In the past few years I have grown less and less interested in massages - at least the ones you have to pay for, and spend 30 to 60 minutes receiving. Like a gourmet dessert, it's the first bite that is really all you need. Spontaneous neck or foot massages from a loving spouse or child, however, these are of course still priceless. But last week I had an experience that seemed just about as rejuvenating. Maybe more. Any guesses? Nope, wrong.
Wednesday morning I went in for an MRI. After signing in, I was met at the door by a cheery Nigerian man, 'Utibe', with a mustache thin enough to have been painted on in vaudeville style, just not shiny like Groucho's. Seeing me amble forward with my cane, he asked whether I needed a wheelchair. "Not unless you're in a hurry," I said, hobbling along. He chuckled and led me to the men's dressing area, showed me the locker to put my clothes in, and handed me the smocks. As I got into the toga-like garments, and slippers, it felt somehow new and different - refined even - though I had done this at least a dozen times before.
Apparently in a hurry now, he met me at the dressing room door with a wheelchair. I took a seat - no, I'm not proud - and remarked that it was quite comfortable. And I have known a few wheelchairs in my time, I've sat in some real pieces of work. Upon entering the room with the massive tubular machine, I mentioned that it looked new, and he confirmed it was less than a year old. I climbed aboard, handed him my cane, and lay back. "Just one more centimetre," he indicated with his fingers holding an imaginary pencil. I wiggled northward, as I noticed that it was not just new, but also actually comfortable.
For those of you who have never had the pleasure of such an experience, you have to lie with your head in a narrow compartment, and then earplug/spacer thingies (I doubt there is a better word for these) are placed either side of your head between the ears and the side of the opening. Then like a cavalier's helmet, a rigid plastic cover is placed over your head, with a small tilted mirror positioned so that if you wish, you can observe Utibe where he sits monitoring the control board to make sure the scan is proceeding as it should. And I am a model patient, with much experience, both in MRI's and stillness, not moving my wedged-in head - which still could be moved if I needed it to - not even a hair's breadth for the entire forty or so minutes. Unless it moved during one of the two times I fell asleep - but I'm getting ahead of this compelling narrative.
He asks whether I would like to hear music. The aforementioned and auspiciously named earplug/spacer thingies also seem to have audio speakers in them, further complicating the naming issue. I answered that today I'd just like to hear, "hammer music." Another chuckle - this fellow was generous.
In addition to MRI machines getting gradually more comfortable over the past many years, the loud hammering noises they emit - right there next to your head - have gotten more subdued. Sometimes even sounding like a loud hum, or 'white noise.' Not that I have needed such white noise to catch up on my z's. Even back in the day (ten long years ago) I would often fall asleep in the midst of the Hammerklingen Konzert.
Next, as if at a musical bridge, I was awakened by a voice emanating from the twice-aforementioned ear-thingies, as Utibe said it's time for 'the contrast.' This means that gadolinium, a silver-white rare earth element, in an emulsified form, must be injected into the bloodstream. The pre-contrast, and post-contrast images show more clearly the areas of active lesions, where the immune system is busily doing its enigmatic chore of eating away at my nerve casing, or myelin. These active lesions are not what are called 'black holes.' I'm not kidding, that's actually what some doctors call spots that are 'finished,' or inactive scar tissue. But unlike black holes in space, nerve impulses don't fall careening at the speed of light into the ones in your brain - they either have to find a way around, or just take the day off, sittin' by the dock of the bay... Which not coincidentally means that an MS patient will often prefer to just sit by that very same dock...way-ay stin' time. My doctor, a tall, heavy set, and very sweet natured Columbian, does not use this term, he finds it misleading. I'd first heard it used eight years ago by a doctor scanning my images, and the hole which subsequently pierced my self-image did indeed feel as dark and scary as the celestial kind. Some doctors, sheesh... I suppose, without the chaff, it would be harder to appreciate the wheat.
