Humanity.

We pollute our oceans and seas with all manner of garbage. You’ve seen the pictures – swirling fields of plastic choking everything that swims and fishes and eats within its realm. We forget the effect this has on our own food supply, on our own water, on our own bodies when we eat the PCBs, mercury and plastic pieces that are ‘digested’ by the ocean. A June 2019 study in the journal Environmental Science and Technology stated that it’s possible that humans may be consuming anywhere from 39,000 to 52,000 microplastic particles a year. With added estimates of how much microplastic might be inhaled, that number is more than 74,000. These microplastics are found in beer, sugar, seafood, honey, salt, and other alcoholic beverages. Our pollution is everywhere and we’re not even conscious of it.

Is it any wonder that the sea of Humanity is no different?

This isn’t a rant about the state of our oceans but that is yet one more thing to think about. To rant about. No, this is about the pollution we seem to spread about as humans in the form of our thoughts. We do not think about our thoughts, actions, and words being pollution. Yet, they are.

I am an at-risk category of having complications if I catch COVID-19. Short of having some sort of emergency, I have kept the last five weeks at home, venturing out only when I feel it necessary to get medications or groceries. I am conscious of what I touch, when I wash my hands, gloves and masks, and who is around me. I am careful to stand back and wait for others to do their shopping and then I move in, when it’s clear, to get my things. I rarely touch carts, and I carry my own bags. I have received more than a few odd looks.

covid-19_1500x430_virusI don’t care.

Having seen someone die from pneumonia, struggling for breath as their lungs filled up with liquid and phlegm, eyes wide as they suffocated and died, I have no desire to end up in the same state. Anyone else who has seen that has no desire to die that way, either. If I can avoid it, wouldn’t I? I certainly will.

I am not a conspiracy theorist, I don’t believe that the government is out to get me, and I don’t believe that God is striking us down for anything.  I believe this is a natural phenomenon that we, in our age of technology and wealth, have been able to combat relatively effectively. This is not the 1918 Influenza nor is it the Black Plague. We are fortunate to be living in this time.

And yet… I went to a grocery store yesterday, seven weeks in from the shelter-in-place orders and on the edge of stores and restaurants opening. Lines of people waiting to get into the grocery store and Home Depot stunned me. STUNNED ME. There were 40 to 50 people waiting at Home Depot to get in. What could be so important that all of a sudden, you need to stand in line for hours to get into the Home Depot store? Can we not last this time without being careful, being calm, and being SMART?

In another grocery store, one which had no restrictions, people were running around as if there was nothing going on. Six-foot recommendations, masks, gloves – everything was off limits. One woman, flaunting her freedom with husband and two children, were running everywhere, smiling as they pushed into mine and others spaces with the condescending air of “I don’t really believe this, I’m young, we’re healthy, I don’t care…” Okay, maybe I am making some of this up in my head… but it felt like that. In a rare occasion when I was with Doyle in the store, he mentioned it to me first. This is stressful for people like me who are on the edge. I don’t go out unless I absolutely need to, and I get in and get out. I touch nothing if I can help it. I am frustrated by the lack of change in humanity. I have to remember that great change comes slowly, patiently, and in tiny increments.

If the humanity near my home is any indication, it will be glacial change. Why do I call all of this pollution? Here’s the definition of pollution: Pollution is the introduction of contaminants into the natural environment that cause adverse change. Contamination of thought. This pandemic is not over. Not by a long shot. The ramifications to how we interact with each other, what is important, financial losses and recession, how we treat each other, how we interact, the depression of mind and of resources – ALL of this will create a lasting, years-long effect. HOW we deal with it is as important as what we do. Do we check on one another after this is over? Do we separate ourselves when we know the second wave is coming? Do we appreciate the people who kept us going, fed, and alive long after we’ve forgotten the virus itself? If this is any indication, we will not.

pollutionIt’s the pollution of the mind that I worry most about. Lack of a belief in science (Bleach, really?); so much a lack of belief that corporations are having to put out notices to not drink disinfectant, regardless of what the American President says. Washing hands, staying back, masks or no masks – regardless of the recommendations floating around, we seem to ignore this in place of our personal freedom. We all do have the freedom to die, I guess, and put hospital workers and health care advocates in harm’s way, along with anyone else with whom we come into contact. We don’t have the right to inflict our ignorance of common sense onto anyone else. This pollution of the mind is more effective at ruining our species than anything else, it seems. My body, my right to do what I want? Where even to begin with that? Of course it is! Absolutely. But it is not your right to inflict your ignorance on other living, breathing human beings.

