I've been reading "Without Conscience," a book written in 1993 by psychologist Robert Hare, who created the Psychopathy Checklist to identify the 20% of prison inmates who are psychopaths. It's a well-written, intelligent book. The Checklist itself is not in the book; presumably that would make it too easy for psychopaths to manipulate whoever gave them the test.
It appears that many characteristics of psychopaths are desirable if one is to succeed in climbing the corporate ladder: egocentricity, grandiosity, ruthlessness, lack of empathy, good manipulative skills, lying and deceitfulness, and a generally predatory nature. Relatively few pp commit violent crimes; most of them are con men and petty criminals of various kinds. Some (like Bernie Madoff) successfully bilk hundreds of people out of their life savings, causing catastrophic suffering. From what I observe, a good number of American politicians and Wall Street banksters are definitely psychopaths.
More later, since I have to listen to Randi Rhodes' take on the current group of Republican psychopaths in Congress who are holding the debt ceiling legislation hostage.
Another characteristic: When you are caught commiting a crime, blame everyone else!
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Habitual patterns and adventure
The doctor said that my progress continues to be excellent. I still can't drive, lift heavy weights (which rules out gigs) lie on my back (which rules out comfort) or wash my hair in the shower (which rules out that clean-hair feeling--yesterday I tried a no-rinse shampoo said to be used by NASA on the space shuttle, but it left a greasy residue.) I can, however, be up and around all day with no head positioning (hallelujah!)
I do have to sleep prone for 8 hours.
Being up and around has been a strange experience. Having a bandage over your eye prompts sympathetic passers-by to say things like "Oh, that must really hurt!" and offer to do things for you. I have the staggering walk of an alcoholic because I am not yet accustomed to my lack of depth perception. I have defied medical advice and carried home 10 lbs. of groceries from the supermarket because if I didn't, no one else would.
And, not to sound trite but walking around in the July sunshine feels fantastic after weeks of lying prone indoors. Yesterday late afternoon was perfect weather--not hot, but warm and dry with a light breeze. I soaked it up, knowing that the unbearably humid July New England weather would be here all too soon. And sure enough, today was sullenly humid with clouds that refused to produce the predicted thunderstorms. I stayed indoors in my air-conditioned bedroom all day because I didn't want my bangs to frizz. Yes, that's the truth, ladies and gentlemen, and I am not proud of it. It occurred to me today that my hair was a frizzy nightmare the entire 4 days I spent in the rain forest. Yet I still long to return. Once I got there, though, I would be trying in vain to make myself look presentable as I did every morning. Habitual patterns have a way of asserting themselves even in the jungle. I ended up slicking my bangs down with straightening gel which was of no use whatsoever in straightening. Then I pinned it all to the side of my head and braided my hair into pigtails. With my glasses and safari hat on, I looked like an extra on Freaks and Geeks. But it was worth it. I'd gladly go through hair hell again to be back there with the squirrel monkeys, the parrots, and the orapendulas. Even the tarantulas, boas, and piranhas. In The Catcher in the Rye Holden Caulfield says near the end that sooner or later you end up missing everybody. And it's true. I even miss my compulsions when I can't give full vent to them.
My eyes welled up with tears a week or so ago when I was about to board the T and overheard two women speaking French. I still have a terrible, lonely nostalgia for France, especially Paris. France and Ecuador. If only I had serious money I could divide my time between them. But I can only dream about it.
I can't say that I miss driving, although I have the constant nagging feeling that I need to run errands in places only accessible by car. I also don't miss teaching, which is so often an exercise in frustration and even futility. I do miss gardening and yard work, even mowing the lawn. I miss my yoga class a lot and long to ride my bike again. I really miss my Weight Watchers meetings: without them I am floundering in a sea of mental cravings for hot fudge sundaes and guilt from overeating. The predictable but comforting routine of my pre-retinal detachment life is something I yearn for even though I detested its predictability and lack of adventure. France and Ecuador have been my only forays into adventure in the past two years. I need more adventure in my life. I realize this even more now that I have been sidelined. I wish Curtiss could be my companion in future adventures--we had many in New York City and in Paris together. But I am afraid that he will never be strong enough again for the kinds of adventures I crave.
Who will accompany me? Adventures are lonely when you are alone: I am convinced that being with my son in the jungle added a richness to the experience which it would otherwise have lacked. And in writing these lines I have suddenly realized that my son was born with a sense of adventure and he communicated it to me on this recent trip. He urged me to jump into the murky river and follow the jungle trail without fear. And I felt that I was truly living for the first time in a long time. Since my last trip to France, in fact, which, although it did not require risking physical danger, did require traveling through a big foreign city alone much of the time, armed with only minimal French.
Here's to more adventures and laughing at habitual patterns.
I do have to sleep prone for 8 hours.
Being up and around has been a strange experience. Having a bandage over your eye prompts sympathetic passers-by to say things like "Oh, that must really hurt!" and offer to do things for you. I have the staggering walk of an alcoholic because I am not yet accustomed to my lack of depth perception. I have defied medical advice and carried home 10 lbs. of groceries from the supermarket because if I didn't, no one else would.
And, not to sound trite but walking around in the July sunshine feels fantastic after weeks of lying prone indoors. Yesterday late afternoon was perfect weather--not hot, but warm and dry with a light breeze. I soaked it up, knowing that the unbearably humid July New England weather would be here all too soon. And sure enough, today was sullenly humid with clouds that refused to produce the predicted thunderstorms. I stayed indoors in my air-conditioned bedroom all day because I didn't want my bangs to frizz. Yes, that's the truth, ladies and gentlemen, and I am not proud of it. It occurred to me today that my hair was a frizzy nightmare the entire 4 days I spent in the rain forest. Yet I still long to return. Once I got there, though, I would be trying in vain to make myself look presentable as I did every morning. Habitual patterns have a way of asserting themselves even in the jungle. I ended up slicking my bangs down with straightening gel which was of no use whatsoever in straightening. Then I pinned it all to the side of my head and braided my hair into pigtails. With my glasses and safari hat on, I looked like an extra on Freaks and Geeks. But it was worth it. I'd gladly go through hair hell again to be back there with the squirrel monkeys, the parrots, and the orapendulas. Even the tarantulas, boas, and piranhas. In The Catcher in the Rye Holden Caulfield says near the end that sooner or later you end up missing everybody. And it's true. I even miss my compulsions when I can't give full vent to them.
My eyes welled up with tears a week or so ago when I was about to board the T and overheard two women speaking French. I still have a terrible, lonely nostalgia for France, especially Paris. France and Ecuador. If only I had serious money I could divide my time between them. But I can only dream about it.