Anyway, back to the 'bridge,' gadolinium. Placing my arm on a platform slid out for just such a purpose, Utibe started to prep the area inside my right elbow. Gloves, alcohol pad, he told me to make a fist. A prick, some mild pain, but no go. He tried again on the back of my hand - a bit more pain, but again no luck. So he went to fetch the guy who would get it first try, definitely, no problem. I assured him it's no big deal, "my personal 'record' is five tries." And I have a friend suffering from metastasized ovarian cancer for over ten years. She's had more than 70 chemotherapy infusions, and her record of failed attempts to hook up the IV - in one sitting, mind you - is eleven! I've got work to do... at this rate I may never catch up. (Gallows humor, in part, but perhaps also a way to make it seem less unseemly... which I guess is the whole point of gallows humor?) So the expert arrived and struck oil first try, as promised, but it was probably the most painful attempt. A pain that sometimes happens, and sometimes doesn't. Back in the day when I was giving myself daily injections - not my time on skid row, no, much later than that, injecting boring old MS medicine - I learned that every place on the skin does not necessarily have a nerve ending. And that by placing the tip of the needle softly on the skin, I could tell whether there was: if I felt nothing, then it was fair game to penetrate. Which worked most of the time. Occasionally there would be a nearby nerve ending that would register only after the pressure of the needle going in affected it. This is the reason that some nurses seem to be 'good' and some 'bad' at giving shots. It's a matter of luck, whether they miss the nerve ending. In my next life, as a nurse, I will ask the patient 'can you feel this?' until they answer no, then I will give the pain-free shot.
But this tangent has drawn out a bit too far by now, time to return to topic, no? Which was...wait, let me guess, the spa? Right, remember that? I'll leave to your own imaginations the process of getting back out of the MRI machine, toga, hospital, etc., though I can imagine you are likely feeling short-changed by this omission. I used to really dislike having to go to the doctor, clinic, or hospital. But more and more, I feel the love and care of these medical professionals, and perhaps with a mindful aspect, am able to take it in as if it were all set up for my very own benefit, which of course it is, just like a spa.
One might call my growing disdain for massage 'anhedonia.' And I don't know what this other stuff about the MRI might be called. But perhaps it's a sign that slowly I'm opening to the miracle of life in all its splendor - whether a mani/pedi/jacuzzi/massage, or an MRI. It inspires me to coin a new word: panhedonia...
Monday, July 23, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
The Cave
I'm trying to find the exact wording of a Zen - or another spiritual tradition's - parable, but I can't find it, and I have spent over a minute searching the web. That's my limit. But what I can do, is make it up, fill in the details that either weren't there to begin with, or that I have forgotten.
So one day the master, sitting where he likes in the afternoon by the pond, receives the recently arrived American novice Jerry-chan. The novice says, "master-san, each day as I wake, I am overcome by disgust that my day-trading career, once so successful, and yet now in tatters, was a complete waste. And that I should have listened to my father's advice to 'pursue a career that gives, for this is the only source of true happiness.' But what did he know, he sold vacuum cleaners for god's sake! And then there is my ex-wife who constantly harangues me for child support, when I can barely make my condo and boat payments. And the Beemer. But the bitc - excuse me - my ex, she got the friggin' house. It's that brat Gerald, sucking the life-blood out of me at that preppie boarding school, scheiße!" Jerry-chan is in his early forties, has some gray in an otherwise stylishly coiffed jet-black hairdo. A two-day beard stubble highlights his angular features, and he is greatly admired for his handsome appearance. Save for the scowl lines that seem to be slowly marking their way down the sides of his mouth. When he isn't forcing his usual game face smile that is, like just now at the monastery. He looks down at the still water beneath them, and says, "and look at this," he gestures with his right hand moving in a circle around his face, "I'm starting to go gray - and look at these," he squints and points at the crow's feet either side of his eyes.
Master Jikan, whose name means 'silent one' looks at Jerry-chan with compassion, and the slightest hint of mirth in the curl of his lips. From his features, he looks like he could be fifty, or a hundred and fifty. He points up the hillside to where the cave is located, and holds up two fingers. Jerry-chan begins guessing, "two hours, days, weeks? What do you mean?" The master's helpers explain that Jerry-chan would need to spend as long as it takes to receive at least two insights that the cave holds.
Having packed his bundle of provisions for what he thought would be an afternoon - tops - he enters the cave. As he proceeds into the increasing darkness, holding a small lantern, by turns he beholds and recoils at the gruesome paintings on the walls. Wild animals, in poses of attack, also take his breath away.
After wandering for many hours, in one large chamber he finds a platform that could serve as a bed. He sits down to meditate in the fashion of the monastery, but soon finds distractions, and all of his worries come to him in relentless waves. Repeating a mantra, or 'following the breath' seem to bring no relief. Within an hour he falls asleep. He dreams of being gored by the ferocious animals, surrounded by other victims in their agony as they had been depicted on the cave walls. He wakes in a cold sweat.
