Diary of a Detour

This book-in-progress began as a blog to update friends when i was undergoing chemo. It revolved, initially, around cancer and chickens. But, as the journey continued via many detours, it morphed into a series of bloggessais about many things.  You can read the pieces in any order but if you want some orientation try reading the first post,”Chickens Saved My Life,” first.

Frenzied Calm

The obsession grows slowly, building in momentum. In the beginning it tickles, a feather playing whimsically over the surface of your skin, a pleasurable sensation. Delicately a world opens up, a world of the imagination, a “what if” universe.

It begins as a stray thought, a meandering fantasy. You are into your sixth month of chemo treatment, and have made a radical, anxiety fraught decision – to retire. On the one hand this is an acknowledgement that time is running out and on the other hand it’s a hedging of bets: that this way you can stretch time, make more of it, more time of your own choosing, less time whittled away in academic responsibilities and more time spent writing, gardening, cooking, with friends. Fuelled by a fantasy of slow time and slow food you nevertheless imagine rapidity: what if you had a stove that heats up more quickly, that cooks more speedily, that responds to your touch the way his car anticipates James Bond’s every tactile desire. What if there were gas burners that could alternate between flames shooting into the sky and the merest whisper of heat. Imagine not having to get down on your knees to use the broiler. Imagine having all four rings that work, tossing that pair of pliers you use in place of a missing knob.

And then you think well why not, why not give myself a retirement present? An idle thought.

You start dreaming, in a desultory way, about kitchen ranges. Just occasionally, while waiting for the clothes to dry, the water to boil, the chickens to lay an egg. The thought starts idling, seldom switches off, purrs away this side of consciousness. You encounter some beautiful ranges on line. Italian. Far too expensive. Gorgeous primary colors and great design – chunky yet streamlined. Suddenly kitchen ranges seem to pop up in conversation everywhere. Everyone has an opinion. Even people you’d always imagined as rat runners, always eating out, grabbing fast-food-with-the works and eating on the run, they too have range stories. Every house you visit lures you into the kitchen, every kitchen range you encounter elicits a story, a saga of mishaps, opinionated suggestions, alarming anecdotes. In Nasser’s kitchen you come face to face with the desired Italian range, magnetic, gleaming redly. You feel that this undoubtedly is it, the decision is made. Then you open the oven and it’s the size of a shoebox. So that puts a kibosh on that, and the search is on. You start visiting show rooms, department stores, specialty appliance shops, talking to the sales people and experts, reading reviews and users’ comments on cooking sites. And all the information you receive is totally contradictory. Nevertheless there is some pleasure in the exercise. It takes up time, time that could be devoted to other things. It takes up space in your head and on your desk where bits of paper are strewn, scraps on which are scrawled notes about ranges, scraps mixed up with insurance elective forms, with thick booklets on how to fill out retirement forms, and receipts for drugs that have to be checked against the FAS list, and lists of foods that are poisonous to chickens. You chuck that list, the chickens eat everything. You start a folder called Ranges.

It seems you might have to stretch the budget a bit to get the kind of range you want.

The horizon of desire expands. Eating your breakfast you imagine your beautiful new stove, you imagine it orange. You look at the timber floor, scratched, worn down to paper thinness. You look at the dingy walls, you look at the grungy greyish cabinets, painted an aeon ago. You look at the bulky energy-guzzling lights. They look back at you.

So you start researching sustainable flooring. Seized by nostalgia you are seduced into the world of linoleum, bewitched by the range of colors and patterns, play dough colors, gorgeously marbled, slightly unreal. You order samples and they come in great big boxes and take up lots of space. You start cruising around paint shops picking up swatches, speculating, merely speculating, what color walls, you wonder, would set off a Pop Rocket floor. Idly. Just for fun.

And so it begins. You rename your Ranges file: “Kitchen.” The idling revs up. You imagine a creamy color for the walls, not-quite-white, off-white perhaps, though your purchase on color is clearly precarious. The descriptive confusion, however, is just beginning, you are about to enter a forest, a delirious entanglement of names and colors that seemingly bear no relation to one another, and yet are always presented categorically in columns and rows, or in families, as though they accord to genre specificity, to taxonomic logic. Puppy Paws, French Manicure, Cappuccino Froth, Papaya, Frappe, Squish-Squash, Little Angel, Pineapple Fizz, Havana Cream.The difference between Moonlight and Morning Sunshine is infinitesimal if it exists at all. You wake in the gloom of indeterminacy, gathering strength to face the forms, the endless insurance forms in which you have to find exactly the right words to describe your disability, make elections, decide once and for all how much income you’ll get each month versus pay-outs to your partner when you die. The more you get now, the less he gets when you pop off. You put the forms away, unfilled-in. Nevertheless you feel pleased with yourself, your capacity to make at least a few decisions, today you will narrow the range of possible kitchen paint colors. You cruise around the city collecting paint samples. You get home and try them out and they all look different in situ, all wrong. Start again. Like a lepidopterist organizing their butterfly collection you are completely immersed in the project, captivated by detail, utterly content.

Details, ah yes, the myriad swarming details. Such as knobs for the cabinets. On the industrial edges of the city you find Knob Heaven and float amidst the offerings, a Holly Go Lightly buoyed up by treasure in this Tiffanys of Hardware. Ebay opens up even further opportunities and choices. You spend hours and hours there, discover a glass color called Coke bottle green, aka Depression Green. It is warm ice: clear, pale, translucent. You purchase samples to compare, one or two here another few there, you will send them back if they aren’t right. Now the house is full of boxes of knobs. Most aren’t right. It seems translucent green is a difficult color to render, and not all depression green glass is created equal.

And another detail—those bulky dim energy-guzzling lights, they have to go, cannot survive in your new streamlined gourmet paradise. LED ceiling lights, this you can get a handle on, but under-the-cabinet lights, this is mysterious. What is the difference between strips, tapes and diffusers? You find an environmental lighting place and a charming engineer who is happy to explain it all to a dumbass Martha Stewart wannabee.

Could it be that the knobs are a way of screwing down anxiety? It’s true that the more you screw the more a calm seeps into the kitchen, but it is a calm infiltrated by willowy strands of frenzy.

This frenzied calm is not unfamiliar. It comes with fixation, especially a new one, a new one displacing or not inconceivably augmenting, old obsessions. It brings pleasure: You wallow luxuriously in endless rolling waves of choice.