I can't say that I miss driving, although I have the constant nagging feeling that I need to run errands in places only accessible by car. I also don't miss teaching, which is so often an exercise in frustration and even futility. I do miss gardening and yard work, even mowing the lawn. I miss my yoga class a lot and long to ride my bike again. I really miss my Weight Watchers meetings: without them I am floundering in a sea of mental cravings for hot fudge sundaes and guilt from overeating. The predictable but comforting routine of my pre-retinal detachment life is something I yearn for even though I detested its predictability and lack of adventure. France and Ecuador have been my only forays into adventure in the past two years. I need more adventure in my life. I realize this even more now that I have been sidelined. I wish Curtiss could be my companion in future adventures--we had many in New York City and in Paris together. But I am afraid that he will never be strong enough again for the kinds of adventures I crave.
Who will accompany me? Adventures are lonely when you are alone: I am convinced that being with my son in the jungle added a richness to the experience which it would otherwise have lacked. And in writing these lines I have suddenly realized that my son was born with a sense of adventure and he communicated it to me on this recent trip. He urged me to jump into the murky river and follow the jungle trail without fear. And I felt that I was truly living for the first time in a long time. Since my last trip to France, in fact, which, although it did not require risking physical danger, did require traveling through a big foreign city alone much of the time, armed with only minimal French.
Here's to more adventures and laughing at habitual patterns.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Could I still be hot?
My personal assistant is 21 years old and about to graduate from a famous music college which shall remain nameless--it's the one I teach at, and I don't need any trouble from them. She is a brilliant Renaissance woman who can play jazz piano like Oscar Peterson (and I am not exaggerating) She can sing in a unique, quirky jazz voice. She writes great songs. She takes photographs like a professional fashion photographer. She paints and makes films. She does everything well. She has been helping me to give my flagging performing career a shot in the ass. She got me in touch with a web designer who redesigned my website, she designed and printed business cards for me, she took hundreds of photos, and she got a special phone number that people can call to book me--they will get her on the phone. In theory this should all work like a charm, but I have not gotten any gigs as a result of this yet and it's almost a year. It is so exquisitely difficult to put yourself on the map as a musician at any age, and if you have not succeeded in doing so by the age I am now, you are at a distinct disadvantage.
The economic downturn isn't helping things. Being a jazz musician is 3 strikes against you right there. I have heard of bands that developed a following when they got a million hits on their YouTube video. They don't play very many shows. Apparently their young fans are content to download mP3s of their music. The question is: How do you come up with the next big thing song-wise?
There is also the issue of getting tired of playing jazz, which I have been doing for 30 years. While I love free jazz, almost no one else does. Playing standards no longer excites me after 30 years. And even when I was young I didn't want to be Diana Krall. I am now over 50 and I hope it is not too late to re-invent myself. I told myself I would never sing again, but it's a fact that singers are wildly more popular than the most accomplished instrumentalist. Lady Gaga knows this instinctively. Although she can play jazz standards, she sings (and extremely well) and uses the piano as a prop. When she does play, she plays minimally. It's all about the performance with her even though she has a lot of musical talent. She has created a persona in much the same way Madonna created Madonna, the difference being that Madonna has little musical talent. Even if I were to start writing catchy soulful R&B dance tunes right now, I would still be faced with the problem that even Madonna at age 50 doesn't look that great in her underwear on stage. Photos can be morphed with Photoshop (I look like a better version of my 21 year old self) but when you are onstage, you are...well, onstage in all your glory or lack thereof. I wouldn't have to go the dance route--I could do the Nora Jones thing, or the Sarah McLachlan thing, and be the pensive singer-songwriter. I am not sure if I am ready for this yet.
Although my assistant and my BF say I look hot, I don't quite believe them. I have never thought of myself as a beautiful, sexy woman. Thinking of yourself that way is 99% of it.
Last night I was on Facebook and one of my former students, now in his mid to late 20s, suddenly popped up on chat. He was flirting with me and apologized for being "inappropriate" when he said I should wear hot outfits when I perform and I would have a huge male following. He knows that I am old enough to be his mother, and in any case I am not contemplating cheating on my BF with him. But maybe he has a point and I could still give the illusion of being hot (as I see it--that isn't what he said.)
I need to experiment with some hot outfits. I also need to compose some hot songs and maybe start singing them. Or am I abandoning my free jazz dreams? is it possible to play free jazz, be popular with millions of young people, and be hot all at the same time? And do I have the courage to go that route?
The economic downturn isn't helping things. Being a jazz musician is 3 strikes against you right there. I have heard of bands that developed a following when they got a million hits on their YouTube video. They don't play very many shows. Apparently their young fans are content to download mP3s of their music. The question is: How do you come up with the next big thing song-wise?
There is also the issue of getting tired of playing jazz, which I have been doing for 30 years. While I love free jazz, almost no one else does. Playing standards no longer excites me after 30 years. And even when I was young I didn't want to be Diana Krall. I am now over 50 and I hope it is not too late to re-invent myself. I told myself I would never sing again, but it's a fact that singers are wildly more popular than the most accomplished instrumentalist. Lady Gaga knows this instinctively. Although she can play jazz standards, she sings (and extremely well) and uses the piano as a prop. When she does play, she plays minimally. It's all about the performance with her even though she has a lot of musical talent. She has created a persona in much the same way Madonna created Madonna, the difference being that Madonna has little musical talent. Even if I were to start writing catchy soulful R&B dance tunes right now, I would still be faced with the problem that even Madonna at age 50 doesn't look that great in her underwear on stage. Photos can be morphed with Photoshop (I look like a better version of my 21 year old self) but when you are onstage, you are...well, onstage in all your glory or lack thereof. I wouldn't have to go the dance route--I could do the Nora Jones thing, or the Sarah McLachlan thing, and be the pensive singer-songwriter. I am not sure if I am ready for this yet.
Although my assistant and my BF say I look hot, I don't quite believe them. I have never thought of myself as a beautiful, sexy woman. Thinking of yourself that way is 99% of it.
Last night I was on Facebook and one of my former students, now in his mid to late 20s, suddenly popped up on chat. He was flirting with me and apologized for being "inappropriate" when he said I should wear hot outfits when I perform and I would have a huge male following. He knows that I am old enough to be his mother, and in any case I am not contemplating cheating on my BF with him. But maybe he has a point and I could still give the illusion of being hot (as I see it--that isn't what he said.)
