Work With Hope

It has been a week since my last post, but, true to my word, I’m coming back today with a weekly post that will last until the bulk of lockdown protocols are lifted. Hoping that this will happen in time for me to have a bit of a break before my yearly December posts, but only time will tell.

I was reading a fascinating article on the CNN website today about a rare medical condition called Body Integrity Dismorphia (BID). Persons suffering from this disease feel disassociated with one or more of their limbs and can only feel complete in their bodies if the limb is removed. The full article can be found here with a better explanation of the science than I can provide, but generally, the wiring of the brain is insufficiently tied to a limb giving that appendage a feeling of “extra-ness” even if the limb is fully controlled by the nervous system and acts normally. Just as we would feel uncomfortable with an extra appendage strapped to our bodies, people with BID feel “less whole” while the limb is attached.

Trying to picture what this might be like, I keep thinking of those moments when we wake after sleeping on an arm. The limb bangs against our bodies essentially lifeless as we experience the queer sensation of feeling the arm hit on our bodies but not on the arm. The key difference appears that those suffering this condition do feel and have control of the limb, yet at some deeper level it feels foreign. Some BID patients are able to get amputations, and the medical literature cites that these feel immense relief and regret that they did not do this sooner. Those unable to have amputations often simulate amputation with crutches or wheelchair. There is no known treatment for this condition.

While clearly this is a disorder, and those very few who suffer from it need care and empathy, still I can’t help but connect it to broader realities of the world. what fascinated me more than anything else was the description of BID sufferers feeling not “burdened” or “hampered” by the disassociated limb, but “incomplete” or not “whole.” The concept that wholeness or completion is not only all the things that are needed, but also none of the things that aren’t appeals to me. Perhaps this is why I periodically feel the need to rid myself of possessions. Obviously I feel lighter carrying less through life, but I’m also more complete without the things that aren’t essential.

I don’t know exactly how this happened, but today is April 30. Maybe it has something to do with all the passing Thisdays. But if I look back to April 10, I see that this was the intended final day of this journal. I don’t know if I really thought that we would be “released” by now (or if I just thought that I was in Georgia), but here we are.

To say that there has been no change in the world or me since early May would not be true. Everywhere you go these days you see signs of busting out. Last weekend huge numbers gathered inappropriately at Orange County beaches, and though they will reinforce beach closures this weekend, I don’t know how much longer they can contain this. As I walk around at night, I often hear gatherings of people behind the closed doors of other condos in my neighborhood. I don’t think these are militant quarantine protesters, rather I think these are ordinary people who can’t stand it any more.

Same with me. On the 10th of April I was in the strictest quarantine of my time. I didn’t go out at all, no shopping, no bicycling, no meeting people in a socially distanced way. There were reasons for this, only some of which I spoke about on April 7, but as time passed my resolutions fell away. Now I’m back to biking and shopping, I’ve even walked with friends. Today I had a black market haircut. I’m still generally careful, but I don’t think I have the will power (or the attention span) to maintain hard core quarantine.

It would have been nice at some point during these 45 days to have been able to say that the quarantine was over and with it the end of these blog posts, but it is clear to me that there won’t be an “over” for many, many more days than I have things to write about. Remember, when I started, I thought this was going to be a two-week thing and that these posts would be a short story of how I spent a drop of my spring, not a dissertation of how the world changed forever.

So to honor both my pledge to be with you through this and my pledge to end with the first of May, beginning this week I will be moving to weekly, rather than daily, posts. I will keep observing and talking about what I see, but without the pressure of a daily deadline. I hope that I still can bring some smiles and comfort in the days and weeks ahead, and I am grateful to those of you who have read these pieces that you have stood beside me during a really shitty March and April.

Be safe, be strong.

This morning it finally happened. I woke up on time, ate my breakfast and prepared myself for two work calls that were scheduled for 8:00 and 9:00. On the dot of 8, I dialed the client, greeted her, not noticing her slightly confused tone, and quickly went into my agenda for the call. After my first question, she paused and said, “Let me think. You’ll have to forgive me because I’m not really ready since I thought this call was going to be Thursday.” I was about to answer, “Yes, this in Thursday,” when I suddenly realized that it was not. I quickly apologized and said I would be speaking with her tomorrow morning as I crept away.