Painters come, inspect, frown and then smile and say: this is easy, will take no time. They estimate a week, ten days at the most. We choose a guy called Jack, he’s worked with a lot of old houses, he flatters our small Californian bungalow, he says that when he’s finished it will look like an original craftsman. He is reassuring. He tells us he teams with an electrician, a whizz at working with old houses, at figuring things out. He’s Jack too. The painter says, I’m Little Jack, he’s Big Jack. Big Jack, when he comes on board, tells me that he taught Little Jack everything he knows.

To compensate for the mid-high-end range it will be a modest “remodel” – no tearing down of walls or installing new cabinets. You will keep the deep green formica counter and the old wooden cabinets even though the Jacks have called them “carcasses.” Just a simple paint job, new flooring, new stove. Oh and what about the rusty clugging fridge? You narrow your choices, make decisions about things, use this opportunity to expunge the clutter. There is a long list of things, big things like a commercial stove (heavy but petite, adapted to a small domestic space), a new bisque fridge, a shiny hood, and small things like hooks and knobs and icy glass splash back tiles. All these things will make your kitchen cleaner, sleeker, more stream-lined, easier to work in.

Speaking of things, this is a period of transition. As a retiring Buddhist, or a Buddhist retiring, I am in the process of letting go, infinitesimally, of material things. This relinquishing isn’t like renouncing pleasurable things for Lent. It isn’t really about things as things, it’s more about a state of mind. It’s Ok to love plants and cultivate them, but not to lust after the cerise blossoms of the peach called Baron. It’s ok to raise chickens in your backyard, but not to love them immoderately. It’s a question of proportion. This I know.

I think of this kitchen adventure as a last fling with things, a slow waltz with the sensuous cushioning of daily life.

I had no idea how slow that slow waltz would be.

It begins with a rearrangement of the whole house. Everything has to be taken out of the kitchen. It’s a small kitchen. Not much stuff, you’d think. Yet box after box after box fills up. We starting by labeling scrupulously, in the end the garlic press and paintings and the iron and cans of cat food are flung into the same box. At two o’clock in the morning we run out of boxes, so stuff is just carried through to the spare room where the bed is upended to make space. Cook books are all over the living room. You have to step over large containers of vinegar, toilet rolls, tins of tuna.

The house has to be entirely rearranged. The entry to the attic is through my miniscule closet overcrowded with clothes, with fantasies of a more fashionable life than I get to lead in my mundane chicken-bound existence. The Jacks have to enter the attic in order to ascertain where the beams are in the kitchen, to construct a duct from the newly installed hood out through the ceiling. They return through the attic and into the bedroom in clouds of spurious grey matter. So I have to drag all my clothes out. It begins systematically but in the end, or very soon, I start throwing things randomly into black plastic trash bags. For the next six weeks I will wear the same three articles of clothing again and again, day after day.

We are all discombobulated, but the cats most of all. Elvis and Roxy are freaked and suspicious. Nothing is in its right place. They cannot enter the house through their normal way – a cat door that leads from the back garden into the kitchen. We have to rig up a ramp to the back bedroom and leave the window wide open. The chickens take this as an open invitation: Mi casa es tu casa. Chickens and cats pick their way over a forest floor of things—boxes of kitchen items and bags of clothes, a blender, toaster, food processor, quesadilla maker, cake tins, wooden spoons, my mother’s fish knives. The detritus of human hubris. Elvis who has ignored J for twelve years turns his back on me each night and curls up in the crook of J’s leg. He holds me responsible. He is right, and my heart is crumbling.

As work begins on the kitchen clouds of dust, shards of dried (old and toxic) paint, globules of grouting, slivers of rotten wood fly into the air and spread through the open doors and windows into the rest of the house. You fight your way through a fog of filth, space travelers entering an alien planet. Big Jack and Little Jack, and J too, are all indifferent to what I consider filth. And all three are indifferent to the difference between open and closed doors. You cough and splutter and seethe and go around closing doors and windows. Two minutes later they are open again. You close them. You watch the dust settle daily over the few bowls and plates that have been secreted in the living room for eating off laps, over clothes, CDs, plants, the cats’ food, tea towels, books, bread. My skin is scaly. Irritation and stress fester and bubble. I cannot comprehend this indifference to filth. The three men no doubt consider me fanatical and as Buddhists and Painters and Electricians and Husbands know, fanaticism is pointless. What does it matter? Well to me matter out of place is dirt. The more displaced the more alarming. I imagine the filth as endemic, the project of cleanliness never ending. I have become the suburban Woman of the Dunes, endlessly removing sand that seeps back through the cracks, rising up, engulfing the universe.

If only I were a chicken. The greatest joy for a chicken is to take a dust bath, to hunker down into the earth under the pepper tree to scrabble and scratch and hurl the body around and fluff the feathers and make sure grit infiltrates every feathery layer, and then to shake and shimmy and fill the air with clouds of dust.

For meals we have to perch on the edge of chairs clutching our plastic bowls of cereal, or hard boiled eggs, or sandwiches bought down the road. At lunch we turn on the TV and we are in a courtroom drama. Today, June 10th 2013, the trial of George Zimmerman begins. Trayvon Martin was shot and killed by George Zimmerman on February 26, 2012, in Sanford, Florida, while visiting his father in a gated community in which Zimmerman was a neighborhood watch volunteer. Trayvon Martin was carrying skittles and a can of iced tea. He was not carrying a gun.

We aren’t the only people in this country, and in the world, to be drawn to the TV today, to cell phones, to laptops, to radios. This trial has been much anticipated, preceded by protest and by media debate about racial profiling, vigilantism and, given the proliferation of guns in this country, laws governing the use of deadly force. The protests were prompted by the failure of the Sanford police to arrest Zimmerman. Before a special prosecutor assigned to the case ordered Zimmerman’s arrest, thousands of protesters gathered in Sanford, Miami, New York and elsewhere, many wearing hoodies like the one Martin had on the night he died. President Barack Obama said that if he had a son, “he’d look like Trayvon.”

Forty four days passed before Zimmerman was arrested and charged with second-degree murder, to which he is pleading not guilty. In order to secure a conviction prosecutors must show that Zimmerman acted with ill will, hatred, spite or evil intent.

