Dad sat in a chair wearing a yellow collared short sleeve shirt, green and navy plaid pajama bottoms, and navy and white plaid flannel-like buttoned down sweater. Both arms on arm rests of the EZ chair. Legs crossed. He wore grey socks, and tan slippers. Eyes closed.

As he sat, two people came in — one white and one black — both kind faces, young. They wore navy-grey jackets bearing the Bell ambulance logo. Their coats, I’m not sure of the material, but they swooshed — A LOT. Lots of swooshing. Like a light coat you might wear for windy weather rubbing against itself.

There is always more capacity for more critical thinking. Open Culture presents Carl Sagan’s boloney detection kit — how to detect pseudoscience — and the video they link is quite good. link.From the article:[From Carl Sagan] “Like all tools, the baloney detection kit can be misused, applied out of context, or even employed as a rote alternative to thinking… But applied judiciously, it can make all the difference in the world — not least in evaluating our own arguments before we present them to others… this kit is not some perfect solution to the world’s problems, but as it’s been utilized over the last few centuries… it has enabled us to create technological innovations and useful explanatory models of our world more quickly and effectively than ever before.” The walls of baloney may always be closing in on humanity, but if you follow Sagan’s advice, you can at least give yourself some breathing room.

I’m sensitive to sounds people make and the moments they make them.

When my sister gave birth to my nephew, I recorded his heart beat from the monitor. When I got an ultra sound on my arteries, I recorded the sound and asked about it. When I’m in the woods, I pay attention to the wind.

I’m especially sensitive to the sounds my Dad makes. I’m sensitive to his voice — its timbre, its frequency, phonation, all of it. And the other day I heard the sound of Dad receiving morphine.

When I walked into his room he was already standing up and walking towards the door. His boney legs quivered and nearly gave out. I caught him by putting my arms through his arm pit and holding him close. I positioned myself so that I could take his hand and guide him to the grey EZ chair sitting in the corner of the room.

Seated in the EZ chair he looked at me and said, “You were in the park.” I asked how he knew, he said something that sounded like gibberish.

Interestingly — ever since I can remember, I find a certain peace hearing the wind blow through trees or tall grasses. Perhaps it’s the musician in me — it sounds like music. The rhythms of rustling branches, the frequency and timbre of tree trunks creaking, or the sight of leaves falling from trees or fluttering in the sun. At a micro level — watching a leaf fall, or at the macro — watching a forest bend and sway.

As we sat in the common area, I asked Dad how he was feeling. With his eyes closed and exasperated tone he said, “I’m out of luck.”

That hit hard. I’m used to seeing my dad talk his way out of every kind of problem. I remember getting winks from his left eye that read both childish and cocky as if to say “watch this.” I remember that wink when he smiled blood in the water from people who did not know that were part of a well laid trap for his sharp and quick wit. I remember a man who made his own luck.

My mom asked me how I’m feeling and how I’m doing psychologically. Many people ask these questions of me. I hate them. I hate them because how I’m feeling and doing psychologically is temporal. A healthy mind does not stay in a certain feeling or state without end — feelings, like everything else, don’t persist forever.There are, of course, lingering thoughts. I often think about how much people misinterpret my responses as odd, not what they would expect if they were in grief, or the doubt they appear to have when they ask how I am. I entertain that thought often because I find it fascinating. I often think about the death process. For some people it’s short and sudden, for others it’s long and drawn out? In a sense — like a war — a nuclear blast versus a cold war of attrition. What would loved ones prefer? What would the dying prefer? How much energy goes into one or the other? Is there a third option? I wonder about energy. Is the energy from the person that dies wasted? Where does it go? It’s been studied that humans give off an aura. What happens to that energy? How is that energy re-used by the universe? Is this energy actually consciousness? And, does it move into some kind of other state or dimension? These thoughts occupy brain space. Tons of my own cognitive energy goes into these thoughts and questions. Since I find that a majority of the people I encounter don’t enjoy entertaining these thoughts, or they think I’m crazy, I must go elsewhere. In fact, as I write that, I have another thought — why does this experience with others reinforce my irrational belief that I’m typically the outsider? It’s easy for musicians, and many other artistic types, to feel like outsiders. The artist notices the world and humans in ways that the non-artist might not. And our noticing generates thoughts, wonder, and inquiry. And where conversation with other humans fails, I find communion with this energy field known as music. Imagine music as an aether that floats above you. You interact with it from time to time when you hear it. When you hear music that touches your soul you laugh, cry, dance, or whatever you do. It’s a public good we all benefit from. Well, that public good is made possible to you by the work of music artisans who are tapping into and restocking that aether for everyone’s benefit. Through the piano, I am communicating all of my thoughts, the hard to express feelings, I am giving the energy I have inside of me into the instrument and thus through the disturbance of air molecules that translates into sound that when interacting with your ear.drum gets perceived by your brain and thus a conversation and communion with a human is born. And then, When that music ends, so too does that communion. All that’s left is your memory of that idea. For me, the heavy burden of my thoughts is lifted,I am relieved.

I dreamed a specific and comforting dream a few nights ago.

In the dream I sat with a friend in a large room, like a church. The friend held my hand, in comfort and support, while we listened to (what seems to be) a priest talk about life.

Seconds later I am at my childhood home. In my bedroom closet putting away clothes. I call for Dad. I hear “What!” yelled from downstairs. Seconds later I hear foot steps walk into the room, and it’s Dad.