It is a running joke that we aren’t aware of the day of the week. The oppressive sameness of each day, coupled with our lack of contact with the people and events that would define the tent posts of the week, have stripped from our consciousness the Monday-ness, or Thursday-ness of our days. Each day is only Thisday which it will be until tomorrow becomes Thisday and Thisday becomes yesterday (and after a day or two all yesterday’s are irrelevant).

One could imagine that our current experience is closer to that of primitive humans who hunted and gathered for that day and didn’t think much about how any day related to others. There was no hump day for the Neanderthals. It also points out to us how artificial time is as a construct, as it is so easy to strip away the marks of significance.

Now, our experience is not as schedule free as our ancestors. Most of us still have appointments, and I could easily have looked at my calendar first thing this morning and discovered my mistake before I exposed my confusion. Also I know that I sometimes got days wrong, even when I worked an office job. But I believe that this does feel different and presents us with an opportunity to experience now as we never have before and likely never will again.

Be safe, be strong.

Just a short reflection today because honestly, I haven’t thought of anything. It’s not like the other time when I was overwrought, I just can’t think of anything original.

Today California Governor, Gavin Newsom (not to be confused with Gavin MacLoud) gave a brief outline of his current plans to “reopen” the state. It is a very cautious, phased approach, which probably is wise. While I was reading the list, I was watching for one item. Finally I found it. Personal services, including nail salons, tanning parlors, and hairdressers are expected to open in…several months.

I’m not a vain man, but if I don’t get my hair cut before September, I’m going to go nuts. I am too vain to shave it off (and at this point of life, you never know what will grow back), and I will NOT wear it in a man-bun.

Which caused me to think…I wonder if there will develop a multi-level black market for haircuts, colorings, and perms. Will we start hearing about sartorial speakeasies, where, if you know the password, you whisper “diffuser” through a slot in a warehouse door and you are let in to a massive room with nothing but chairs, sinks and mirrors surrounding you. You move to your stylist, all of whom are names Peggy to protect their anonymity. You receive your services and exit through another door.

Or maybe we will be hearing of a new kind of trafficking. People will be crossing state lines from “hostile hair” states to states with more lax hair policies. I can picture border guards checking under people’s caps for contraband coifs.

Anyway, that’s what I thought about today.

Be safe, be strong.

If there was a heart to the home where I grew up, that room would definitely be the kitchen. The activity of cooking, whether for holidays or for the commonplace times, are some of my earliest and most vivid memories. In the last house I owned, I cooked all the time, whether making daily dinner, cooking for guests, or baking for holidays. However, during the time in my apartment and the last two transitional places, I have seldom cooked. This was partially because it is hard to get too excited about cooking for oneself, but more importantly, I never felt at home in the kitchens.

So it is like a dream come true in my new place to have a spacious, well-equipped kitchen, particularly during these days of enforced domesticity. The picture here is taken from the dining room through the pass through window which I am sure to be using when I entertain. The long granite counters provide great preparation space for the combination 5 burner stove and convention oven. Not seen from the picture is the double door refrigerator and additional counter space.

Another thing that excited me about this space is the abundance of storage space. Look at all of those cabinets! I have space for everything I own and a lot of space to grow. I even have a cool pot cupboard with a corner door and lazy Susan shelves.

Finally, at the end of the room is a breakfast nook facing out toward the balcony with a tilted glass skylight to let in morning sun. Like every room in the house, the kitchen is always light.

I’ve already cooked more often and more complicated recipes than in all the places since my last house. Of course this has been necessitated by the times, but it has been made wonderful through the gift of my kitchen.

Be safe, be strong.

When I thought about what I wanted to write about today, I winced, because I knew I was going to be opening myself up to legitimate accusations of hypocrisy. I have not lived what I’m about to promote well during this time, and probably in any time before. However, if there is some truth here (and I think there is), then it is real whether I follow it or not.

I don’t know about you, but I have been infected with a virus that has affected me almost every minute of the day. This virus is debilitating to me mentally and physically, and it has not been thwarted by prophylactic measures, nor is it treatable by any conventional medicine, nor once it has passed do I have any immunity from future infections. Indeed, I have been repeatedly infected throughout this quarantine. The virus from which I suffer, and which I am guilty of passing on to others is anger and hatred of other people.