I’m not a germaphobe. I have been known to eat that piece of bread that fell onto the counter as I pulled it from the toaster. Drinking from an unclean glass, well, maybe I have. I would like to think, however, that I – hopefully WE – have learned from the devastating effects of small germs, viruses, and bacteria when we’re not careful. We know that washing hands is effective. We know that distancing works: not only to save us from getting sick but also to help healthcare resources get ahead of the numbers of people needing acute care. Think about the people who YOU affect when you leave your house. Think about caring for humanity as a whole rather than your own selfish needs for a pint of essential ice cream or that geranium for your front yard. We don’t know all the lives we touch when we pollute our thoughts with “me” rather than “us.”

Why do I rant? Because I think we have to say what we grumble about when we are in our homes alone. Am I going to get angry or wound up about it? No. I know that humanity is far from as evolved as it would like to think it is. We’re not even close. What I can do is remain calm, be an example, and take care of myself. I will do what I know to be safe and with some consciousness, I will escape the Darwinian tsunami that could overtake humanity.

~Self-isolating for a while longer, than you very much TDD

(Featured image care of the Alex Jones Tinfoil Hat Emporium, Facebook) 

Pause and Play

When I close my eyes, the sounds of the city awakening are the first memories. I woke up early nearly every morning, listening to the sounds of Santiago coming to life, readying for work, steadying the culture. The cool mist of morning haze swayed around the high-rise apartments across the tiny valley and our own building, teasing us to enjoy the cool sunrise that would soon give way to the heat of late summer.

img_2173Walking in Santiago has a soundtrack, a background stream of staccato notes that if I ever heard them again, I would be transported. The road outside the apartment is filled, traveling every which way depending on the time of day, with cars, trucks, and scooters. There are people bustling to the financial center of the city, of the country, near the U.S. Embassy. Well dressed even in the rising heat, they have quiet conversations as they scurry away. It’s not New York or San Francisco loud. It’s a more subdued dialogue inside the city confines.

As we take to the streets for a morning exploration, the sidewalks are filled with bicycles and scooters, zipping around the pedestrians. They are an irritant that could be a dangerous one. The people don’t seem to mind. As we travel through the city, there is no undercurrent of music that you sometimes hear in large cities. There is no undercurrent of public transportation. The sound is weirdly muffled, steamy, and strange to my ears. It is conversation. It is discussion, laughter, and serious direction. The voices of Santiago and clear and lyrical, regardless of the tongue speaking.

My companions are of this city, and have had a long love affair with this town. As with all love affairs, their vision notes the changes over time that irritate as well as inspire. The bicycles make people nervous on sidewalks and the tongues that speak are clearly not native to Chile. The incoming population from other countries is jarring. We travel through my friend’s lifelong journey, as we navigate days and lunches and dinners, parks and walks, ice cream and antiques. I learn more about my friends by listening to them guide us in this life. I learn about the Chilean people and the love they have of culture and the future. It’s more than learning why there is always vinegar and oil on the dining table (rather than salad dressing) or why palmitos are a favorite. It’s the way my friends spoke about everything Chilean, be it family homes or the food people eat. 

img_2162

There is this honest, underlying pride that permeates the culture. It’s at odds with itself right now, fighting to breathe in a culture that is struggling against new and old. We traveled through parts of the city that were devastated by youth and protests; lower walls covered with myriad graffiti and damage. Those not covered with spray paint are covered with steel sheets and wood, saving windows and precious architecture. Armed military stand ready in parks to disperse the crowds and hoodlums. Unemployment is high and immigration is high, causing the standard stresses. Who is stealing jobs? What about the cost of goods? What’s next? Fear flows through all cultures.