One day follows another, dates crop up and fall into line, stories follow a sequence, history is narrated. Sometimes, however, the flow of time is barbed. Time spins furiously in slow motion, in Spartacus time spinning wheels are intercepted by spurs, spokes, foreign bodies. Collisions occur: Time is derailed.

Perhaps I have grown more particular, sensitive to dirt, to alien microscopic creatures, since having CLL. With a damaged immune system you get to be more cautious. Neurotic even. You imagine things: you imagine the state of Jack’s lungs and skin as he scorns to wear a mask, you ask yourself what if those lurgies glom onto my wonky immune system? What if Elvis’ asthma is exacerbated and he has a fit and dies? The line between pathology and realism is a fragile line. One thing leads to another. What if the colors are all wrong and Big Jack and Little Jack become fixtures in the kitchen, here to stay forever, forever never ending, never completing. The “what if” universe in which you wallowed, purring, fed by and feeding a luxuriously obsessive fantasy has changed its contours and tones. ‘What if’ is now a perpetual unrelenting anticipation of disaster.

Conceivably, it has nothing to do with CLL, is simply a matter of categorical dissonance. Mary Douglas speaks to me in magisterial tones: Categories, she says, are in and of themselves spurious. There is no absolute distinction between clean and dirty, no invincible boundary, what is dirty in certain societies or circumstances may be clean in another. The point is not any absolute difference but rather the processes and attempts and elaborate rituals erected to instantiate those distinctions, to make sense of the world, to ensure order. Mary Douglas speaks to me and I listen, and it makes no difference. Or put it this way: the fault line between filth and cleanliness, purity and danger, opens an invincible crack of opportunity for that night stalker: obsession.

Again, we find ourselves in front of the television. Every lunch time we turn our backs on the chaos in our house and enter the public courtroom. The trial begins with jury selection, a process that, as it turns out, will take nine days. Prosecutors and defence lawyers cannot overtly use race as a reason to challenge a juror. But jury selection is a space where the insularity and focused particularity of the court is haunted by ghosts and demons that infest the larger location and culture. Animated, those ghosts invade the courtroom: invisible, but not nameless. Emmett Till, the Scottsboro Boys, Martin lee Anderson …Remember Rodney King—an African American man brutally beaten by white cops in Los Angeles in 1991, an incident vividly captured on videotape. Nevertheless a jury without black representation (after the venue was moved from Los Angeles to the virtually all-white Simi Valley) acquitted the officers of state criminal charges.

On Day 5 of Jury Selection a middle-aged black man who works in a school describes his family and friends’ reaction to Martin’s death as “typical,” given a history of violence against African-American men in the U.S.

Day 9.  A six woman jury is selected, five are white and the other black/Hispanic.

 At the end of the day we turn to the news and analysis and interviews. It is becoming a habit, a fixation, an obsession.

Every so often, randomly it seems, Word announces that it’s in Compatibility Mode. What, I wonder, is Incompatibility Mode? Computer dumb, relationship savvy (or battle scarred) I can say with some confidence what Incompatibility Mode is in a relationship. It occurs in the kitchen. J and I, after some years of frustration in a shared kitchen, worked out a modus operandi, or compatibility mode. The key is not-sharing. He is easy going, unmindful, non-judgemental, a great cook, full of invention and surprise. I’m the sort who cleans up as they go, and can’t help offering generous dollops of free advice—albeit well considered, based on many years of perfecting a range of kitchen techniques, of doing things just so, this way precisely, and no other. He’s the sort of person who produces utter chaos in the kitchen, using every available pan and pot and utensil, several different kinds of oil and flour and sugar much of which lands up on the floor along with vegetable peelings and a few fugitive oily anchovies. All squished and trodden under foot. Out of all this apparent chaos and disorder J invariably produces a marvelous meal, a wondrous alchemical concoction. But then, afterwards, replete and sated I would be left to face the chaos and would have to spend many hours washing, cleaning, sorting. There would be moaning, whingeing, recriminations. For him, after my turn at cooking, clean up would be a breeze. Moaning, whingeing and recriminations would follow—from me. The solution we found was to reconfigure the division of labor: whoever cooks, cleans – the kitchen is theirs for the night. Peace ensued.

“Fucking punks. These assholes always get away.” Prosecutor John Guy quotes Zimmerman from a tape of a call he made to a non-emergency police number after he spotted Martin walking around the gated community where he lived. We are riveted to the television for the first day of testimony. June 24.The opposing attorneys set the scene today. “We think that this is a simple case,” says Benjamin Crump, the family’s solicitor, outside court. “There are two important facts in this case. Number one, George Zimmerman was a grown man with a gun, and number two, Trayvon Martin was a minor who had no blood on his hands. Literally he had no blood on his hands.” Defense attorney West: “George Zimmerman is not guilty of murder. He shot Trayvon Martin in self-defense after being viciously attacked.” The claim is that, after the two got into a scuffle Martin was slamming Zimmerman’s head into the concrete pavement when he fired his semi-automatic pistol and shot him in the chest.

“Stand your ground” is not mentioned today – and indeed the 2005 law will not be mentioned or actively invoked in court during the entire trial. But it is this law that provides the scaffolding, that makes it easy to plead self-defense in a killing in Florida, and it is what will put the onus of proof in this case on the prosecution. The State will have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Zimmerman did not act in self-defense. Zimmerman’s team will merely have to argue that Zimmerman felt threatened.

Prior to 2005 most states required you to retreat from a confrontation unless you were inside your own home. But in 2005 Florida, urged on by the extremely powerful gun lobby headed by the National Rifle Association, became the first state to pass a “stand your ground” law. Now 25 states have these “shoot first” laws.

Imagine Jack arrives at my house one day while I am in the garden planting bulbs, dibber tucked into one side of my belt, hand gun on the other side. I refuse him entry, say I’ve had enough, cannot bear this home invasion a moment longer. He becomes abusive, starts cursing and lunges at me. I feel threatened and so, in self-defence, pull my gun and shoot. He falls to the ground, dead. Painter dead as a dodo. Under protection of “shoot first” laws I am authorized to use deadly force even if the person who makes me feel threatened, let’s call him Jack, is—like Martin—unarmed. An upright and righteous citizen-sheriff I am safe from prosecution.

