jim Broede

My queasy feeling.

I try to navigate life. Without becoming a victim. That ain't always easy. For instance, if I were a Jew in Nazi Germany. I'd have to find a way to escape. To a safe haven. Even in modern day America. I could feel like a victim. Especially if I were black. And poor. Fortunately, I'm white. And reasonably well-off, financially. But I'm fearful of certain political trends. Merely by looking in on the debates of the Republican presidential aspirants.  If any of these guys (or one woman) becomes president, it may not be as bad as Nazi Germany. But it'll be bad enough. For me. To avoid becoming a victim. Discriminated against. I could easily  be labeled un-American.  A threat to society and the new American way. Where dissent is no longer tolerated. Maybe it's my imagination. Playing tricks on my fears. And life won't be so bad. With Republicans in control of the White House. But believe me. I have a queasy feeling. --Jim Broede

A way to save Julie.

After years and years as a care-giver. For her Alzheimer-riddled parents. Dear friend Julie. Has an amazing opportunity. To become a better human being. For the experience. Instead, Julie has become a mental and emotional and physical wreck. Fighting a losing battle against depression and alcoholism. Sad. Because. Unlike Alzheimer’s. There are effective treatments. For Julie’s maladies. Often leading to recovery. But Julie steadfastly refuses to go in for treatment.  To volunteer for readily available help. Indeed, an ironic situation. Julie instinctively and devotedly knew how to help others in peril. But not herself. Now she’s drained. Out of emotional stamina. Out of the wherewithal that it takes.  To put her life back together again. Of course. I argue daily.  That we sideline observers. Husband Rick. And multiple dear friends. Could intervene. And force Julie into treatment. But we don’t. Because of an odd mistaken notion. That the impetus must come entirely from Julie. Yes, it’s un-American to force Julie into treatment. Takes away her freedom. To do as she pleases. Personally, I’m sick and tired of the asinine American way. Give me a break. Give me common sense. A way to save Julie. From herself. -- Jim

To wherever my imagination roams.

My gawd! I'm 80, and counting. Incredible. A remarkable feat. To still be alive. And kicking. Of course, I'd rather be 40. With the prospect of living another 40 years. Anyway, I'm trying to not think of myself as old. Or dangerously close to the end of life. But still, I'm more and more cognizant of my mortality. I'll be lucky to survive my 80s. Which I'd welcome. If I could remain healthy and vigorous. Mentally and physically. I try to remain the optimist.  And to live life fully. A day at a time. Imaginatively. That's my saving grace. My imagination.  Which has me living forever. Not as a physical being. But as a living and tangible and conscious spirit.  Able to explore the limitless cosmos. To wherever my imagination roams. --Jim Broede

To be. Or not to be.

My dear friend Julie. She's an interesting case. Possibly because she's had so very much trauma in her life. Or so I suspect. I've been personally lucky. Because my traumas have been well-spaced. And I've been able to deal with them. One at a time. And thereby turn traumatic experiences into blessings. Julie, meanwhile, has been deluged with trauma. Virtually non-stop. Since childhood.  Yes. Yes. That's it. Julie has to learn to cope with a bevy of accumulated traumas. Stuff she's ignored. For far too long. Little wonder. That Julie spends more time in depression. Than out. Little wonder. That Julie hardly ever gets through a day without her primary fix. Wine. Wine. And more wine. Julie is sick. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. She recognizes it. But not quite enough. To seek help. To check in. For sustained treatment. Julie's diseases are treatable.  But in America, we allow people the free choice. To be or not to be. And Julie chooses not to be well. Not to be happy. --Jim Broede