Posted on November 27, 2008 in Poems Weather
The rain drops
many curtains
I watch from backstage
memorizing the parts.
Posted on November 27, 2008 in Recipes
I have promised to post this recipe every year since I started blogging. The recipe that I derived this from uses yams but I prefer to use sweet potatoes which have the nice effect of throwing people off a little since most people think that yams are sweet potatoes.
You’ll need
Steps 1 and 2 can be done the night before the feast.
Posted on November 26, 2008 in Reading
Never Have Your Dog Stuffed: And Other Things I’ve Learned by Alan Alda
rating: 4 of 5 stars
It turns out that more than acting, Alda loves to be a writer. His autobriography is episodic, anecdotal, zooming from one crisis to the next like the film of his life that he would undoubtably like to have written. He doesn’t say so, but that’s the feel of the book — a movie in waiting.
[amazonify]0812974409::text::::Order this book and make me a small amount of money[/amazonify]
For the record, this is not a paid advertisement. Since I joined Goodreads, you will probably see more book reviews as I finish them.
Posted on November 26, 2008 in Prose Arcana Suicide
Do not for a minute think that this is factual or autobiographical.
I was the guy people went to talk to when they were sad. They’d go on for a few hours, letting me take it all in. Then, when they were feeling better, they would leave me and never talk to me again. No one ever came back to tell me how much they had helped me. One friend who did this told me that it was because I was “a giver”. And I gave and gave until one day my ears had had enough.
I had a neighbor who was obese from lying on the couch and eating Cheetos. Our comradery never faded because he had no other friends and he was always depressed. If I met him outside my door, he would tell me of his woes, how nobody liked him at his job and there was no use going out because people thought he was too fat. After a while, I began to see him as a parasite.
I was sitting alone and lonely in my studio apartment when the neighbor’s stereo which was always blasting heavy metal stopped for no reason. There was a knock on my door. This was no cup of sugar call: he wanted to talk to me because he was blue.
The knocking persisted for a minute or so. Then I heard the door to his place close. He would be all right in the morning. Except he wasn’t. The smell of gas wafted from the cracks. Firemen came, battered down the door with a ram that looked like a gray fireplug, and found him laying on the couch, his snacks scattered on the floor. They crunched about until the coroner’s men could come and take him away.
Police asked me if I had heard anything. I denied it. Over the next few days, however, the suspicions of my neighbors grew. Some had heard him knocking at my door. I knew that they had hoped that I would take care of the problem, see that he understood that the grave affairs that had brought him to me were just the struggles of the night and that if he persisted in living, he would make it to the next day. I had let them down by not doing the dirty work. When I met them at the mailboxes, they shrank from me. The mail would pass quickly into their hands, they would stop to stare for just a second, and then scurry to their little boxes.
They had never spoken to me in the first place except when they were depressed, but in this case they thought me evil, negligent. For days I suffered this treatment. My helloes would be met with silence and violently passive stares.
So locked into the prison of their custom, I decided, in anger, that I would show them the weight of their cruelty by killing myself. My method was novel. I rented an oxygen tank. My plan was to explode my lungs. Using surgical tape, I taped my nostrils shut, then shoved the hose into my mouth. I secured the hose with more tape, covered the open corners of my mouth, and turned the valve. The air pumped into my gut and my lungs. But I had not reckoned on my eustachian tubes which carried the gas into my ears and exploded my typana. The police came when the neighbors heard me screaming and screaming. I ended up at the hospital writing and signing my needs to the behavioral health staff. I could not hear for weeks.
Posted on November 25, 2008 in Dogs
Doggie has been prowling the house, looking for a den where he can chew pink marrow dreams. A ham bone is his hash pipe. He sleeps it off then wakes to gnaw some more.
Posted on November 25, 2008 in Conservation Santiago Fire
I finally let my feet take me into Whiting Ranch Wilderness Park, one year and one month to the day after the Santiago Fire ripped through. A few steps past the rusted steel obelisk, the trail descends the height of a man and all is green. Talking about the conflagration seems an idle joke until you go through a tube of foilage and see blackened skeletons sweeping up from the creekside.