But underneath, there is a pride of culture, history, language. Chilean food speaks to the integration of European and Indigenous tastes, priding itself on fresh and pure. There is a crossroads of culture in language. My companion told me that they can tell when someone is not Chilean, by their language accent and words they use. In an antique shop, the owner complimented my friend on her way with language, noting that most people don’t “talk that way, any longer.” Slow, clear, lyrical, the language tells one volumes about a culture. This gave me the distinct impression that Chile is at a cultural precipice. Can they maintain this proud depth of identity?

img_2135In the middle of this trip, we spent a few days in Brazil, and there couldn’t be a more different culture than Chile. Chile has a well-spring of Europe under the covers. The memories of Spain, Germany, and parts of Northern Africa all influence Chile’s identity. Brazil has this crazy chaos, in every aspect of life. Maybe it is their leaders, maybe it is the closeness to Europe and Africa, maybe it is a deep tie to nature – I am not sure. There are vast chasms between what they say and do, what is important and what is actionable. There is an underlying tension in speech, driving, goods, living conditions – all of which are in your face when it comes to the canyons between them. The soundtrack of this country is the scooter beep. Incessant and irritating, they are gnats in your ears. Sleep is a relief.

img_2102Back in Chile, there was a comfort to me in that underlying European maturity. The days were filled with wine and food, laughter, and exploration. I would love to visit in Spring, when the city is alive with flowers and scents of new life, when the breeze is cooler, the beaches open and laughter walks the roads. I am grateful to see this beautiful country through the eyes of friends and loved ones; it was a rare insight that I am truly thankful to have received.

~TDD

Nobody’s Hero

When I was fourteen or so, I began listening to the radio, reading science fiction and fantasy, learned how to explore the world, and learned that my curiosity about it was not a failure of acceptance but a secret joy I could live in whenever the suburbs got me down. I lived in a modest neighborhood, with everyday people who went about their inherited 1950’s playbook. I wanted so much more. I was afraid to die and too naive to live. Music and writing became my escapes.

The radio was a constant companion – home or car. I would drive with my father to the store or with my mother to swap meets, and I would control the radio. They always listened to AM. I remember discovering the FM band and was so impressed with how good it was, how different, how alive. I could venture out into my own streams of songs, learning the words and worlds that others created. As a writer, I listened to the lyrics as much as the instruments behind them.

komeIt was somewhere around this age that I also discovered KOME radio, 98.5 in San Jose. Every Sunday night, at 9:00PM, I would take the old, thrift-store radio on my dresser, and turn the dial to 98.5 and listen to Greg Stone. “Stonetrek” was a show of progressive rock hosted by Greg, and it went for various lengths of time but always on Sunday night. A new world emerged and I found Yes, Genesis, Peter Gabriel, Saga, Marillion, Led Zeppelin, FM, Kayak, and Rush. The music was mesmerizing, lyrical, and so different than the silly pop that would encompass most of the people in high school. Even moreso, the lyrics were imbued with pictures of magical places and beings, space and possibilities. It matched the books I was reading and the poetry I was writing.

I remember walking through the Fremont Hub, an old shopping center in Fremont, that had a record store right in the middle of it, near the Longs Drug Store. I would walk there with my parents and always stop at the window, looking at the fantastic artwork, the beauty of Boris Vallejo and Roger Dean. And there, I will never forget it, was the first time I actually saw a Rush album. It was Hemispheres, and I thought it was so odd, a naked man standing on a brain. Whaaaa? I had to listen, it was so odd.

fleher-brucke-21-6-17-14I found The Trees, Cygnus, and Circumstances. I found lyrics I could not only listen to but understand. Understand. Not with my heart only but with my mind. I always read lyrics and with Rush, I was always enchanted. I was spoken to. Someone heard me, and it was Neil Peart. I started seeing Rush as soon as I could, and I never stopped. I knew every album, before and after Hemispheres, and in my highest highs and lowest lows, there was a lyric for me. I was as constrained as “Subdivisions” and as lonely as “Presto.” When I lived in Germany for a few years, “Counterparts” was released. They didn’t tour that year, much to my devastation as that is probably one of my favorite albums. I commuted to work every day, from just outside Koeln to Duesseldorf, about an hour. On that ride, I think I completely wore out that CD. I was lonely, in a country that didn’t speak my same language, terrified every moment of getting shipped home or fired for not being good enough. “Counterparts” was my friend, a voice speaking to me, Neil speaking to me through Geddy’s voice.