Or maybe not. It would be easier I imagine if the hoody that Jack habitually wears were pulled low over a black face. My sense of threat would be more believable to a jury. Or then again, maybe not. Remember the Florida case of Marissa Alexander, who last year cited the Stand Your Ground law to justify firing what she said was a warning shot to protect herself from her abusive husband. No one was killed or injured.But that defense was rejected and she was convicted by the same state attorney’s office prosecuting the killing of Trayvon Martin. She is currently serving a 20-year sentence.

No doubt there are many legal complications, loopholes and explanations to be taken into account. Nevertheless, U.S. Rep. Corinne Brown, of Jacksonville, an advocate for Alexander, seemed to have touched a nerve when she said at the time of sentencing, “The Florida criminal justice system has sent two clear messages today. One is that if women who are victims of domestic violence try to protect themselves, the `Stand Your Ground Law’ will not apply to them. … The second message is that if you are black, the system will treat you differently.”

Brown is a woman not afraid to exercise rhetorical flair, and not afraid to say the R word. During the Haiti crisis in 2004 she referred to the Buah administration policies on Haiti as “racist”, and called his representatives a “bunch of white men.” When Assistant Secretary of State Roger Noriego said that, as a Mexican American, he deeply resented “being called a racist and branded a white man,” Brown lobbed back: “you all look alike to me.”

Peace ensued. But now, in the domain of the kitchen, our orbits collide, a ferocious incompatibility reigns.

Exchanges might go something like this:

These light switches looked elegantly off-white, in their packaging in Home Depot, I say to J, but up on the wall, here in the kitchen, they look grey and murky. We’ll have to go back and change them.

“Oh, they aren’t so bad. I can live with them.”

Live with them! For the rest of your life you can get up every day and face this ugliness and live with it?

Or like this:

Do you have any receipts?

“Receipts for what?”

Well, for instance the wax furniture paste we had to buy to fix the scratches on the counter top the painters made? Or the extra primer, or the screws for the knobs, or the drill we had to buy to cut the glass tiles……

“Hmmm, I wonder where they are. Don’t worry they are somewhere, they’ll turn up.”

Or

“Everything went well today, it’s looking great!” Thus J entices you into the kitchen. You look, nothing seems to have changed. You look closely, peering into every corner, into the back of every cupboard. Aha! There’s only one coat of paint on this shelf. “Oh, I didn’t notice. Do you think it matters? When there are things on the shelf no one will notice.” No one?! Who is this phantom No One? This No One reconciled to half assed mediocrity.

“Through time, in this country, what I like to call bleeding-heart criminal coddlers want you to give a criminal an even break, so that when you’re attacked, you’re supposed to turn around and run, rather than standing your ground and protecting yourself and your family and your property.” These are the words of former NRA president and longtime Florida gun lobbyist Marion Hammer, championing the “stand your ground” law.

You feel you are losing your kitchen and it may never come back to you. I think about Zimmerman on the look-out for outsiders, for people who (as he said in a police interview) “victimize the neighborhood”: Criminals, punks invading his space, intent on destroying the gated calmness of his community. I don’t want to leave the house, because there’s always something left undone, overlooked, incompleted, botched. But I have to leave the house, have to keep returning to the paint shop because we can cut costs this way, Big Jack and Little Jack get paid by the hour and run by the seat of their pants, fixated on the job, unmindful of how the future unfurls. We are always running out of primer, out of this, out of that: rollers, paint trays, rolls of plastic, sand paper, buckets, primer, more primer, just another quart of trim. You also have to keep returning to the environmental lights shop to consult and get advice. Big Jack, who is also Old Jack, knows nothing—it turns out—about LEDs. When I try tentatively to explain the difference in voltage he looks at me contemptuously and says “I’ve been installing lights for sixty years.” He proceeds to fuck up grandly. So over the weekend we call in another electrician, a green guy J knows through yoga circles, who unearths the problem, fixes it and charges quite a lot. You are nervous about raising this with Big Jack so you raise it with Little Jack who says he’ll sort it. And then he adds, “Big Jack’s not as young as he once was. But he taught me everything I know.”

Day 7, July 1st. Detective Chris Serino takes the stand, and audio and video recordings of police interviews with Zimmerman in the days following the shooting which had been made public during the discovery phase of the case were replayed in court today. In these interviews Serino appears skeptical and pushes Zimmerman, suggests that he was running after Martin before the confrontation, suggests that he shouldn’t have followed Martin after a police operator had told him he did not need to, asks Zimmerman if it hadn’t occurred to him to ask Martin what he was doing there. Racial profiling aside, the cops seem not entirely happy with these law enforcement mavericks who take it upon themselves to do a job the police can do quite well themselves. Yet today, very calm and considered in the box, Serino explains that the questioning was tactical, a “challenge interview” where detectives try to break someone’s story to make sure they’re telling the truth. He was persuaded that Zimmerman was indeed telling the truth. “In this particular case, he could have been considered a victim, also,” he concluded.

There is however, one interesting moment in the interviews that contests the (not without foundation) stereotype of the profiling proclivities of the Florida police.

Serino: What is that you’re whispering? Fucking what?

Zimmerman: Punks.

Serino: Fucking punks. He wasn’t a fucking punk. (clears throat)

Serino had initially recommended a charge of Manslaughter, which most legal experts agree would have had a much greater chance of conviction than second degree murder. Why did he change his mind? What pressures and negotiations and deals occurred? This we might never know, but for sure we can assume that the judiciary and the police and the neighborhood watches and various political pressures intermesh in complex and contorted ways.

On this day too an audio analysis expert for the FBI testifies that the origin of the screams on an audio tape of the altercation cannot be determined. Contradictory evidence will be submitted: Both Martin’s mother and Zimmerman’s will attest that the voice is that of “my son.”

How electricity is generated and how it moves in circuits from the sun and through a dwelling is hard to imagine but not as complicated as circuits of indebtedness, circuits of giving and receiving, owing and repaying, commissioning and paying by the hour for services received, for immediate labor embodied in skills accumulated over years of experience. Priming—this is tough and meticulous work, tedious and slow. You are appreciative of the Jacks’ attentiveness to this part of the process, you bear witness to the pain in a sprained wrist, the back that’s a bit crooked, the legs that buckle occasionally. You know that even though Little Jack in a moment of exasperation told you your cabinets were a piece of crap and should be trashed this hasn’t prevented his patient persistence, pride in a job well done, in cabinets that begin to gleam as the final coats of filtered sunlight slither on. You forget sometimes to ask them what they think, to show appreciation, you don’t want to behave like a Madam, but you want the guys to know that you know what you want. Yet the more the job progresses and drags on the less you feel you know what you want, and the more perfection bays at your heels, aggravating everyone’s anxiety.