I need to experiment with some hot outfits. I also need to compose some hot songs and maybe start singing them. Or am I abandoning my free jazz dreams? is it possible to play free jazz, be popular with millions of young people, and be hot all at the same time? And do I have the courage to go that route?
Monday, July 4, 2011
Through the Looking Glass (Bubble)
I’ve been watching the gas bubble in my eye shrink gradually since it was put there by Dr. Sang, retinal surgeon, about a month ago. It used to cover the entire field of vision in my left eye, and looking through it was very much like looking through the bottom of a drinking glass: you can tell what things are, but they are very blurry and distorted. I imagine that this was the way James Thurber (who eventually became almost totally blind) saw the world.
The gas bubble eventually gets absorbed by the body. At the moment, my left eye appears to hold a clear grayish orb which shivers like Jello whenever I move my head.
The upper arc of the orb is like the dark horizon of the ocean at night as seen from a boat.
Above the arc is a clear area through which I can see objects across the room, although they are blurry without my glasses. With glasses, my vision above the arc of the bubble is only a little less clear than it was before the operation. This gives me hope that my vision will return, although I’m told that the process takes several months.
I am now allowed to walk around all day. I am still not allowed to lie on my back, bend with my head below my waist, exercise, drive, or play the piano with “large body movements.” My piano, in any event, is miserably out of tune and cannot be tuned until July 14. I have been watching a frightening amount of TV. This can’t be good for my brain cells and maybe isn’t even good for my vision. If I attempt to read, I get eyestrain and headaches. So that leaves watching TV marathons of the Twilight Zone and Drop Dead Diva. Also the modern day Sherlock Holmes series on PBS which I have summoned onto my computer screen. Curtiss and I watched several Coen brothers movies together. And other guilty pleasures—though I hesitate to describe them thus—like Hoarders and Say Yes to the Dress (These TV reality shows are like watching a car wreck: you know you shouldn’t but you just can’t look away.) Distractions are good for warding off depression. And TV will do nicely if you can’t read a book.
Everyone tells me to get audio books, but they are as expensive as regular books and I have no income for the foreseeable future. Most of the podcasts I download end up putting me to sleep (if you suffer from insomnia, listen to the Journal of Neurology podcasts—works like a charm.) And I have had to stop listening to radio because world events depress me even more. Listening to music is OK, but makes me feel unproductive. I have certain musician friends who, if sidelined this way, would be tapping and recording polyrhythms, singing melodies, practicing their ear training, transcribing, etc. There is always something you can do if you are determined enough. But I can’t motivate myself to do anything that requires more activity than just passively sitting in a chair or on my bed. This is the first time I have defied eyestrain to type on my laptop for more than a minute or so at a time. I suppose it will get better if after I see the doc tomorrow she says I can drive and/or exercise. I need to get back to my habitual patterns.
The gas bubble eventually gets absorbed by the body. At the moment, my left eye appears to hold a clear grayish orb which shivers like Jello whenever I move my head.
The upper arc of the orb is like the dark horizon of the ocean at night as seen from a boat.
Above the arc is a clear area through which I can see objects across the room, although they are blurry without my glasses. With glasses, my vision above the arc of the bubble is only a little less clear than it was before the operation. This gives me hope that my vision will return, although I’m told that the process takes several months.
I am now allowed to walk around all day. I am still not allowed to lie on my back, bend with my head below my waist, exercise, drive, or play the piano with “large body movements.” My piano, in any event, is miserably out of tune and cannot be tuned until July 14. I have been watching a frightening amount of TV. This can’t be good for my brain cells and maybe isn’t even good for my vision. If I attempt to read, I get eyestrain and headaches. So that leaves watching TV marathons of the Twilight Zone and Drop Dead Diva. Also the modern day Sherlock Holmes series on PBS which I have summoned onto my computer screen. Curtiss and I watched several Coen brothers movies together. And other guilty pleasures—though I hesitate to describe them thus—like Hoarders and Say Yes to the Dress (These TV reality shows are like watching a car wreck: you know you shouldn’t but you just can’t look away.) Distractions are good for warding off depression. And TV will do nicely if you can’t read a book.
Everyone tells me to get audio books, but they are as expensive as regular books and I have no income for the foreseeable future. Most of the podcasts I download end up putting me to sleep (if you suffer from insomnia, listen to the Journal of Neurology podcasts—works like a charm.) And I have had to stop listening to radio because world events depress me even more. Listening to music is OK, but makes me feel unproductive. I have certain musician friends who, if sidelined this way, would be tapping and recording polyrhythms, singing melodies, practicing their ear training, transcribing, etc. There is always something you can do if you are determined enough. But I can’t motivate myself to do anything that requires more activity than just passively sitting in a chair or on my bed. This is the first time I have defied eyestrain to type on my laptop for more than a minute or so at a time. I suppose it will get better if after I see the doc tomorrow she says I can drive and/or exercise. I need to get back to my habitual patterns.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Some real angst
Wednesday (June 1) I went to my eye doctor because of a shadow in my field of vision in my left eye. It turns out that I have a retinal detachment, a condition that can result in blindness if I don't have an operation immediately. In the course of being examined by 4 doctors (!) it was determined that I need a vitrectomy (removal of the vitreous fluid inside the eye and surgically re-attaching the retina.) I was referred to one of the best retina surgeons in the country, who spoke to me for an hour about the operation and the followup (aftercare) The op isn't a big deal--I had cataract surgery and this is similar. But post-op, I have to stay lying in bed on my stomach with my right cheek on the mattress for 23 out of 24 hours a day for two weeks! Actually, she said that I should only get up to go to the bathroom, but I'm hoping I'm allowed to brush my teeth too! Then, for the next two weeks, I still have to do this but I am allowed three 2 hour periods a day on my feet. Then, for the 5th week, I only have to do it at night. This is done so that the retina heals in exactly the right way with no scar tissue (which I am susceptible to since I have recurring eye inflammation which contributed to this problem.) So, the surgery is this Friday, and tomorrow (Thurs.) I have to go to a pre-op appointment at Mass Eye and Ear.
I will not be able to work for 5 weeks. I have had to cancel literally everything on my calendar for 5 weeks. My father and brother have offered to send me money, so my main worry has been alleviated somewhat. I broke down in the doctor's office and apologized profusely--I usually can't cry in front of people and rarely cry in general, but the stress of not being able to work with Curtiss on disability gave rise to fears that I would not be able to pay my mortgage and bills. The prestigious and very impressive Dr. Sang thought that perhaps my students could come to me once I was able to get up for a few hours a day. I didn't have the heart to tell her that things just don't work that way at Berklee. She was very kind, but she was also very insistent that I have the surgery and that I follow her instructions to the letter afterwards. It seems that I am at risk for the formation of excessive scar tissue (because of my uveitis) which threatens to detach the retina again once it is healed.