From this point, the matter of the district’s history is ambiguous. Not everything has been scorched. Instead of blackened ground, what you notice (if you have gone this way before) is that the shade is missing for many strides. The slopes beneath the houses are scalped and covered with net. The grass is low except in the wet spots. Great old oaks have been reduced to mouldering rounds of lumber. Where the burn did not kill the roots and left a little green, the trees thrive or at least support one green branch. The thick leaf litter where skunks used to seek their insect dinners has been reduced to ash and blown away.
You feel exposed, in a steeply sloped vacant lot between housing developments, until you reach the end of the houses and then you just feel strange. A reddish yellow fuzz crowns the hills. A water-resistant soot covers the slopes where the chamise and the scrub oak grew. Any sense that is to be made of what was burnt and what was saved requires painstaking study. All I can say for certain is that the chapparal disintegrated along with the grass, but only the latter is coming back.
This haunts me: the buckwheat is gone. I miss its red cauliflower tops.
Posted on November 24, 2008 in Reading
“Alas,” said the mouse, “the whole world is growing smaller every day. At the beginning it was so big that I was afraid, I kept running and running, and I was glad when I saw walls far away to the right and left, but these long walls have narrowed so quickly that I am in the last chamber already, and there in the corner stands the trap that I must run into.”
“You only need to change your direction,” said the cat, and ate it up.”
— Franz Kafka
Posted on November 23, 2008 in Bipolar Disorder IRC/Chat Mean People Netiots Scoundrels Suicide
“One of the few good things about modern times: If you die horribly on television, you will not have died in vain. You will have entertained us”
— Kurt Vonnegut
Five years after Brandon Vedas drank himself to death in a chat room, a Florida teenager by the name of Abraham Biggs ingested a prodigious quantity of opiates and benzodiazepines on camera, went to bed, and died. Abraham suffered from bipolar disorder: he took the part of his meds that would actually kill him.
Biggs announced his plans to kill himself over a Web site for bodybuilders, authorities said. But some users told investigators they did not take him seriously because he had threatened suicide on the site before.
Some members of his virtual audience encouraged him to do it, others tried to talk him out of it, and some discussed whether he was taking a dose big enough to kill himself, said Wendy Crane, an investigator with the Broward County medical examiner’s office.
This won’t be a “[[Bowling for Columbine]]” article that tries to blame the Internet for what happened because suicide is an issue quite independent of networks. That this one took place via a webcam sets the stage: it does not explain the why of it. In fact, there’s very little that can be deduced about Bigg’s death other than from the fact that he suffered from bipolar disorder. We learn, I think, a lot more about the event by evaluating how different people interacted or failed to interact with Biggs and with one another. The division I shall use here was suggested, in part, by the Broward County medical examiner: There’s the people who tried to talk him out of it and called the police; followed by Biggs’s family; then the local police; the scoundrels who egged him on (a disturbing parallel to the Vedas case); and finally the ones who sat by disinterestedly discussing whether Biggs had taken enough opiates and benzos to kill himself. This will be, in part, an investigation of Evil and, by reflection, of Good.
The people who tried to talk Biggs out of it and the ones who called the Broward County police in an attempt to save his life are clearly the heroes of this hour. One man called all the way from India to try to hector local law enforcement into paying Biggs a visit. My hat is off to them. If songs are to be sung about this, let’s make sure they are mentioned.
At first glance, some might question why the Biggs family was not watching Abraham more closely. Unlike schizophrenia, bipolar disorder is an episodic disorder. This means that you are not always in the disease. Even if untreated, you can go for long periods of time without showing any symptoms. Plenty of people lived long, productive lives with the disorder. Suicides often strike unexpectedly because an episode can come together faster than a tornado over the plains of Kansas and with less warning. Plenty of my friends have seen me suddenly tip over and, likewise, I have received calls from people who were serene in the morning, but desperate and turbulent in the evening.
Families can’t be called upon to be forever vigilant about suicide attempts because that demand can kill them with gloom ((When I wrote my article about Brandon Vedas five years ago, I received email from Rick Vedas thanking me for my understanding. Brandon’s death had hit them completely out of the blue and they wanted to do something to help others. But what? One thing they were resolved on: not to demand that lawmakers clamp down on the Internet. Notably they did not take legal action against the caitiffs who urged him on either.)) . So here, I offer my condolences to the Biggs family and affirm to them that it was hard to see this coming, even with knowledge of Abraham’s condition. They, too, are victims — survivors of an illness in which grandiosity and sudden violence against the self are common. My guess is that Abraham made a cry for help — somehow he did not feel that his condition was being addressed well enough. He made it in a place invisible to his family. And the tragedy is that many of those who heard it and could have done something either did nothing or contributed to Abraham’s demise.