This infection has not originated during this time. In fact, it most likely has lain dormant in my system throughout my adult life (similar to my shingles, which ironically is triggered by this), and has been periodically triggered by something I hear or read. Of course my immunity has been worn down since the election of 2016, and the constant outbreaks have reduced by resistance to tissue paper strength. However, the daily barrage of opinions and actions during the advent, outbreak, and progress of the virus, have left me in a constant state of outrage.

Though I hope that I will always resist and oppose foolish, ignorant, of xenophobic opinions, I have found that I barely think about the opinions any more. Rather, I am focused on the people who express them, and I am spending my time and energy on anger and hatred toward them personally. I find myself fantasizing about shouting them down, about a satisfying sense of Schadenfreude when they or their loved ones succumb to the disease, or even about committing physical violence (not that I really would or that I am physically able. I suspect were I to challenge one of the protestors to a fight, I would be taking up a hospital bed that should be reserved for COVID patients).

This righteous rage feels satisfying and justified. I breathe it in without a mask. I feed it to others on multiple digital platforms. I have done my part to restore sanity to a crazy world. Though I haven’t done anything. Even if they were aware of my brilliant attacks on their positions, protestors would not change their position, politicians would still follow the path of expediency, and the President will continue to be what he is. The only person who is negatively affected by my rage is me, and I won’t fix the world by letting my blood pressure go through the roof.

Beyond the physical damage I do to myself, the are self-inflicted moral wounds which I will bear far beyond this time. My gosh, I am wishing for people to die a horrific, strangling death just to prove myself right. How does that fit with my regular quoting of William Styron, “Let your love flow out on all living things”? If I allow myself to pick those people who are worthy of my consideration as human, I become as inhuman as anyone I judge.

So how to approach this? While I was riding this morning and seething at something, I think my superego became exasperated with this heart of darkness, and word came to mind, compassion. Compassion is an important concept in Eastern spirituality. It also plays a role in western Catholic Christianity, though I believe it is primarily ignored (probably and uncompassionate thing to say). Compassion recognizes the dignity of each human person separate from, well, frankly, their bullshit. We all are suffering, some more than others, and some in ways that we cannot see or understand. Is a man protesting social distancing a monster for wanting to work any more than I am a monster for my fantasies of the deaths of his relatives? Compassion calls me to still respect him while disagreeing with his views, for anger and hatred kill their hosts while not impacting any external situation.

Let me be clear, I am not arguing for the equality of all ideas, what I am saying is that through compassion we separate ideas from persons and know that everyone needs our concern right now, no matter what their path has led them to say or do. I’m also not saying that Buddha-like I have reached a higher level of consciousness and will no longer do any of the things I’ve realized are so destructive. Rather, I think I am Moses-like, seeing the promised land, though knowing he will never fully reach it. Or (to simplify it in a way that should invalidate everything I’ve just said) as Peter Capaldi playing the Doctor said in his final scene, “Remember that hatred is always foolish, and love is always wise.”

Be safe, be strong.

I have discovered that my house is a true Goldilocks house, with each of the three levels at least 5-10 degrees different. The top floor, with kitchen and dining room, is the warmest. It is also the floor with the thermostat, so I need to plan and adjust regularly, deciding whether I want to expend the extra energy to keep it super cool. The middle floor with the living room is much more modest in temperature, but I probably spend the least amount of time there. My bedroom on the bottom floor is positively cool, and makes for comfortable sleeping even on hot nights. Though I am lucky to have a good air conditioning unit, it is virtually impossible to avoid having levels that are “too hot, “too cold,” and “just right.

Though I am not a fan of hot weather, I’m sure this heat, coupled with a weekend of beautiful blue skies, makes many people feel their confinement even more. The beaches remain closed (at least in California) and most indoor and outdoor recreation facilities are also unavailable (which includes the pool in my complex). If one wants to get out an enjoy a round of bowling, one has catch a midnight train to Georgia!

Be safe, be strong.

When I started looking for my home, I was really clear about two things:

1. I did not want a yard or yard work of any kind. I’m an age where I no longer have to pretend that I enjoy working with plants. I know that it is part of the American Dream to mow one’s own lawn and weed one’s own beds. I’ve done it, and I’m done with it.