The lamp beside him has gone out, and once he manages to find matches he relights it. Lying on his back, he opens his eyes to behold a mirror on the ceiling of the cave above him. It is just large enough to make out his general form, illuminated as it casts flickering shadows. He does not know how long he has slept, but he feels an overwhelming hunger. He eats a bowl of cold rice with tamari, sips some cool spring water, and packs his satchel. He retraces his steps to the entrance of the cave, where it is morning.
What insight might he have reached? If it isn't too obvious (even Jerry-chan got it), his worries and troubles were every bit as 'real' as these paintings - that is to say, they were inventions from a hypersensitive imagination, not happening now in this moment - and he would go back to them over and over, feeling the same emotions of dread and self-loathing. The insight that took longer to find, was that he alone is responsible for painting these inside the cave of his mind, that there was no source outside his own psyche that tormented him. This second insight was to take him many subsequent visits to the cave, and years of practice. And a further insight, namely how to find refuge from the pain these images and ideas and opinions cause, would take him a decade more.
In the case of Peter-chan - though I heard a much shorter (and hence more powerful) version of the parable some years ago - it only recently made any sense to me. Actually, in the version I heard, the insight - or insights - were not spelled out, but one was left to ponder the idea of a monk, or novice, painting and being frightened by such images, over and over again.
So to further spoil the tale, I'll elaborate: I have come to see how I will continually cast scary images on the walls of the 'cave' in my mind. What could she possibly have meant by that? What if he actually does it, how could I go on living? What will happen if I lose my sight? My ability to walk? To drive?
We can be such masterful painters it seems, scaring ourselves so many many times.
[Bonus question: in my depiction of Jerry-chan (a completely added-on conceit for this telling of the tale), the typical stereotype of what I might consider an antithesis of myself - or at least of my aspirations - have I painted with too broad a brush? Thereby denying the fact the he, like all of us, deserves and wishes to be free of suffering?]
So one day the master, sitting where he likes in the afternoon by the pond, receives the recently arrived American novice Jerry-chan. The novice says, "master-san, each day as I wake, I am overcome by disgust that my day-trading career, once so successful, and yet now in tatters, was a complete waste. And that I should have listened to my father's advice to 'pursue a career that gives, for this is the only source of true happiness.' But what did he know, he sold vacuum cleaners for god's sake! And then there is my ex-wife who constantly harangues me for child support, when I can barely make my condo and boat payments. And the Beemer. But the bitc - excuse me - my ex, she got the friggin' house. It's that brat Gerald, sucking the life-blood out of me at that preppie boarding school, scheiße!" Jerry-chan is in his early forties, has some gray in an otherwise stylishly coiffed jet-black hairdo. A two-day beard stubble highlights his angular features, and he is greatly admired for his handsome appearance. Save for the scowl lines that seem to be slowly marking their way down the sides of his mouth. When he isn't forcing his usual game face smile that is, like just now at the monastery. He looks down at the still water beneath them, and says, "and look at this," he gestures with his right hand moving in a circle around his face, "I'm starting to go gray - and look at these," he squints and points at the crow's feet either side of his eyes.
Master Jikan, whose name means 'silent one' looks at Jerry-chan with compassion, and the slightest hint of mirth in the curl of his lips. From his features, he looks like he could be fifty, or a hundred and fifty. He points up the hillside to where the cave is located, and holds up two fingers. Jerry-chan begins guessing, "two hours, days, weeks? What do you mean?" The master's helpers explain that Jerry-chan would need to spend as long as it takes to receive at least two insights that the cave holds.
Having packed his bundle of provisions for what he thought would be an afternoon - tops - he enters the cave. As he proceeds into the increasing darkness, holding a small lantern, by turns he beholds and recoils at the gruesome paintings on the walls. Wild animals, in poses of attack, also take his breath away.
After wandering for many hours, in one large chamber he finds a platform that could serve as a bed. He sits down to meditate in the fashion of the monastery, but soon finds distractions, and all of his worries come to him in relentless waves. Repeating a mantra, or 'following the breath' seem to bring no relief. Within an hour he falls asleep. He dreams of being gored by the ferocious animals, surrounded by other victims in their agony as they had been depicted on the cave walls. He wakes in a cold sweat.
The lamp beside him has gone out, and once he manages to find matches he relights it. Lying on his back, he opens his eyes to behold a mirror on the ceiling of the cave above him. It is just large enough to make out his general form, illuminated as it casts flickering shadows. He does not know how long he has slept, but he feels an overwhelming hunger. He eats a bowl of cold rice with tamari, sips some cool spring water, and packs his satchel. He retraces his steps to the entrance of the cave, where it is morning.