neil-peart-rush-1984-u-billboard-1548I know that Neil might be the first person to say he was nobody’s hero. Yet, for many of us who were disconnected and sad, lonely or feeling like we were the weird ones, his words comforted us. They connected us in some kind of soulful way, without the physics of the physical. They made us a community, like minds connected via Geddy’s voice and Neil’s words and Alex’s guitar. They were the voice we couldn’t have in the world, because the world was too glittery to listen. Neil inspired me to read Aristotle and Jung, and he expanded my world. He never knew me. But, he knew me.

ghostTo say that I am sad that he has passed has not captured the entirety or depth of the feeling. I’m not angry or fearful, tearful, nor morose. I am honestly not sure what I am. Silent. It’s not that the voice is now silent. It’s been silent for a while; and that absence helped to come to terms that there might not be a soundtrack for my life any longer. I think it might be more like losing your mentor. Your guide. A pen pal you have never met. You both get it but never meet. I believe his soul, though he might laugh at that, is now part of all of us. He left the physical work behind, and the words on paper were and are comfort. I’m not sad, no. I think, I am alone. And now, I have to write my own soundtrack, my own words, my own poetry. I have to finish the life I started with the work that I am tasked to do. He did his part. It’s time, now, for me to let go of the mentor, and do mine.

npFor all of you who are the weirdos, the strange ones, you who think no one understands…they do. Maybe, someday, if you read what I wrote, or Neil wrote, you won’t feel so alone. We’re here. The big, amorphous cadre of oddities has got your back. You may never meet me, but just by the words on paper, we will be kindred spirits.

Thank you, Neil. You were nobody’s hero but you are everyday glory.

Nobody’s Hero by Neil Peart / Rush 

I knew he was different, in his sexuality
I went to his parties, as a straight minority
It never seemed a threat to my masculinity
He only introduced me to a wider reality
As the years went by, we drifted apart
When I heard that he was gone
I felt a shadow cross my heart
But he’s nobody’s
Hero – saves a drowning child
Cures a wasting disease
Hero – lands the crippled airplane
Solves great mysteries
Hero – not the handsome actor
Who plays a hero’s role
Hero – not the glamor girl
Who’d love to sell her soul
If anybody’s buying
Nobody’s hero
I didn’t know the girl, but I knew her family
All their lives were shattered
In a nightmare of brutality
They try to carry on, try to bear the agony
Try to hold some faith
In the goodness of humanity
As the years went by, we drifted apart
When I heard that she was gone
I felt a shadow cross my heart
But she’s nobody’s
Hero – the voice of reason
Against the howling mob
Hero – the pride of purpose
In the unrewarding job
Hero – not the champion player
Who plays the perfect game
Not the glamor boy
Who loves to sell his name
Everybody’s buying
Nobody’s hero
As the years went by, we drifted apart
When I heard that you were gone
I felt a shadow cross my heart
Hero
 

~TDD

#neilpeart #rush #everydayglory #nobodyshero #alexlifeson #geddylee

 

End of the Year Wonder. Full.

And you thought last year was a long year? Not long enough, was it? This year has screamed by for me. You know, you have those years, months, or weeks that just drag on like laundry across a dirty floor. They gather up all the stuff you thought was gone, that you couldn’t see, and grind it all in. Then there are those times which flick at your brain, saying in loud, boisterous tones (replete with banging gongs and bird song): “HEY! It’s already August? Aren’t you done with Christmas shopping yet?” Before you know it, it’s October, Halloween, and there are sales on frozen turkeys.

What. The. Heck.

I think the shift of time, the moments of introspection happen at a certain age. What one, I couldn’t say. They creep into our consciousness more and more until they dominate. As we age, do we involve? Is that even a thing?

I always come to this point of the year and wonder what direction I will captain the next. It may be that I don’t even have time to grab hold of the rudder before it starts steering itself. Indeed, the months ahead may be plotted by the insidiousness of illness, disease, aging, and finances. The Universe, in all her Glory, may be sitting back on her haunches, scooping up the stars and Fate, and letting drip all over my hairy, dubious plans. She is laughing. Perhaps she is always laughing.

It seems that all there is for it is to move ahead. After all, what is the alternative? Yeah, that alternative isn’t for me. Not yet.

I’ve been using a program called MindNode. I do love to plan the next year, even if I never look at the plan over the coming year, I think that putting it on paper makes your mind and body conscious of where you want to go. MindNode is a mind mapping mechanism that helps you see the connections of things, as you think about them; it’s like your brain trying to connect the dots. It’s only too bad I can’t type as fast as I think. Maybe, one day.