Day Fifteen. It has felt as though this trial will never end. Day after day we pull the plastic shroud off the television, dust cloths off the sofa, prepare our feast of hard boiled eggs and switch on the cable news. Now, after almost three weeks of testimony, after the interrogation of 58 witnesses, it is over. July 13. Not guilty. Race has hardly been mentioned in court. The Prosecution said, today, after the verdict, “This case has never been about race or the right to bear arms. We believe this case all along was about boundaries, and George Zimmerman exceeded those boundaries.”

The processes and attempts and elaborate rituals erected to instantiate and often to blur boundaries, to make sense of the world, to ensure order. Clean and dirty, black and white, a threatening act and an act of self-defence. Lines of continuity, jagged lines of differentiation. Consider the line of continuity between the old lawless South and the South today where racial violence might enjoy legal sanction. Boundaries. Categories. Where are the fault lines?

There has been one witness who’s rocked the boat, who’s raised the issue of race. Rachel Jeantel—spiky and insolent, contemptuous of protocol, uneasy in court, ungroomed for public appearance—was Trayvon Martin’s friend. He called her just before he died. Over nearly two days, days 3 and 4, Jeantel’s testimony was broadcast live, nonstop, on cable news. It was riveting, not just because of revelations and certainly not because of her persuasive powers, but because of the dissonance she introduced into the proceedings, her disturbance of the tacit agreement to not discuss race or gun laws. In her reluctant laconic sullenness she danced into the court, out through the television set, into the world and into my dusty house like a skirmishing corkscrew. Jeantel said she overheard Martin demand, “What are you following me for?” and then yell, “Get off! Get off!” before his cellphone went dead. She testified that he described being followed by a “creepy-ass cracker” as he walked through the neighborhood.

“Do people that you live around and with call white people, ‘creepy-ass crackers’?” the Defence asked.

“Not creepy. But cracker, yeah,” Jeantel said.

“You’re saying that in the culture that you live in, in your community, people there call white people crackers?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

When the defence suggested that Martin attacked Zimmerman she blurted out “That’s retarded, sir.” It was the conjunction of those two words—“Sir” and “Retarded”—that sparked a macabre levity, for the first time in weeks J and I roared with laughter. It was as though the unconscious of half the US erupted for a moment, shattering the precarious compact of civility, exposing how frenzied is the calm.

You imagine a deep dark hole in this country into which all the puddles, all the rivers of heartache and injustice perpetrated by the judicial system trickle and disappear. They don’t always mesh: justice and the efficiency of the system.

The chickens are neglected. They are fed and watered, let out in the morning and locked up at night. There is no time that isn’t kitchen time, or Trayvon time, no time to pick up Holly and stroke her neck, watch her eye lids flutter and close as she sinks into sleep.

So when Katie and Susan visit they pick up the chickens and murmur sweet nothings. I am thrilled that they are here, not only because they are who they are, but also because it gives me license to shut the door on the kitchen for three days, walk away from it, not think about it. But Katie and Susan discern a cranky demeanor and try shucking, teasing, easing out the oysterish story. To deflect their attention from my fixations I tell them a story about my maternal grandmother who lived in the inner suburbs of Salisbury in colonial Rhodesia. Every night she drank a lot of whisky. But her drinking was not random. It was ordered, repetitive and ritualized. She would never touch a drop during the day, would only begin at six o’clock in the evening, just as the television news came on, though the news was preceded by preparations, undertaken by the cook but overseen by her: ensuring the soda siphon was full, the tray laid with her special glass, a tumbler of ice and a decanter of whisky. Two minutes before six she would rush from the verandah into the living room, settle into her armchair, switch the TV on and as the news began take her first sip of whiskey and soda. After the news she would continue sipping, dreamily edging into blotto land. I remember how she would regularly complain to my father about the weekend shabeens held by all the servants who lived in the neighborhood, they would make illegal stills of skokiaan during the week and have loud parties on Saturday night. “You simply can’t imagine, Jack,” she would say, “how strong skokiaan is, how it induces violence, it shouldn’t be allowed.” And he would roll his eyes, and say “And what about whisky?”

Katie and Susan look at me, incredulous, and they say, in unison: “Jack? Your father’s name was Jack?”

You imagine a small but deep and dark hole opening up in the middle of the kitchen, a deep dark hole which sucks, dollar by dollar, all your retirement savings.

The obsession grows slowly. At first a feather stroking your skin, teasing. Then you start making decisions, a mix of torture and delight. Then the renovations begin, and the obsession takes a turn. For the worse. No longer in control of a fantasy world, the world starts intruding, making demands, taking up time, insisting. The feather insidiously sprouts razor teeth, becomes a baby shark nibbling, nosing you into a corner, drawing blood.

 

 

Notes

Mary Douglas speaks to me …. Mary Douglas, an anthropologist and cultural theorist, wrote the highly influential Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (first published 1966).

there are many legal complications, loopholes and explanations .… mandatory-minimum sentencingnot the least of it in this case.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chicken Joke

A man believes that he is a grain of seed. He is taken to a mental institution, where the doctors do their best finally to convince him that he is not a grain, but a man. No sooner has he left the hospital than he comes back, very scared, claiming that there is a chicken outside the door, and he is afraid that it will eat him. “Dear fellow,” says his doctor, “you know very well that you are not a grain of seed, but a man.” “Of course I know that,” replies the patient, “but does the chicken?”

This joke is told by Alenka Zupancic in The Odd One In: On Comedy. She says that what is at stake here is the post Enlightenment assertion: I know very well, but nevertheless…. (I know very well that there is no God, nevertheless I pray that God will save me from this awful situation, pluck me out of this shit hole). She traces a thread of connection between Hegel and Lacan, between the Phenomenology of Spirit and the concept of the Other. Her twisting of the skeins is provocative, she takes a paradox and plays it as though it were a queen of hearts or seven of spades, the paradoxes proliferate, the tricks are blindingly spectacular. Is it sleight of hand or logic refined to the nth degree?

