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