I blame, first, the police who had twelve hours of warning by friends of Biggs before they broke down the door and found the teenager dead in his bed. There is simply no excuse for their writing off the phonecalls as just an “Internet prank”. The first response team deserves a severe reprimand here.
The apathy of the police is counterpoised to the meanness of those in the audience who encouraged Biggs to off himself. These had plenty of warning that he was serious. Feral sociopathy explains some of these: they just get a thrill from being able to propel someone towards death. Some years ago, I was in a chat room discussing offing myself. One fellow said “When you stick the gun into your mouth, angle it upwards slightly so that it blows out your brains.” What can be said of that person? Too often his kind are not reproofed in web circles. I doubt that if I had had a gun handy that he would have felt the least remorse.
Others might have had no clue what they were doing. Having seen other “performance art” and fictionalized murder, they might well have expected to see Biggs rise again.
The bulk, I think, knew what they were doing but were caught up in a perverse aspect of American culture that has plagued us at least since the beginnings of the 20th century. This has been described by the anthropologist [[Edward Sapir]] as the “spurious culture” wherein we seek Bigger, Better, Faster without that pursuit ever really integrating us as a society. Earlier in this article I said that I did not think that this suicide was in any way due to the Net, but I think it is tied to the same boosterism that leads people to hunger for each new gadget or social web site that appears. This element among the audience of Biggs’s suicide was simply looking for something they had not seen before, for the previously unattained entertainment. For them, Biggs’s death was nothing more than a gizmo that whirred and buzzed spectacularly. Or not.
Here the notion of the “[[banality of evil]]” might be invoked to help fill out the picture of the peanut-crunching crowd observing Biggs’s last hours. When [[Hannah Arendt]] covered the Eichmann trial in Jerusalem, she found the architect of the Final Solution underwhelming. As she thought about the whole Third Reich, she found it populated not with arch-demons but with men and women who were mostly unremarkable. Eichmann, for example, was a shoe salesman in civilian life ((See [amazonify]0143039881::text::::Eichmann in Jerusalem[/amazonify] )) . The pretensions of those who watched the Biggs’s live-stream might have been great, but they were as a whole mediocrities who informed their pretentiousness through the media of bodybuilding ((Susan Sontag wrote about how fascists often put great stock in the cult of the beautiful body in her article “Fascinating Fascism” to be found in her book [amazonify]0312420080::text::::Under the Sign of Saturn[/amazonify]].)) . The Fascist enjoys having power over others and for him bodybuilding is a means to the end of intimidation ((Note there are other nobler reasons for working out such as being healthier. But this kind of gym exercise is non-exhibitionist.)) . In his company are wimpier types who find their fantasy lives fulfilled at the keyboard. I imagine a crowd of people who included store clerks, personal fitness trainers, salesmen, and the like who showed up at the feed just to experience a rush of pomposity as Biggs lived up to his promise. There were no great dictators in the bunch or serial killers ((If you exclude people who showed up both for this and for the Vedas suicide.)) or demons. Just ordinary people who would deny vehemently that they had done anything wrong.
The wine of denial is strong. When I wrote my first article about Brandon Vedas, one respondent wrote:
He made the choice. He “pulled the trigger”. He is dead. He has no one to blame but himself. He cannot blame others for his death. He can keep fucking himself in hell for what he did because he made the choice.
I assume that this is as close to an actual perpetrant of the goading of Brandon Vedas as I am ever going to get. There’s a hard sense of blame here, an eagerness to duck responsibility and to hope for satanic retribution. There can be no sorrow for Brandon, the writer says, because he evilly chose his destiny. Like Dante prodding the damned, this commenter wanted to carve his name on Vedas’s tree in the Wood of the Suicides.
No one connected with the Vedas suicide was ever slapped with a criminal or civil action.