Yet there is something left over for me, something that she doesn’t directly address though perhaps it lurks and swims around in the lower depths of the joke. What is left over is fear, a kind of fear embedded in category confusion and realized most obviously in phobias, but also in simple fears like the fear of dying. It’s not just me and the chicken, me and the other, but there is a third term: this thing, this grain of seed or let’s call it a corn kernel. Self and Other, these terms are mobilized in a circuit of exchange involving Other Things, and at some stage this circuit involves (or threatens) consumption, and disappearance or annihilation.

I came to chickens and to Buddhism at roughly the same time. Not entirely true, I grew up with chickens, and as an adult have had chickens in my life whenever possible, so in part I was enacting a repetition of the familiar (rather than the sense of discovery implied in the notion of “coming to.” But my relation to chickens has been very different this time). Buddhism was not familiar. After coming to political consciousness as a teenager I settled into an habitual semi-conscious cynicism about religion, or let’s just say faith, or spirit with either a small or large S. But in Shambhala I have found myself sometimes in a not-unfamiliar place. Not the place of religion, but of therapy, specifically psycho-therapy. Another form of repetition, therefore.

Chickens became an obsession when I was pretty unwell and heading into my first treatment. It was hard to work and to write and to do research, actually it was simply hard to find the energy to focus for long on anything. But oddly enough I was able not only to focus on chickens but to allow the chicken world to consume me. It became a totally encompassing obsession. (You can read about this in the piece “Chickens saved my Life”). Obsession, I’m convinced, is potentially curative. It is a form of denial certainly, a delusional projection, an enactment of repetition in the face of death. But it works. Sometimes it works. It takes your mind off things, prevents you from succumbing to another competing repetition, to the mantra of despair, or worse – of resignation.

If we want to use the language of psychoanalysis we might say that chickens are the way the subject’s unconscious (and her relation to herself) are externalized.

Cancer brought me to meditation. I signed up to Shambhala (a version of Buddhism) in order to learn some techniques for meditation. There is no doubt that meditation is a way of calming the body, reducing stress, promoting the anti-toxins, giving energy. Science tells us this though anyone who has meditated can tell you the same thing (still, the scientific writings are fascinating, keep a look out for the coming blog on the “bliss” app). But when I started going to Shambhala I found that the “techniques” of meditation were not so separable from the “ethos” of this version of Buddhism. One way of looking at this is to say that you bring into meditation a whole lot of baggage, and meditation itself shakes loose the careful packing (or repression), interferes with habitual patterns, throws into the unconscious—in slow motion—a Molotov cocktail. “Baggage” has become a remarkably familiar term in everyday language, it’s the kind of language that makes me squeamish. And indeed there are aspects of the Shambhala training that have induced squeemishness (many new age therapeutic models such as mindfulness training           draw on and are heavily influenced by varieties of Buddhism, and then in turn varieties of Buddhism adapted to a western environment, borrow the familiar new-age language). Sometimes I have yearned for a more severe practice, for what I imagine the spartanness of Zen to be. But then I remind myself that after all I am not Tibetan, like others in the room I am a predictable westerner looking to Buddhism to change something. So I tell myself this: suck it up.

I came to meditation hoping to find a way of being more at peace in the world (and therefore healthier, better able to fight the cancer). Of course once you start shaking that can of hope around the worms all come squirming out. And you find that you are faced with the phantoms of repetition. And you would like to change, quite simply (and even though it makes me squirm to say it) you would like to be a better person. Being more at peace might also have pay offs – for those around you, those who suffer the importunate blasts of bad temper, inveterate quibbling, acerbic barbs exploded randomly, not to mention hardly-muted envy.

Squirm and quease. Buddhism has in common with psycho-therapy a serious engagement with the unconscious (even though the word “unconscious” may not occur). Often the distinction is made between acknowledgement (just letting it come to the surface, letting it be) and analysis (analyzing dreams, jokes, stories, memories and so on). This distinction is hard to maintain but let us put aside this objection for the moment. Some of the Shambhala trainings are built on a dyadic structure. In a workshop you are given a question, or situation, and then the group divides into pairs. The first person has five minutes to speak (or not). The other person listens, they are not to respond in any way, they should not smile or offer encouragement, express agreement or approval or disagreement. And then you swap positions. And then there is five minutes for dialogue. The hard thing, the really hard thing, is not speaking, but listening in such a way as to resist solicitation.

Over and over again we repeat the same moves. We enter analysis (let’s say analysis, but perhaps we enter into other therapeutic spaces too—the sangha, the garden, the yoga studio, the church). You do this because you want to change, you want to break old habits, alter the way you relate to others or to the Other. Or you want to face life (and death) more fearlessly. Or both these things. But in analysis, as Zupancic points out, it isn’t enough for the analysand to become conscious of her unconscious. Often the belief is that the analyst will enable the analysand (through bringing to consciousness the patterns of repetition) to recognize their repetitious fatality. The analysand is prone to believing that when the therapy is over they will reemerge into the world and be liberated, “cured,” able to act differently. But actually nothing will change until the analysand fully recognizes the Other as something other than a projection of self. And this has to take place in the world.

In short, it is not simply that in analysis the subject has to shift her position (or even adapt herself); the major part of the analytic work consists precisely in shifting the external practices, in moving all those “chickens” in which the subject’s unconscious (and her relation to herself) are externalized.”(16)

I wonder sometimes if I am not Becoming Chicken, clucking and cooing and chirruping, grubbing around in the hedgerows looking for worms. Flapping around like Charlie Chaplin in The Gold Rush. Holly, Lula Mae, Sabrina (and Funny Face when she was alive) have coaxed from me a much more intimate relationship than I have ever before experienced with chickens. Is this identification? Have I wormed my way successfully into the being of the chicken? Or perhaps more profoundly found a way of acknowledging the otherness of Chicken-Being, realizing how the chicken thinks and feels, out there in the world, independent of my consciousness. I wish this were so, for it would mean a moving around of chickens, a changing of the way of being in the world. Often, as I sit in the garden at the end of the day and the chickens pick and peck and scratch I feel remarkably contented, at one with the world, grateful to have passed through the repetitive obsessive phase. And then Sabrina will suddenly extend her neck, cock her head and stare. Eyes glinting blackly she will dive at my leg and peck. It hurts. She thinks I am a corn kernel.