The idea is to have it heal just enough (not enough means it won't stick to the back of the eye, and too much means scar tissue formation) so it is a tricky, delicate process. Whereas most people have a 90% chance of success with no future detachments, my chances are only 80-85%. Still pretty good odds, though.
Dr. Sang amazed me by rattling off a rapid-fire list of descriptions to her nurse, who typed them into a computer. This was while she was shining the slit lamp into my eyes (checking both eyes to make sure that nothing was wrong with the right eye) and gazing through a complicated lens to get an even better view. These descriptions occasionally had the word "normal" in them, which made me feel a little better, and lots of opthamological shorthand such as OS (left eye, or os sinister) and OD ( right eye, or os dexter) I felt better until she told me that there were about 20 million pigment cells floating around in my vitreous which had no business being there--they were supposed to be in fluid safely confined behind the retina, but they had now broken loose to cause trouble, namely by increasing inflammation in the eye which will slow the healing process. So Dr. Sang brought out the big prednisone pill guns--I took one tonight and I'm supposed to take another tomorrow--plus the eyedrops that fight inflammation (4X a day tomorrow)
Dr. Sang succeeded where three docs before her (including Dr. Foster) had failed: she found the holes in my retina, which were very small and elusive. By the time I reached her at about 4:30 pm, my eye had been poked, prodded, and abused by bright light from about 8 a.m. until 11 a.m. My eye muscles were sore from moving up, down, right, and left as I was instructed. I wasn't looking forward to another bout with the slit lamp. And the final round with Dr. Sang was more painful and uncomfortable than the previous bouts: she had to hold my lid open with an instrument that pinched. While this was nothing compared to labor pains, it was still no day at the beach. It seemed like forever but in fact it probably only took about 5 minutes. She was speedier than the other doctors and she knew exactly what she was looking for. She proceeded to explain the operation to me using several excellent analogies--the structure of the eye is hard for the lay person to understand, but she was well-practiced at explaining. I was referred to her by Dr. Foster, who for about 6 years now has been assiduously trying to cure my persistent uveitis. Dr. Foster is a world-famous expert in inflammatory eye disease, so I would expect him to refer me to someone similar for this surgery. Dr. Foster's mottoes (which are inscribed on two pieces of crystal in a glass case in the lobby of his office) are "Whatever it takes" and "Never, never give up." Now, this may sound corny, but I have tried to adopt these as my own mottoes. I am normally persistent in most things and not prone to giving up, but this eye condition has been extremely discouraging and demoralizing, especially since it has contributed to an even more serious condition. I of course will do whatever it takes to save the sight in my left eye, and certainly the post-op instructions are heroic if not fanatical, but at this moment I don't know how the hell I can stay in that prone position day and night without getting bedsores, strained muscles and tendons, and temporary insanity from forced inactivity.
I won't be able to read (eye patch on left eye and right eye sunk into the mattress, as the surgeon described it) or type on a computer. Thank God that a) Curtiss will be here to take care of me and b)this didn't happen in Ecuador. It would have been bad enough in Quito, but at least there are doctors there--what if it had occurred in the rain forest? Flying in a plane is absolutely forbidden and I would have risked further damage flying home. Although Dr. S. believes that these tears have been forming slowly over time and doesn't think that the elevations in Ecuador or the flights had anything to do with the problem as it is now.
My best hope is that I will find something funny in the experience of immobility that I am about to have. Funny or instructive, perhaps in a spiritual way. It will force me to abandon my habitual patterns, as the Buddhists call them: being online, watching TV, listening to progressive political polemics on talk radio, practicing, exercising, tracking my food intake a la Weight Watchers, tidying up the house, yard work, driving, shopping, even reading. Actually, everything you do on a daily basis is a habitual pattern, even meditation. But the ones that are particularly insidious tend to be the addictive ones and ones that usually involve multitasking. I think I could use a vacation from multitasking. Who knows, my mind and mood might emerge stronger from this. But I could also take to drinking. I had a large brandy tonight which was the only thing that took my mind off this for a while. And I am willing myself not to cry because my left eye hurts and it's red, and I don't want to make matters worse.
OK, bright side: I don't have to worry about money (as my father said emphatically at least 3 times on the phone) I have Curtiss to help me and a brilliant surgeon will be operating on me. Something can and will be done to fix my eye and even maybe prevent future detachments. They probably couldn't do this 50 years ago. Lots of people have to do something similar to the regimen I'm getting. Also, lots of people have to lie on their backs for weeks after back surgery. People have their legs in casts and suspension for weeks and can't work. I'm not the only one. So I'm not going to ask, Why me? Why shouldn't it be me?
I will not be able to work for 5 weeks. I have had to cancel literally everything on my calendar for 5 weeks. My father and brother have offered to send me money, so my main worry has been alleviated somewhat. I broke down in the doctor's office and apologized profusely--I usually can't cry in front of people and rarely cry in general, but the stress of not being able to work with Curtiss on disability gave rise to fears that I would not be able to pay my mortgage and bills. The prestigious and very impressive Dr. Sang thought that perhaps my students could come to me once I was able to get up for a few hours a day. I didn't have the heart to tell her that things just don't work that way at Berklee. She was very kind, but she was also very insistent that I have the surgery and that I follow her instructions to the letter afterwards. It seems that I am at risk for the formation of excessive scar tissue (because of my uveitis) which threatens to detach the retina again once it is healed.
The idea is to have it heal just enough (not enough means it won't stick to the back of the eye, and too much means scar tissue formation) so it is a tricky, delicate process. Whereas most people have a 90% chance of success with no future detachments, my chances are only 80-85%. Still pretty good odds, though.