The next year is one of exploration and decisions. Or at least, decisions of a semi-permanent nature. What do I want to do when I grow up? What can I do? What talents will I use to birth something into the world? What will that form be? What will I create? I’ve talked about a bookstore and coffee shop, I’ve talked about food travel writing, I’ve talked about being an herbalist or maybe some kind of health/food writer. The world is not an oyster; the world is a nursery for a host of dreams and ideas.

I have a plaque in my closet that says “Dreams don’t work unless you do.” It reminds me that every day, it’s the work that is important, not necessarily the dreams. Maybe both. Work builds on the creativity, though, and helps sustain it. It’s a foundation. As a writer, I know the thing that I have to do is write. Some of it is crap, some of it is good. But it’s in the doing that the creation begins. Inspiration sparks. Awesome happens.

So, here’s my inspiration for the new year, from something almost 200 years old. It’s 170 years old, exactly. It’s from one of my favorite authors, Tennyson, about the new year. Take heed, take heart, and take flight, and bring some Light to the world this year.

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Lord Tennyson (1850)

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
   The flying cloud, the frosty light:
   The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
   Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
   The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
   For those that here we see no more;
   Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
   And ancient forms of party strife;
   Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
   The faithless coldness of the times;
   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
   The civic slander and the spite;
   Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
   Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
   Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

~TDD

Small Animals and Cookies

To me, my life seems rather mundane. I work. I love my cats. I hug my husband. I read, I write. I take pictures. I write some more. I go shopping. I cook. Sometimes I get to travel, sometimes I take more pictures of interesting things. I talk with my friends, I drop in to say hello, and invite them to sit in the hot tub and talk about philosophical ideas, while looking at the brilliant stars. It seems, well, kind of boring.

I do other things, don’t get me wrong. I am a Freemason and have been for 25 years. I have all the degrees. Yes, all of them. That in itself shocks me, but I’ll continue. I travel for that love of Freemasonry, and I help people, hopefully, on their Masonic journey. Much of my writing comes and goes through a Masonic lens. I love to cook and play in the kitchen, and I like to grow herbs and play with making things from them. Music is always high on my likes and listen-tos, as is art of all kinds. A symphony or a ballet? Yes. An art museum or a very cool art opening? Heck, yes. I believe in championing the arts and artists. I am blessed with original works from very talented painters an photographers. I am who I am and I kinda like it. No, I do like it. As Oscar said, “Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.”

I’m coming off a year of weirdness. Caretaker and handling the aftermath of a parental death, a new home, a new job (same company…), and yes, the kicker, menopause. Why say it? So every one of you can either sympathize or groan (I hear you, men. Sympathy for the spouse is acceptable.) No one is more aware of the weirdness and ugliness that can come from that hormonal shift than the woman going through it. Sometimes, it’s a body betraying me. What I knew to be true has fled. Things hurt. Things take longer to do and to heal. I forget the weirdest things. Sometimes, that forgetfulness is helpful in terribly awkward situations. I have no problem admitting I have no idea what someone is talking about now. At least in a personal situation. I care less about the highs and lows that emotions can bring. I get angry a LOT less. A. Lot.

Then, there are the cat videos. And stories of animal rescues. Oh, yes. I can sit for an hour looking at how the human beings of the planet, because it’s everywhere, can be cruel and heartless to creatures that offer them nothing except love. The last one, a dog shot in the face and blinded, put me over the top. Why do I watch them? Hell if I know. Hell. If. I. Know. Is that a Maiden-turning-Crone thing? Maybe it’s a Joan Baez thing – get the hell out and change the world before you can’t any more thing. What I do know is that I do not want to be associated with anyone who has that kind of cruelty. If you can be cruel to something that unconditionally loves you, how do you treat those who might actually, and most probably will, hurt you? I don’t want a life without animals. Torturing myself to watch these rescue videos… I think it keeps me from having my head in the sand about how people can really be.

The world continues and this year is now fraught with family sickness, dealing with trustee and social security issues, that new job growing into a monster, changes in travel, and figuring out how to keep sane in a world that wants anything but your sanity. I am blessed and tired and hopelessly sad at animal videos. At least I’m alive – right?