I know very well of course that I am not a kernel of corn. Nevertheless…

Life After Life

Life after Life is Kate Atkinson’s new novel – it’s long and gratifying. I have read a lot the last three weeks, mostly though not exclusively novels, the reading matter overseen and sat upon by Elvis. Reading is one of the things you can do while keeping your head very still so the world doesn’t spin, and if it’s engrossing you can be transported. You might think that the “second” life in the title is a replacement of the word and concept of “death.” Not really. On the most simple level the novel plays with the idea of the novel. The novel as a progression of seemingly inevitable events, of teleology, of the crocheting of character and description into the momentum of plot. But life too, as we live it day by day, entails plotting, dramatization and anticipation. Atkinson asks “what if”? What if, for instance, the baby had lived instead of dying, what if –that old chestnut—Hitler had been assassinated, what if the dog had a different name, what if the girl had kicked back? A writer can mess with events and this is what she does, giving us multiple versions or possibilities, or more accurately – unfoldings. But philosophically, she also spins a meditation – upon the eternal return. The idea that what exists after life is not death but more life, or more prosaically we could say people go on living, and the dead re-emerge in various incarnations according to different beliefs and modes of representation, and through the intricacies of memory. As always she is preoccupied with the concepts of déjà vu and amor fati, of history and the future, of memory and delusion. A minor but key character whose presence is woven through the book is a Buddhistic (come Nietzschean) psychoanalyst. In one of her incarnations, as a ten year old girl, Ursula is sent to see him.

 He had trained in Vienna (“Where else?) but trod, he said, his own path. He was no one’s disciple, he said, although he had studied “at the feet of all the teachers. One must nose forward,” he said. “Nudge one’s way through the chaos of our thoughts. Unite the divided self.” Ursula had no idea what he was talking about.

Atkinson also plays with the idea of the novel as a bourgeois form. Life After Life begins with a long idyllic evocation of upper middle class English life. She has said that it was Forster always at her back, but to me the angel at her back is Virginia Woolf, particularly Mrs Dalloway. As the story begins again and again on that snowy night in 1910 so the Merchant and Ivory scenario disintegrates and nostalgia is untethered, teased out, floats like seaweed in a bloody sea. Not just the Virginia Woolf of the novels but also the essayist and the woman who kept a diary full of quotidian details. While it is surely a false dichotomy to pose quotidian detail against the sweep of history, the trick is surely to understand and craft scale, through writing to mobilize that precarious, never stable, relation between scale and perspective. What the most intriguing novels and biographies do is illuminate not just details within the large sweep of history, but the sweep of history in the details. The new biography of Marx by Jonathan Sperber does this. I dipped in and out of it while out-of-it. Jeffrey read it voraciously from cover to cover (when it could be pried away from Elvis) and would relay the revelations, day by day, in between making endless supplies of chicken soup, a ministering Scheherazade.

IMG_1453

I always find myself (again, time after time, life after life) a better Buddhist when things are going well. “Better” of course is the wrong word, no I mean more inclined to be philosophically calm and accepting of fate, unperturbed by death. The last few days, before this awful smothering black blanket of nausea lifted I felt very despairing, as though I would never get better, even for a while. “This is it!” kind of a feeling. There is a simple line in Life After Life: “How sorry she felt for herself, as if she were someone else.” Somehow, as almost everyone must know, illness induces this as you see time falling through all the cracks in your life, never to be retrieved. Today, though, I feel grandiously like a besieged city that has been liberated. I woke up this morning feeling transformed, the nausea almost gone, euphoric. I hadn’t quite finished the Kate Atkinson and so got up, fed the cats (without experiencing that usual vomit-inducing odor as the tin of grain-free chicken-and-herring delight is prized open), let the chickens out in the dawn light, made a pot of tea and went back to bed and finished the novel – it felt so luxurious, reading not to allay sickness, but for pure pleasure. And of course I should know from the novel that after a besieged city is liberated (London and Berlin during the Second World War bombing) there isn’t immediate relief, what follows may be starvation, suicide, old age, mundanity. And yet …… and yet I loved the novel, it filled me with a peculiar happiness like Mrs Dalloway with her flowers. Atkinson has said you cannot write about happiness, that’s not what life is. It’s true the novel is not about finding happiness, I wept in parts and had to gloss over others that were too grim, and yet happiness is no less complex an emotion than say, despair, or misery, it’s just as implicated in the devious trajectories of desire. I’m glad I finished the novel on a high so I don’t always have it snuggled into bed, in a semi-illicit association with sickness.

Today I feel quite different, not sorry for my self at all, actually rather overwhelmed by the wonderful world I awoke into, but more convinced than ever that the self, though experienced materially, bodily, is a fiction. And what is it that constitutes feeling OK?

Being drug free is undoubtedly a big part of it. It surely must have been the combination of antibiotics with the chemo that made for such awfulness. Because of the initial searing gut pain and fever I diagnosed myself with a flare up of diverticulitis and my primary care Doctor agreed, urged antibiotics and since the fever and pain were subsiding, succumbed to my resistance to yet another Cat scan with contrast (time after time, too much radiation). I thought the antibiotics were working, but not really, the pain came and went. And the worst thing was the unrelenting nausea, dizziness, sensation of fainting even when lying still in bed. Kipps, my oncologist is inclined to think that this was clearly because of the piling up of chemicals (“we don’t know how the body will protest”) but also that the pain might not in fact have been provoked by an infection (and if this were the case, tho who’s to know, no need for antibiotics), but caused by tumor lysis. This refers to metabolic complications that can occur during cancer treatment, particularly in leukemia and lymphoma. Though the treatment is meant to reduce, say, the size and frequency of lymph nodes in fact it can do the opposite for a while. The lymph nodes in my gut area are increased in size and frequency and he guesses that this has put pressure on the colon. This makes sense but nevertheless I have a gut feeling (so apt a truism) that the chemicals are also ravaging my gut and so am drinking aloe vera juice an hour before eating, and also L-glutamin powder – both of which restore the mucous membrane of the colon stripped away by antibiotics as we know, but also by the other drugs. Acupuncture provided miraculous relief, but only for a short time (though it was amazing to see how color returned to my face during those sessions). However, my skin is so thin now. Thicker emotionally perhaps but in the end there is just that thin penumbra between you and the world.