Dr. Sang amazed me by rattling off a rapid-fire list of descriptions to her nurse, who typed them into a computer. This was while she was shining the slit lamp into my eyes (checking both eyes to make sure that nothing was wrong with the right eye) and gazing through a complicated lens to get an even better view. These descriptions occasionally had the word "normal" in them, which made me feel a little better, and lots of opthamological shorthand such as OS (left eye, or os sinister) and OD ( right eye, or os dexter) I felt better until she told me that there were about 20 million pigment cells floating around in my vitreous which had no business being there--they were supposed to be in fluid safely confined behind the retina, but they had now broken loose to cause trouble, namely by increasing inflammation in the eye which will slow the healing process. So Dr. Sang brought out the big prednisone pill guns--I took one tonight and I'm supposed to take another tomorrow--plus the eyedrops that fight inflammation (4X a day tomorrow)
Dr. Sang succeeded where three docs before her (including Dr. Foster) had failed: she found the holes in my retina, which were very small and elusive. By the time I reached her at about 4:30 pm, my eye had been poked, prodded, and abused by bright light from about 8 a.m. until 11 a.m. My eye muscles were sore from moving up, down, right, and left as I was instructed. I wasn't looking forward to another bout with the slit lamp. And the final round with Dr. Sang was more painful and uncomfortable than the previous bouts: she had to hold my lid open with an instrument that pinched. While this was nothing compared to labor pains, it was still no day at the beach. It seemed like forever but in fact it probably only took about 5 minutes. She was speedier than the other doctors and she knew exactly what she was looking for. She proceeded to explain the operation to me using several excellent analogies--the structure of the eye is hard for the lay person to understand, but she was well-practiced at explaining. I was referred to her by Dr. Foster, who for about 6 years now has been assiduously trying to cure my persistent uveitis. Dr. Foster is a world-famous expert in inflammatory eye disease, so I would expect him to refer me to someone similar for this surgery. Dr. Foster's mottoes (which are inscribed on two pieces of crystal in a glass case in the lobby of his office) are "Whatever it takes" and "Never, never give up." Now, this may sound corny, but I have tried to adopt these as my own mottoes. I am normally persistent in most things and not prone to giving up, but this eye condition has been extremely discouraging and demoralizing, especially since it has contributed to an even more serious condition. I of course will do whatever it takes to save the sight in my left eye, and certainly the post-op instructions are heroic if not fanatical, but at this moment I don't know how the hell I can stay in that prone position day and night without getting bedsores, strained muscles and tendons, and temporary insanity from forced inactivity.
I won't be able to read (eye patch on left eye and right eye sunk into the mattress, as the surgeon described it) or type on a computer. Thank God that a) Curtiss will be here to take care of me and b)this didn't happen in Ecuador. It would have been bad enough in Quito, but at least there are doctors there--what if it had occurred in the rain forest? Flying in a plane is absolutely forbidden and I would have risked further damage flying home. Although Dr. S. believes that these tears have been forming slowly over time and doesn't think that the elevations in Ecuador or the flights had anything to do with the problem as it is now.
My best hope is that I will find something funny in the experience of immobility that I am about to have. Funny or instructive, perhaps in a spiritual way. It will force me to abandon my habitual patterns, as the Buddhists call them: being online, watching TV, listening to progressive political polemics on talk radio, practicing, exercising, tracking my food intake a la Weight Watchers, tidying up the house, yard work, driving, shopping, even reading. Actually, everything you do on a daily basis is a habitual pattern, even meditation. But the ones that are particularly insidious tend to be the addictive ones and ones that usually involve multitasking. I think I could use a vacation from multitasking. Who knows, my mind and mood might emerge stronger from this. But I could also take to drinking. I had a large brandy tonight which was the only thing that took my mind off this for a while. And I am willing myself not to cry because my left eye hurts and it's red, and I don't want to make matters worse.
OK, bright side: I don't have to worry about money (as my father said emphatically at least 3 times on the phone) I have Curtiss to help me and a brilliant surgeon will be operating on me. Something can and will be done to fix my eye and even maybe prevent future detachments. They probably couldn't do this 50 years ago. Lots of people have to do something similar to the regimen I'm getting. Also, lots of people have to lie on their backs for weeks after back surgery. People have their legs in casts and suspension for weeks and can't work. I'm not the only one. So I'm not going to ask, Why me? Why shouldn't it be me?
Sunday, May 29, 2011
And you thought men and women had different brains.
The following is an excerpt from an article in Smithsonian magazine called Ten Myths about the Brain.
Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. It was a relief to see this one put to rest, presumably by those in the know. [I bought the silly book with that title about 10 years ago. I'm no scientist, but I thought the observations were based on stereotypes.] The entire article is worth reading. I was absurdly happy to learn that, contrary to popular belief, we do not use only 10% of our brains. And that the brain is not like a computer, or the Internet, or a social network. Sometimes a brain is only a brain.
Men are from Mars, women are from Venus.
Some of the sloppiest, shoddiest, most biased, least reproducible, worst designed and most overinterpreted research in the history of science purports to provide biological explanations for differences between men and women. Eminent neuroscientists once claimed that head size, spinal ganglia or brain stem structures were responsible for women’s inability to think creatively, vote logically or practice medicine. Today the theories are a bit more sophisticated: men supposedly have more specialized brain hemispheres, women more elaborate emotion circuits. Though there are some differences (minor and uncorrelated with any particular ability) between male and female brains, the main problem with looking for correlations with behavior is that sex differences in cognition are massively exaggerated.
Women are thought to outperform men on tests of empathy. They do—unless test subjects are told that men are particularly good at the test, in which case men perform as well as or better than women. The same pattern holds in reverse for tests of spatial reasoning. Whenever stereotypes are brought to mind, even by something as simple as asking test subjects to check a box next to their gender, sex differences are exaggerated. Women college students told that a test is something women usually do poorly on, do poorly. Women college students told that a test is something college students usually do well on, do well. Across countries—and across time—the more prevalent the belief is that men are better than women in math, the greater the difference in girls’ and boys’ math scores. And that’s not because girls in Iceland have more specialized brain hemispheres than do girls in Italy.
Certain sex differences are enormously important to us when we’re looking for a mate, but when it comes to most of what our brains do most of the time—perceive the world, direct attention, learn new skills, encode memories, communicate (no, women don’t speak more than men do), judge other people’s emotions (no, men aren’t inept at this)—men and women have almost entirely overlapping and fully Earth-bound abilities.
Read more: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/Top-Ten-Myths-About-the-Brain.html#ixzz1NoXTvdlD
Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. It was a relief to see this one put to rest, presumably by those in the know. [I bought the silly book with that title about 10 years ago. I'm no scientist, but I thought the observations were based on stereotypes.] The entire article is worth reading. I was absurdly happy to learn that, contrary to popular belief, we do not use only 10% of our brains. And that the brain is not like a computer, or the Internet, or a social network. Sometimes a brain is only a brain.
Men are from Mars, women are from Venus.