For a further escape, the new freak is cooking videos. Tasty. Kitchen Stories. It doesn’t matter where they come from. If I feel like I want to run away, I learn how to bake a new type of cookie. Can I eat them? Hell no. Because, you know, aging and blood sugar boojoo, But, I can make 12 dozen for Christmas for friends. Oh, and there are some very good videos out there. Talk about extremes. Learn a life lesson about humanity or cook for it. One of the two, bring it on. I can take it. Killer chicken jalapeño soup or chicken soup for the soul. Matzo balls, no charge.

Please tell me that the world is as weird or normal as me.

Random Musings

The coffee house music was playing in the background as I walked across the wide planked, oak floors to slump into a worn wooden chair. Newspapers littered the table, detritus of another morning in another life, a parallel human universe that intersected with black words and crossword puzzles. I imagined a man sitting here, reading glasses pushed up over his short, gray hair, leaning back, black pen in his teeth, as he contemplated the next word. White tee shirt over cargo shorts, lean tanned legs, and middle-aged arms. He’s thoughtful. He gets up quickly, startles his neighbors, tosses the papers into a pile on the table and leaves. Leaving behind the intersection for me to stumble upon. The shop is quiet, save for the music droning in the background. I am sad, for a brief moment, that it wasn’t me that could stop for a moment and fill in that crossword puzzle. That is wasn’t me that breathed in the slowness of the morning air, relaxed with a deep sigh into the chair, sipping my coffee, waiting for the day to be on. The sadness is more than that. It’s almost as if I could place myself in this man’s place, for as I said, I imagine him to be a man. I can sit here and be him, and once transported back to my own place and time, I am sad for having lost the being of him.

Its in moments like this that I feel like something is passing me by. Another life that was once mine or could have been mine, like a railroad track veering off toward the right, a spur of steel and wood that was one of my destinies slipping into a ravine, never seen again. A surge of sleepiness takes me into its hands, cradling my sorrow with small, fluffy clouds of ennui. I do realize that I am doing what I am is what I have made myself, and it’s far from something to be sad about. There’s a kind of disjointedness that takes over from the heart when the head kicks in. They reach for each other, yet never quite touch, but straining as each insistent organ send out tendrils desperate to interlace.

The afternoon brings a plane flight home. As we circle over the smaller and smaller landscape, I see the place I grew up, the places I envision when day dreaming about what might have been. The air strip seems too small to carry the vastness of what this plane means. I notice a single truck, cargo style, driving down the highway toward the bridge toll. I see where he’s going, I have been there at 10000 feet. I think down to that driver and wonder, who is in the cab? Does he have a passenger? What music is playing, what is he seeing in front of him that I cannot? What have I seen that he cannot? So many intersecting lives, from on the ground to up in the air, we observe and thus, we effect. I wonder, would my view from up here really change the course of someone down there? Am I really in the right place at the right time, in order to affect the change that needs to happen…there?

I imagine that the driver of that truck is dark haired, dark skinned, listening to streaming Spanish music, his muscular arms and hands gripping the plastic steering wheel and shifting foot to brake, to gas, and to brake again, as he urgently bounces on degraded asphalt in his bid to get across the bridge before evening traffic. He has no passenger. The windows are open, the cool fog-less night of the San Francisco Bay pushing out the smell of stale plastic floor mats. The sun is setting and streams of dust motes flicker golden on the slightly chipped windshield. All this from ten thousand feet. I wonder if I have created that or did it exist somewhere in time captured from memory or dream?

How much do our thoughts create? How wide and how vast does the energy of thought take our world? There’s the argument that there is an objective reality and that anything our thoughts provide in the way of backdrop is just that – window dressing on a world that exists as it is. Perhaps that is true. Perhaps the only reality that we can perceive is that which resides within our minds. Our minds take the sensory input of the world and through a creative process of interpretation based on experience, history, and knowledge we come up with a distinct version of the world that is ours alone. Does that mean it is reality? Perhaps, and perhaps not. What is reality anyway? Maybe this is a topic for another, less-tired moment in my life.

For now, I sip coffee and muse about the universe that is the one I know. I can create all kinds of dramas in my own mind to keep me amused. Maybe like a Twilight Zone episode, someday I’ll find out what I have created. Until then, another Americano, please.

-TDD