What insight might he have reached? If it isn't too obvious (even Jerry-chan got it), his worries and troubles were every bit as 'real' as these paintings - that is to say, they were inventions from a hypersensitive imagination, not happening now in this moment - and he would go back to them over and over, feeling the same emotions of dread and self-loathing. The insight that took longer to find, was that he alone is responsible for painting these inside the cave of his mind, that there was no source outside his own psyche that tormented him. This second insight was to take him many subsequent visits to the cave, and years of practice. And a further insight, namely how to find refuge from the pain these images and ideas and opinions cause, would take him a decade more.
In the case of Peter-chan - though I heard a much shorter (and hence more powerful) version of the parable some years ago - it only recently made any sense to me. Actually, in the version I heard, the insight - or insights - were not spelled out, but one was left to ponder the idea of a monk, or novice, painting and being frightened by such images, over and over again.
So to further spoil the tale, I'll elaborate: I have come to see how I will continually cast scary images on the walls of the 'cave' in my mind. What could she possibly have meant by that? What if he actually does it, how could I go on living? What will happen if I lose my sight? My ability to walk? To drive?
We can be such masterful painters it seems, scaring ourselves so many many times.
[Bonus question: in my depiction of Jerry-chan (a completely added-on conceit for this telling of the tale), the typical stereotype of what I might consider an antithesis of myself - or at least of my aspirations - have I painted with too broad a brush? Thereby denying the fact the he, like all of us, deserves and wishes to be free of suffering?]
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Freedom tastes of reality...
There are so many temptations in this world that would have us believe 'if only.' For instance, 'if only so and so were not my boss, then I would be happy, and free of stress.' Or, if only I won the lottery, I would be free of worries.' Or, 'if only I lost 15 pounds, I would feel beautiful, healthy, and be happy.'
In the Judeo-Christian tradition, there are two commandments that warn us not to covet our neighbor's house, or wife. Theft clearly is verboten in all cultures, but the idea that even to want something not belonging to you, can be problematic, suggests a sophistication that I think is wise to explore. Why shouldn't I want my neighbor's mansion? I just dropped Miller off at an end of eighth grade pool party at a very lavish house, it's large yard surrounded by a rock masonry wall. Why shouldn't I want a house like that? (Besides the obvious - the ongoing maintenance, etc.) Let us investigate:
I imagine that many spiritual traditions have some form of these commandments. In the Buddhist tradition, instead of an explicit stricture, one is invited to watch just what arises when the mind wishes to grasp something or someone deemed good, or positive, or to push away the 'bad'. When the mind sees clearly, what might emerge first is simply awareness of grasping, or aversion. And then perhaps, for example, a tightening of the muscles in the shoulders, or viscera. A quickened breath perhaps. Maybe the thought forms, 'I sure would like to have a pool in my backyard.' Or, 'how could she say that to me?' Does a bodily sensation also arise? That old furling of the brow, narrowing of the eyes? What does my breath feel like now?
Does freedom mean none of these thoughts or sensations or emotions occur? I am as yet a beginner at this - after ten years of meditation practice - but it seems to me that freedom can encompass so much more than just absence.
Sometimes freedom means being able to cry at the loss of a dear one's life. Or even to sob violently, barking like a coyote, when 'our song' comes on the radio. Sometimes freedom means noticing the urge to grasp at some exquisite and unreachable pleasure, and then being able to come back to the splendors - or the sorrows - of this very moment. This unique moment that we so often put in a box called 'the usual,' or 'ennui.' Maybe I wish I had a manservant to help me dress for my day, bring me a cup of tea. But instead I can feel the texture of my pants as I step into them, go into the kitchen and watch the honey swirl into the steaming cup. Freedom isn't just letting go of 'covetousness' so much as allowing our attention to alight on what is right here and now.
Or, getting much closer to my home, sometimes I will tire of this affliction called MS, that progressively slows my gait, impairs my balance, makes my vision flicker like an old TV set. It is difficult, but there are moments when I can simply notice these phenomena, just notice them. Or notice a feeling rise up of disdain for this condition. And then notice my self-judgement: 'why can't I just be with what is? why must I ask why?' Each new layer of thought, sensation, emotion is yet another opportunity to wake up and see things as they are. Heavy, difficult...light, simple - what's it like just now?