Some of the sloppiest, shoddiest, most biased, least reproducible, worst designed and most overinterpreted research in the history of science purports to provide biological explanations for differences between men and women. Eminent neuroscientists once claimed that head size, spinal ganglia or brain stem structures were responsible for women’s inability to think creatively, vote logically or practice medicine. Today the theories are a bit more sophisticated: men supposedly have more specialized brain hemispheres, women more elaborate emotion circuits. Though there are some differences (minor and uncorrelated with any particular ability) between male and female brains, the main problem with looking for correlations with behavior is that sex differences in cognition are massively exaggerated.
Women are thought to outperform men on tests of empathy. They do—unless test subjects are told that men are particularly good at the test, in which case men perform as well as or better than women. The same pattern holds in reverse for tests of spatial reasoning. Whenever stereotypes are brought to mind, even by something as simple as asking test subjects to check a box next to their gender, sex differences are exaggerated. Women college students told that a test is something women usually do poorly on, do poorly. Women college students told that a test is something college students usually do well on, do well. Across countries—and across time—the more prevalent the belief is that men are better than women in math, the greater the difference in girls’ and boys’ math scores. And that’s not because girls in Iceland have more specialized brain hemispheres than do girls in Italy.
Certain sex differences are enormously important to us when we’re looking for a mate, but when it comes to most of what our brains do most of the time—perceive the world, direct attention, learn new skills, encode memories, communicate (no, women don’t speak more than men do), judge other people’s emotions (no, men aren’t inept at this)—men and women have almost entirely overlapping and fully Earth-bound abilities.
Read more: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/Top-Ten-Myths-About-the-Brain.html#ixzz1NoXTvdlD
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
On flying, risks, and the end of the world: May 21, 2011
I am on the penultimate flight of my trip home from Quito. I am headed to Miami, and after a 3 hour layover, I will fly to Boston. I can’t sleep on the plane despite only 3.5 hours of sleep last night. I had to catch a 6:40 a.m. flight, and when I got to the airport at 4:45 there was a huge line of people waiting to check in. Things moved excruciatingly slowly, but I finally got past customs and onto the plane just under the wire!
I have just watched The Tourist, an Angelina Jolie/Johnny Depp vehicle which is the onboard movie. A predictable story, but just watching the two handsomest actors in the movie business is soothing to me and keeps my mind off my fear of heights and being in planes at 30,000 feet. It’s not a paralyzing fear. I have convinced myself on an intellectual level that flying is safer than driving or any other means of transportation, but on a visceral level, I don’t believe it. I hate being in a cramped and uncomfortable seat with my ears popping and occasionally painful from rapid ascents and descents. It feels like some kind of punishment. I have already read the SkyMall catalog, wondering who actually buys this stuff, and the airline magazine (which is boring enough to put me to sleep but doesn’t) so I whip out my travel diary and begin writing to distract myself from the discomfort.
If Ecuador were any less wonderful, it would not have been worth the 15+ hours of travel time each way that are required. You have to devote a whole day of your vacation to getting there and another to getting home. Seeing Ecuador and my son did make it all worthwhile, but I think I’m done flying for a while. Some people say that getting there is half the fun, but every time I travel by plane I thank God not only that I made it to solid ground alive but also that I don’t have a job (like my friend Barbara) which requires a lot of air travel. It’s exhausting, irritating, maddeningly inefficient, dehydrating, deep-vein thrombosis-inducing, and most of all, IT TAKES FOREVER. OK, I’m done complaining now. The one compensation that air travel offers apart from seeing the world and one’s family is spectacular views from up in the clouds. Coming into and flying out of Quito, you see some of the most beautiful sights in nature, and they are only
visible at 10,000 feet and above. A sea of cumulus clouds. Volcanic peaks 14,000 ft. high and covered with snow. Sunlight glinting on the metal roofs of buildings when you get a little lower. Patchwork of greens and browns. Even the seacoast line of Miami alongside tall buildings is magnificent to behold.
There are just some things in life that require trust and faith even if you are a nonbeliever. The anesthesiologist, the heart or brain surgeon who operates on you or a loved one, for example. You put your life in their hands because you know they have been trained long and hard NOT TO MAKE A FATAL MISTAKE. The odds of waking up/surviving the surgery are in your favor except with some emergency life-saving procedures. I’m told that the pilots who fly in and out of Quito are the best in the business because it is exceedingly difficult to land on the very short landing strip. This gives me a certain degree of reassurance. And of course it has been proven that flying is infinitely safer than driving or riding in a car. The act of driving especially gives you a false sense of being in control. You have to have this delusion or you would never drive anywhere. Sort of like hiking through the Ecuadoran jungle and fearlessly not expecting a 25 foot long boa constrictor to drop on you from a tree or slither stealthily up behind you. You can’t afford to have these kinds of fears if you ever expect to have exciting jungle adventures (which more often than not don’t involve dangerous snakes.) And when you are being slowly lifted in a cable car on a ski lift type cable which is taking you up the side of a very tall mountain, you have to have faith that those cables (which look very thick and strong) are not going to snap. (I’m referring to the Teleferico in Quito, which took me up Pichincha, a 14,000 foot peak. Once it let me off, there was still quite a distance to hike if you wanted to reach the summit and see the volcano. I chose to do the easiest hike, since the air was thin and I was gasping for breath.) And speaking of volcanoes: This one hasn’t erupted in a very long time, but there are active vocanoes in Ecuador which my fearless son has viewed from what I consider to be an unsafe distance. But it must be safe or they wouldn’t let tourists go there! Or would they?
Getting back to air travel: what about the threat of terrorism? My answer: after the grueling inspections I went through in both airport security and customs (Quito officials searched everyone’s carryons a second time after they had gone through the X-ray scanner) I can say with confidence that it is virtually impossible for anyone to get on board an aircraft with a gun, blade, poison, or bomb. Now that Obama and the Seals have taken out bin Laden, there is supposedly the threat of terrorist retaliation, but if there is an incident, it won’t be on board a plane unless they are able to pull off an inside job involving an evil pilot and copilot. Not likely.
So: I have effectively argued against irrational fears of heights, flying, riding in a cable car up the side of a mountain, and hiking through the jungle. WHAT ABOUT THE END OF THE WORLD?
No less a source than the New York Times had an article yesterday about a fanatical Christian group which prophesied the end of the world on May 21, 2011. It’s not clear where this information came from, but apparently not from Jesus. I’m wondering why they didn’t give us more notice—say six months—so we could all get our affairs in order, at least wash the car and get someone to feed the cat, and in general do whatever is necessary to guarantee inclusion in the Rapture. Because we all know what happens to the people who aren’t Raptured. I haven’t viewed all those great Last Judgment Renaissance paintings for nothing. Wailing and gnashing of teeth, and burning forever in the lake of fire. (See James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man for further details.) The word is that if you do not turn over your soul completely to Jesus, you will not be Raptured. Instead you will be condemned to eternal damnation.