2. I did want some sort off private places where I could be outdoors. There are few things better than relaxing with a glass of wine on a warm evening as the sun goes down alone or with friends (for those of you who remember what it was like to have friends over). I’ve also wanted to have a small fire pit to enjoy into the darkness.

My house delivers both of these requirements. I already showed the balcony off the living room, but this is only one of three private outdoor places. My favorite place is the small patio immediately off my bedroom. This little secluded haven sits next to one of the streams that give my complex Stream House its name. Though the patio is not fully enclosed, the bushes and trees give it a real sense of separateness from the other houses, and very rarely do I see other people.

The shaded bedroom patio is a perfect place for morning coffee or reading in the afternoon. The sound of the stream is calming, and in the last two weeks I have been joined by ducks and their babies. It contributes to the feeling that the downstairs bedroom is a retreat for the body and the soul.

Be safe, be strong

I know that I am often late for cultural phenomena, so today’s topic might be yesterday’s scoop.

Today I learned about “Drive-by Parties.” While driving through my neighborhood, I was caught behind a procession of cars with signs and balloons and horns blazing. When I got home, I asked a friend about this, and the text I received back was, “Oh, that’s a drive-by party. Haven’t you seen those?” (I hadn’t).

Apparently friends of someone celebrating a birthday or other occasion arrange for a time to all drive by the house to “celebrate” from a safe distance. It is a way to help those with quarantine birthdays feel a little less isolated, and I’m sure it’s great for families to get out of the house for a little bit. It must feel like a little bit of deliberate craziness in a world of random craziness.

Now, I can’t say that what I observed was the most socially distanced behavior. Many cars had windows open, some with kids hanging out of them. I even saw a few people getting out or dropping off gifts. I decided to believe that their overflowing enthusiasm would not have consequences due to birthday magic.

But, don’t we all deserve our own personal parade these days? I’ve been isolated for six weeks, and many people have gone longer than that. I am blessed to have a parade of support and love march across my text screen daily, but I miss real people. The drive-by party reminds us that tender hearts remain even when bodies are behind walls, or behind windshields.

Of course as I passed the house, I honked and waved. I didn’t recognize the person, but I recognized that need.

Be safe, be strong.

I conclude my trio of “unconventional films from the 80s that I really like,” with Swimming to Cambodia, starring Spalding Gray and directed by Jonathan Demme. Unlike True Stories or Andre, I don’t remember when I first saw this film, but I have watched it countless times since then.

Spalding Gray was famous within a limited sphere as a monologist. His live performances consisted of him sitting at a card table with a notebook and a glass of water as he recounted stories from his life. Within these stories he drew broader connections to current events and the major challenges of modern living. His unmistakable look with his prematurely gray hair and plaid shirts, and his distinctive voice with its laconic New England calm, escalating to near hysterical shouting, made his performances unforgettable and unduplicatable. Gray had a number of minor acting roles in the 80s and 90s, but his time at the table was his truest art.

Swimming to Cambodia (1987) was Gray’s monologue about his participation in a minor role in the film The Killing Fields. It was created as a four-hour, two-day live performance and was converted by Demme into a film without losing the essential simplicity or power of the performance. Within the stories of filming in Southeast Asia (though never actually in Cambodia) he revisits and reminds the audience of forgotten truths about the Vietnam war and the United States’ actions both in Vietnam and Cambodia, drawing the connections between these actions and the ensuing blood bath of the Khmer Rouge. While relating the anecdotes of the filming and the history behind them, he tells stories of his childhood, his girlfriend back on Long Island, and his quest for a “perfect moment” while on location.

Like the other two films, the premise seems simplistic (and possibly tedious), but the color of language used and the essential wit and humanity make it a breathtaking performance and one in which the one hour and twenty-five minutes fly by. As with any of his performances, at the end I felt a little smarter, a little more human, and completely in awe of the tortured intellect that saw things so painfully clearly before his suicide in 2004.

Here is a scene from the film that gives a good sense of the entire film. One word of warning, unlike the other films, the language and subject matter of Swimming to Cambodia are most assuredly adult (parts of the film take place in Bangkok, so I will leave it there) and not for everyone. However this scene is comparatively clean.

Be safe, be strong