Who am I to ask who I am? Is it not enough just to be?
In the Judeo-Christian tradition, there are two commandments that warn us not to covet our neighbor's house, or wife. Theft clearly is verboten in all cultures, but the idea that even to want something not belonging to you, can be problematic, suggests a sophistication that I think is wise to explore. Why shouldn't I want my neighbor's mansion? I just dropped Miller off at an end of eighth grade pool party at a very lavish house, it's large yard surrounded by a rock masonry wall. Why shouldn't I want a house like that? (Besides the obvious - the ongoing maintenance, etc.) Let us investigate:
I imagine that many spiritual traditions have some form of these commandments. In the Buddhist tradition, instead of an explicit stricture, one is invited to watch just what arises when the mind wishes to grasp something or someone deemed good, or positive, or to push away the 'bad'. When the mind sees clearly, what might emerge first is simply awareness of grasping, or aversion. And then perhaps, for example, a tightening of the muscles in the shoulders, or viscera. A quickened breath perhaps. Maybe the thought forms, 'I sure would like to have a pool in my backyard.' Or, 'how could she say that to me?' Does a bodily sensation also arise? That old furling of the brow, narrowing of the eyes? What does my breath feel like now?
Does freedom mean none of these thoughts or sensations or emotions occur? I am as yet a beginner at this - after ten years of meditation practice - but it seems to me that freedom can encompass so much more than just absence.
Sometimes freedom means being able to cry at the loss of a dear one's life. Or even to sob violently, barking like a coyote, when 'our song' comes on the radio. Sometimes freedom means noticing the urge to grasp at some exquisite and unreachable pleasure, and then being able to come back to the splendors - or the sorrows - of this very moment. This unique moment that we so often put in a box called 'the usual,' or 'ennui.' Maybe I wish I had a manservant to help me dress for my day, bring me a cup of tea. But instead I can feel the texture of my pants as I step into them, go into the kitchen and watch the honey swirl into the steaming cup. Freedom isn't just letting go of 'covetousness' so much as allowing our attention to alight on what is right here and now.
Or, getting much closer to my home, sometimes I will tire of this affliction called MS, that progressively slows my gait, impairs my balance, makes my vision flicker like an old TV set. It is difficult, but there are moments when I can simply notice these phenomena, just notice them. Or notice a feeling rise up of disdain for this condition. And then notice my self-judgement: 'why can't I just be with what is? why must I ask why?' Each new layer of thought, sensation, emotion is yet another opportunity to wake up and see things as they are. Heavy, difficult...light, simple - what's it like just now?
Who am I to ask who I am? Is it not enough just to be?
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Don't worry, be happy
Which is, of course, advice easier to give than follow.
However, today I was inspired reading the short article about Michael J. Fox in Parade Magazine. When asked about his Parkinson's disease, and in particular what worries him, he said he tends not to worry. "If the bad thing - the worry - happens, or the disease gets to some arbitrary worrisome point, and you've worried about it all along, it's like living through it twice." This is not a direct quote, I've embellished it a good bit, but in a way that it spoke to me. Kind of like the Buddha's 'second arrow' of suffering, but in this case experiencing the optional one before the given one has even arrived.
Though often just recycling bin fodder, I'll sometimes read of some luminary or other pictured on the cover of Parade. Never a huge fan of Mr. Fox, I have followed his career a bit more since his diagnosis with the serious neurological condition. He was born a month earlier than I, and diagnosed about ten years sooner than my MS diagnosis. He is an inspirational man, and his continued work in film, on the cause of Parkinson's research, and as a loving and involved father and husband (as far as I can tell, which, admittedly is not very far), would lead me to give him the 'bump' if I were Stephen Colbert.
If only we could go 'back to the future' to find the cures, or something. What we have is right now, and what we continue to have, are blessings. The opportunity and challenge is to notice them. As true now as it always has been.
I will leave you from this short blog post with a clip from Back to the Future. (Though a guitar player like me, I'm pretty sure his audio is enhanced...): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4Cr7kxjSBs&feature=related
However, today I was inspired reading the short article about Michael J. Fox in Parade Magazine. When asked about his Parkinson's disease, and in particular what worries him, he said he tends not to worry. "If the bad thing - the worry - happens, or the disease gets to some arbitrary worrisome point, and you've worried about it all along, it's like living through it twice." This is not a direct quote, I've embellished it a good bit, but in a way that it spoke to me. Kind of like the Buddha's 'second arrow' of suffering, but in this case experiencing the optional one before the given one has even arrived.