Now I’m into the fourth round. Kipps decided not to up the dose because of the complications, though he is reluctant, and feels that it is only with an increased dose that some of the symptoms will abate and improvement register (white and red blood counts are miraculously in the normal zone, but others wonky). Still, it is underway and am feeling almost fine. Phew! With trepidation I have another immunoglobulin infusion this week, since an adverse reaction during the last one…

There are other things besides acupuncture that provided relief and forgetfulness. I thought I could drive myself to acupuncture one time but when I got out of bed realized that this wasn’t going to work. I called Tershia and she came and fetched me in her 1969 Porsche (a 912, 500,000 + miles, named “Lawrence” after T.E., as its first paint color was “Sand.”). Tershia turned it green. Just looking at it is a joy. It registers beauty—in its design, but also in that color, that delicious green that seems otherwise to have disappeared from the world, a green of mahjong pieces, of bathroom tiles and my grandmother’s kitchen. Nothing grandmotherly about that ride to the acupuncturist, however. Tershia drives her racing car as though it were a racing car. You might think that this would exacerbate nausea, but it was rather like entering into a dream. I loved being inside that greenness, whizzing through the city.

And then there was the poppy. Steve Ilott gave me, months ago, some white poppies he had started. We planted them out and waited and waited as they grew in a spindly fashion. Then one day as I lay languishing, feeling sorry for myself, Peggy—who was working in the garden, fighting the weeds which have gone beserk since people on the street started planting “low maintenance native” grasses—took a picture of the blooming poppy on her i-phone and sent it to me in the house. It was a totally unexpected apparition: a glorious white pom pom. I had been assuming that an old fashioned and elegant poppy would eventually bloom. Instead: the sheer exuberance and excess of that “Swansdown” startled me into delight. On the morning when I awoke feeling OK I opened the front door in the early morning and there were four white pompoms, gleaming in amongst the irises and salvia, roses and fennel, brash colors muted momentarily in the dawn, ceding glory to Swansdown.

IMG_1464

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Possum Chicken

I am just finishing round one of the 7 month regime. It has been a bit of a trial as they say in the old country, particularly the last week or so. Started with 3 weeks of the daily pill chemo – not too bad, fatigue sometimes overwhelming, other things manageable including a rash which came and went. But then last weekend it turned into serious torment. The hospital gang determined it was a reaction (a more sedate term than side effect) to either the chemo or one of the drugs given to fight the side effects of the chemo (probably the latter). I had stopped the chemo pills anyway (21 days on, 7 off) and so the other was also stopped but of course the torment continued. The only thing which gave some relief is a narcotic. OK at night, not too good when you have to work. Monday I worked till mid afternoon, came home, took the drowsy pill, konked out. Surfaced just before Judit, bearing chicken soup, came to fetch me for our Feldenkreis class. The class as always was great, lay on the floor and every so often dozed off, that seemed fine. An hour later at home, heating up the chicken soup I hear an almighty caffuffle in the yard, screeching and flapping, the air vibrating, dinosaurs returned to the earth. Two of the live chickens (as opposed to the chicken in the soup) were careening around the yard. I grabbed a flash light and broomstick and staggered out – the door to their run was wide open and so were all the doors to their little house. There in their house taking up most of the floor was a possum, an unusually pretty possum, colored tan and grey. And just above the possum was Sabrina on her perch shivering and shaking, silenced. With the aid of a broomstick I edged the possum out. He slipped down the ramp to the ground gliding with greater elegance than the hens ever do; they slither and hop and stomp down the ramp to freedom every morning. I had to chase the possum into the vegetable garden away from the other two chickens and away from Sabrina who was now performing in the yard like a yoyo emitting strangled clucks. Then I sat on the ground and lowered my weapons and listened to my own heart emitting strangled clucks. Chickens can’t see in the dark which means it is sometimes very easy to pick them up and sometimes impossible if they are in panic. Holly and Sabrina stopped running and I cooed to them making the chicken lullaby sounds that they know from night time when we do the final lock and check. Holly is the sook and so she was I think calmed by being picked up and cuddled and stroked and returned to her house. Sabrina next, no problem. Then Lula Mae, the little wild one, who disdains human contact, she did not wish to be touched or returned. Everytime I approached, crouched and cooing, she would be propelled from her own crouching position into a feathered ball of fury flying through the air away from the chicken run. Half an hour of cooing, begging, reprimanding and swearing ensued, half an hour of stalking and stumbling. Adrenalin had expelled all narcotic effects and the drama suppressed the itching. At last I held Lulamae in my two hands, a solid little body rather than feathered lightening. At last they were all back home, all doors sealed, a possum fate averted.

At last I got to eat my chicken soup.

The next day off we go, Jeffrey and I, to the hospital for the first infusion of chemo No.2. I have had this drug before (about 18 months ago) and tolerated it fairly well. Today it goes slowly but uneventfully – 5 hours or so after arriving the little packet on the IV stand is nearly empty. And then I start shivering. The PAs are there straight away, and lots of nurses and what they call “the kit”. Don’t worry they say, you’ve got the chills, it’s a common reaction, we are going to give you a drug and then you might sweat and it’ll be OK. Well then suddenly I started feeling really awful and panic stricken as though there were a possum in the room. I remember saying, I feel really bad. “what sort of bad?” someone asks. But I just feel the tar pits opening up and the possum lurking and can’t speak. The next thing I remember is the doctor shouting at me “Open your eyes! Open your eyes! Look at me!” and all I wanted to do was sink back into oblivion. Then time seemed to go very slowly and after a while they said, “you can close your eyes now and relax.” When I asked what happened they said you gave us a fright, you just lost consciousness and then you stopped breathing.

So for the next infusion, two days later, they fiddled with the cocktail, added some stuff (steroids), changed the secondaries (the drugs that guard against the side effects). I was really scared like I have never been before. I think that Jeffrey was even more scared. He said it was really terrifying when I lost consciousness and stopped breathing and the room was full of doctors and machines. It was much more terrifying for him than for me—I didn’t know what was happening and couldn’t see anything. I am glad he was there.

It went very slowly but without drama. And same yesterday. Yesterday was Sunday, nice and quiet in the infusion center. They had to change me from Saturday to make sure there was an oncologist on duty. My nurse said – oh glad to meet you, you are the Blue Code Lady. Blue Code she tells me is when a patient stops breathing.