Turning the event into an opportunity for showing one’s knowledge of clinical pharmocology and fatal doses is only a slight bit better than the outright goading. The disturbing thing is that a significant subset of those who watched the teenager’s final hours gloried in the felo-de-se or thought themselves admirable by maintaining a “clinical detachment” in order to gossip about the drugs involved.
[[Isaac Asimov]] said that the trouble with our age’s rapid scientific and technological advance was that our wisdom wasn’t keeping up with the changes. While our understanding of mental illness has improved immensely since the time of Dante — in fact since the time of [amazonify]014028334X::text::::One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest[/amazonify] — compassion still has not merged with our technology. We still react to web streams as we do movies or television news broadcasting. An online suicide is nothing more than an electronic vaudeville routine in some minds.
Our spurious culture has raced head, unable to make moral or ethical discriminations. The public is confused by farcical notions of civil liberty which treat social networking sites as arms of the government. Even when we do realize that we must speak against hatred based on skin color, we fall short when it comes to sporting with the mentally ill. Challenging racists has become part of the backbone of free speech: here we realize that free speech includes the right to point out and criticize those who harbor notions of superiority and hate based on skin color or ethnicity. We have no problem when Facebook bans hate talk (freedom of association is at play here), but here no reasonable proposals have been advanced to chastise the goofs who delighted in seeing Abraham Biggs kill himself on live video stream.
Before the Internet, the ability to privately broadcast the death of one teenager did not exist. We didn’t need to think about what to do. Now technology has created a new reality and new demands. The time has come to think about these things, keeping in mind civil liberties on one hand and compassion melded with common sense on the other. The righteous thing for bodybuilding.com and Justin.tv to do would be to cancel the accounts of the people who egged Abraham to his death. Freedom of speech does not prohibit action: it enables it. Voices must speak for manners, an old concept which allows our culture to deal with behaviors that aren’t illegal, but vulgar.
This gizmo that we have, this Internet, creates a new way of viewing human beings. The pixellatizing of people should not lead to their gizmonifying — their being turned into a mindless, emotionless part of the technology. Abolishing the person occurs in the mind when the flattening of persons occurs without members of society raising their voices. The Internet is a technology that connects people. Human beings remain unchanged even when the camera brings in new observers. What we say here affects persons to varying degrees that are hard to codify, but common sense can often guide us. Goading a sick person to suicide isn’t the same as pushing a wheelchair-bound-paraplegic in front of a Lamborghini but it comes close enough to demand that attention be paid. Wicked games demand firm resistance.
Posted on November 22, 2008 in Cats
A few months ago, we inherited a bobcat hide mounted on brown felt. This brown-spotted, golden-skinned relic had come off a feline which was shot about a hundred years ago by the father of my recently deceased great aunt. Mischievous as we are, we could not but help offer it to Fiona and Boadicea as a bed.
They sniffed it once and then declared the rug a vile intruder who had to be hissed at and scorned. We swept it out of their reach before they used their claws.
The reaction surprised us. Some years ago, Lynn was given a rabbit-skin coat. Once when our bunnies were especially naughty, she brought it out. “See!” she said. The rabbits approached it, sniffed it, and then lied down and rolled on it.
A clever, witty line is needed here, but I am like the comedian in a vaudeville act: The animals have already stolen the show.
Posted on November 20, 2008 in Dreams
I keep having these dreams where I am invited back to finish my graduate school at Duke University. In most of them, I keep getting this letter telling me to report for the Health Education program. In this one, I am told that my major will be history, and that I will be able to use my coursework from before to help build the major. I am going around the university with Lynn, setting up house in different apartments. The first is out by the edge of the university and has a bare plot where we can plant a garden. The second is more in the middle where the law students’ families are. I decide to show up to register. I have a difficult time finding a parking space — I accidentally drive into the lot where everyone who has ever had a wreck must park. The cars are scratched, crunched, and ripped ((I can’t say that I have avoided accidents, just never totalled the car. This must be referring to something else or be just a random firing of the brain.)) , even the campus security car. But then I cross into the unscratched area and there are plenty of spaces. I park and head towards the administration building, my white dog of unknown species in tow. As we navigate the buildings, he gets scared and hides in some thin bushes.
Posted on November 19, 2008 in Whimsies
I read on and off. The rest of the time I either study or look at pictures. Look me up at Goodreads.com.