There’s apparently a cover your ass clause in the doomsayers’ prediction: if, as has thus far been my experience (though the day isn’t over yet!) there are no clear signs of the world coming to an end, this simply means that the world HAS BEGUN to come to an end, presumably in ways too tricky, sinister, and subtle to be recognized until it’s too late. Like a panther pouncing on you after following you a mile or so through the forest while you whistled a happy tune. [Update! When the world failed to end as scheduled, the leader of the sect said that God in His mercy had postponed the end of the world until Oct. 21. Whew.] Oh, and lest we forget: it's all the fault of gay people. God decided to destroy the world because gay sex is proliferating! Not because of evil corporations that destroy people's lives and the environment. Not because of murderers, skinheads, fascists, and bigots. Gay people, who dare to love each other.
I would argue that for many of us—-survivors and victims of 9/11, the Haitian earthquake, hurricane Katrina, the tsunamis in Indonesia and Japan, monster tornadoes in the southern U.S., and the many wars which still rage pointlessly in the world today—-the world has already come to an end. In some cases, ten years ago or more. I could also argue that we humans are the architects of our own destruction in our continued foolhardy and desperate search for oil and other non-sustainable fossil fuels. We’re causing wildfires, floods, killer tornadoes the likes of which the world has never seen, deforestation and the resultant extinction and endangerment of animal and plant species. We’re melting the polar ice caps and creating a greenhouse of CO2 instead of an atmosphere. This is more than 40 years after scientists warned us about this. If we had begun work on solar power in 1970 there would be no need for nuclear power today. And to those who say that nuclear power plants are safe, this is my retort:
1) Three Mile Island [contaminated]
2) Chernobyl [contaminated and uninhabitable for decades to come]
3) Reactors in Fukushima, Japan [damaged by a tsunami which destroyed the cooling system, with the result of cores overheating and the release of radioactive isotopes like cesium into ground water and being dumped into the ocean in an attempt to cool down the cores and avoid meltdown] Traces of radiation being detected in vegetables and milk. After two months, cores are still overheated. Scary.
4) NUCLEAR WASTE. Just what are we supposed to do with lethally poisonous by-products of nuclear fission, some of which will remain radioactive for tens and maybe hundreds of years? BURY IT IN THE DESERT? YEAH, RIGHT. NOT AN OPTION. NOR IS SENDING PLUTONIUM INTO SPACE (WHAT GENIUS CAME UP WITH THAT PLAN?) WHEN ONE TINY PARTICLE CAN CAUSE LUNG CANCER.
These are the things that we should be afraid of, people. They are the end of the world.
But it seems that greed is a more powerful motivator than fear or even caution.
The ancient Siona shaman I met in Cuyabeno said that in the sixty-plus years he has lived on a certain reservation on the river, he has seen animals dwindle in number and disappear. Some of this is from over-hunting and fishing but the biggest problem is oil companies deforesting the jungle. Our jungle guide, Hugo, showed us a patch of “young” forest which is what grew after oil companies slashed and burned the forest more than 25 years ago. THE TREES WILL NEVER BE THE SAME. And no one stopped the oil companies, who just did whatever they wanted because they could. Today they are more restricted in their depredation, but it continues. The road to Cuyabeno is lined with huge storage tanks and oil fires burning off impurities. Insidiously, the companies offer the poor local people low-paying jobs. The people continue to live in the hundreds of wretched shacks that also line the road to Cuyabeno.
This will be one of the many environmental/humanitarian battles that my son and his generation will have to fight. My generation has utterly failed. We have either joined the ranks of the enemy, or we ignored at our peril the dead canary in the mineshaft. Seduced by consumer goods and technological toys, we continue to be in denial about the future of this planet. Al Gore, an expert on this subject, has warned us that we may already have reached the tipping point. We may have irreparably destroyed the climate of the earth that our children and grandchildren will inherit. It is to be hoped that they will clean up the mess we self-absorbed postwar babies have made.
WELCOME TO THE END OF THE WORLD, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.
I have just watched The Tourist, an Angelina Jolie/Johnny Depp vehicle which is the onboard movie. A predictable story, but just watching the two handsomest actors in the movie business is soothing to me and keeps my mind off my fear of heights and being in planes at 30,000 feet. It’s not a paralyzing fear. I have convinced myself on an intellectual level that flying is safer than driving or any other means of transportation, but on a visceral level, I don’t believe it. I hate being in a cramped and uncomfortable seat with my ears popping and occasionally painful from rapid ascents and descents. It feels like some kind of punishment. I have already read the SkyMall catalog, wondering who actually buys this stuff, and the airline magazine (which is boring enough to put me to sleep but doesn’t) so I whip out my travel diary and begin writing to distract myself from the discomfort.
If Ecuador were any less wonderful, it would not have been worth the 15+ hours of travel time each way that are required. You have to devote a whole day of your vacation to getting there and another to getting home. Seeing Ecuador and my son did make it all worthwhile, but I think I’m done flying for a while. Some people say that getting there is half the fun, but every time I travel by plane I thank God not only that I made it to solid ground alive but also that I don’t have a job (like my friend Barbara) which requires a lot of air travel. It’s exhausting, irritating, maddeningly inefficient, dehydrating, deep-vein thrombosis-inducing, and most of all, IT TAKES FOREVER. OK, I’m done complaining now. The one compensation that air travel offers apart from seeing the world and one’s family is spectacular views from up in the clouds. Coming into and flying out of Quito, you see some of the most beautiful sights in nature, and they are only
visible at 10,000 feet and above. A sea of cumulus clouds. Volcanic peaks 14,000 ft. high and covered with snow. Sunlight glinting on the metal roofs of buildings when you get a little lower. Patchwork of greens and browns. Even the seacoast line of Miami alongside tall buildings is magnificent to behold.
There are just some things in life that require trust and faith even if you are a nonbeliever. The anesthesiologist, the heart or brain surgeon who operates on you or a loved one, for example. You put your life in their hands because you know they have been trained long and hard NOT TO MAKE A FATAL MISTAKE. The odds of waking up/surviving the surgery are in your favor except with some emergency life-saving procedures. I’m told that the pilots who fly in and out of Quito are the best in the business because it is exceedingly difficult to land on the very short landing strip. This gives me a certain degree of reassurance. And of course it has been proven that flying is infinitely safer than driving or riding in a car. The act of driving especially gives you a false sense of being in control. You have to have this delusion or you would never drive anywhere. Sort of like hiking through the Ecuadoran jungle and fearlessly not expecting a 25 foot long boa constrictor to drop on you from a tree or slither stealthily up behind you. You can’t afford to have these kinds of fears if you ever expect to have exciting jungle adventures (which more often than not don’t involve dangerous snakes.) And when you are being slowly lifted in a cable car on a ski lift type cable which is taking you up the side of a very tall mountain, you have to have faith that those cables (which look very thick and strong) are not going to snap. (I’m referring to the Teleferico in Quito, which took me up Pichincha, a 14,000 foot peak. Once it let me off, there was still quite a distance to hike if you wanted to reach the summit and see the volcano. I chose to do the easiest hike, since the air was thin and I was gasping for breath.) And speaking of volcanoes: This one hasn’t erupted in a very long time, but there are active vocanoes in Ecuador which my fearless son has viewed from what I consider to be an unsafe distance. But it must be safe or they wouldn’t let tourists go there! Or would they?
Getting back to air travel: what about the threat of terrorism? My answer: after the grueling inspections I went through in both airport security and customs (Quito officials searched everyone’s carryons a second time after they had gone through the X-ray scanner) I can say with confidence that it is virtually impossible for anyone to get on board an aircraft with a gun, blade, poison, or bomb. Now that Obama and the Seals have taken out bin Laden, there is supposedly the threat of terrorist retaliation, but if there is an incident, it won’t be on board a plane unless they are able to pull off an inside job involving an evil pilot and copilot. Not likely.
So: I have effectively argued against irrational fears of heights, flying, riding in a cable car up the side of a mountain, and hiking through the jungle. WHAT ABOUT THE END OF THE WORLD?
No less a source than the New York Times had an article yesterday about a fanatical Christian group which prophesied the end of the world on May 21, 2011. It’s not clear where this information came from, but apparently not from Jesus. I’m wondering why they didn’t give us more notice—say six months—so we could all get our affairs in order, at least wash the car and get someone to feed the cat, and in general do whatever is necessary to guarantee inclusion in the Rapture. Because we all know what happens to the people who aren’t Raptured. I haven’t viewed all those great Last Judgment Renaissance paintings for nothing. Wailing and gnashing of teeth, and burning forever in the lake of fire. (See James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man for further details.) The word is that if you do not turn over your soul completely to Jesus, you will not be Raptured. Instead you will be condemned to eternal damnation.
There’s apparently a cover your ass clause in the doomsayers’ prediction: if, as has thus far been my experience (though the day isn’t over yet!) there are no clear signs of the world coming to an end, this simply means that the world HAS BEGUN to come to an end, presumably in ways too tricky, sinister, and subtle to be recognized until it’s too late. Like a panther pouncing on you after following you a mile or so through the forest while you whistled a happy tune. [Update! When the world failed to end as scheduled, the leader of the sect said that God in His mercy had postponed the end of the world until Oct. 21. Whew.] Oh, and lest we forget: it's all the fault of gay people. God decided to destroy the world because gay sex is proliferating! Not because of evil corporations that destroy people's lives and the environment. Not because of murderers, skinheads, fascists, and bigots. Gay people, who dare to love each other.
I would argue that for many of us—-survivors and victims of 9/11, the Haitian earthquake, hurricane Katrina, the tsunamis in Indonesia and Japan, monster tornadoes in the southern U.S., and the many wars which still rage pointlessly in the world today—-the world has already come to an end. In some cases, ten years ago or more. I could also argue that we humans are the architects of our own destruction in our continued foolhardy and desperate search for oil and other non-sustainable fossil fuels. We’re causing wildfires, floods, killer tornadoes the likes of which the world has never seen, deforestation and the resultant extinction and endangerment of animal and plant species. We’re melting the polar ice caps and creating a greenhouse of CO2 instead of an atmosphere. This is more than 40 years after scientists warned us about this. If we had begun work on solar power in 1970 there would be no need for nuclear power today. And to those who say that nuclear power plants are safe, this is my retort:
1) Three Mile Island [contaminated]
2) Chernobyl [contaminated and uninhabitable for decades to come]
3) Reactors in Fukushima, Japan [damaged by a tsunami which destroyed the cooling system, with the result of cores overheating and the release of radioactive isotopes like cesium into ground water and being dumped into the ocean in an attempt to cool down the cores and avoid meltdown] Traces of radiation being detected in vegetables and milk. After two months, cores are still overheated. Scary.
4) NUCLEAR WASTE. Just what are we supposed to do with lethally poisonous by-products of nuclear fission, some of which will remain radioactive for tens and maybe hundreds of years? BURY IT IN THE DESERT? YEAH, RIGHT. NOT AN OPTION. NOR IS SENDING PLUTONIUM INTO SPACE (WHAT GENIUS CAME UP WITH THAT PLAN?) WHEN ONE TINY PARTICLE CAN CAUSE LUNG CANCER.
These are the things that we should be afraid of, people. They are the end of the world.
But it seems that greed is a more powerful motivator than fear or even caution.
The ancient Siona shaman I met in Cuyabeno said that in the sixty-plus years he has lived on a certain reservation on the river, he has seen animals dwindle in number and disappear. Some of this is from over-hunting and fishing but the biggest problem is oil companies deforesting the jungle. Our jungle guide, Hugo, showed us a patch of “young” forest which is what grew after oil companies slashed and burned the forest more than 25 years ago. THE TREES WILL NEVER BE THE SAME. And no one stopped the oil companies, who just did whatever they wanted because they could. Today they are more restricted in their depredation, but it continues. The road to Cuyabeno is lined with huge storage tanks and oil fires burning off impurities. Insidiously, the companies offer the poor local people low-paying jobs. The people continue to live in the hundreds of wretched shacks that also line the road to Cuyabeno.
This will be one of the many environmental/humanitarian battles that my son and his generation will have to fight. My generation has utterly failed. We have either joined the ranks of the enemy, or we ignored at our peril the dead canary in the mineshaft. Seduced by consumer goods and technological toys, we continue to be in denial about the future of this planet. Al Gore, an expert on this subject, has warned us that we may already have reached the tipping point. We may have irreparably destroyed the climate of the earth that our children and grandchildren will inherit. It is to be hoped that they will clean up the mess we self-absorbed postwar babies have made.
WELCOME TO THE END OF THE WORLD, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.
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