Though often just recycling bin fodder, I'll sometimes read of some luminary or other pictured on the cover of Parade. Never a huge fan of Mr. Fox, I have followed his career a bit more since his diagnosis with the serious neurological condition. He was born a month earlier than I, and diagnosed about ten years sooner than my MS diagnosis. He is an inspirational man, and his continued work in film, on the cause of Parkinson's research, and as a loving and involved father and husband (as far as I can tell, which, admittedly is not very far), would lead me to give him the 'bump' if I were Stephen Colbert.
If only we could go 'back to the future' to find the cures, or something. What we have is right now, and what we continue to have, are blessings. The opportunity and challenge is to notice them. As true now as it always has been.
I will leave you from this short blog post with a clip from Back to the Future. (Though a guitar player like me, I'm pretty sure his audio is enhanced...): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4Cr7kxjSBs&feature=related
Friday, March 9, 2012
In a white room, with black curtains...
Attended an event yesterday evening with Dwan and all three boys. (Maya was at her varsity basketball team's semifinal - they won, and the final will be this Saturday. This will be for the state championship, so we'll be there in Richmond.) Anyway the event was held at Sidwell (Miller's and the Obama's school, if I may be permitted to drop a name yet again on my blog, in case anybody doesn't remember this minor proxy claim to fame...), and co-sponsored by a local independent bookstore, 'Politics and Prose.'
Baratunde Thurston, the author of How to be Black, spoke to a full house. An alumnus of Sidwell, he writes for the digital Onion, does stand up, and co-hosts Jack and Jill Politics, among other things, which you can see here: http://www.jackandjillpolitics.com/index.php?s=baratunde&submit.x=0&submit.y=0 A very dynamic speaker, he 'worked' the audience by walking up and down the aisles, gesticulating at one of two screens on which slides - and at one point a video clip - were shown. The venue was the Quaker 'meeting room' where silent 'meetings' are normally held. (Tangentially, I understand that the name Quaker was given to the original sect in England who would sit in silence - sans preacher or minister - until moved, or quaked, by the 'holy spirit' to speak, or otherwise bear witness to the power and glory of the _________ - name your deity or force or whatever here.) Baratunde spiced his talk with some small and tasteful bits of profanity - usually quoting somebody else in a vignette - and even once used the darkest profanity I know of, the 'n-word.'
I very much liked the talk, Dwan bought the book, and had it signed afterward. Our teens (even Eli joined us) admitted to having enjoyed the talk as well, but I think our stop at 'Z-burger' afterward was even more to their liking.
Were it not for the presence of the teenagers - and possibly also Dwan - I might have posed a question of the speaker, as at least half the time of the talk was devoted to Q&A. Why, you might ask, be bothered with what my teens would think? No matter what, any question I might ask would have been considered 'retarded' out of hand, and grounds for great embarrassment. And why a concern about my wife hearing what I might query? Well, perhaps I was just feeling a bit 'too white.' Let me explain:
Having been diagnosed with MS eleven years ago, and using a cane or walker for over half of that time, I am coming to understand how to 'be a cripple.' (And yes, I reserve the right to use the 'c-word,' at least as long as rappers can use the 'n-word' with impunity.) Furthermore, having turned fifty over the summer, and watched my hair and beard turn gradually from gray to white, I am beginning to learn 'how to be old.' (Going back to college, where the average student is less than half my age is also instructive in this journey.) I also know more or less when and how I feel supported or ignored by the young, or the non-handicapped. And approximately what I think I would like in regard to this, that is, how and when I would like to feel supported, or how and when I am happy to be ignored.
Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man, as I recall, chronicles, in part, how the author - an African American - felt virtually invisible, as if but a cipher in the eyes of a racist and segregated society. Though older and crippled folk are not disenfranchised in any way like African Americans were at the time this novel was written (and to a large extent still are), the 'invisibility' factor definitely speaks to me.
Because I can say when and how I might feel - or want to be - supported, or when I'd prefer just to be ignored, my question for Baratunde would have been: 'If I read your book, will I learn how to be white?' And if it isn't clear already what I mean by that question - the formation and explanation of which clearly would have outstripped not only my wife's and teen's patience, but probably also the esteemed author's - let me state it as clearly as I can: Given the troubled and violent history of white European enslavement of black Africa, and the enduring prejudice and racism that have been a part of this 'land of the free' ever since emancipation, how should the compassionate and concerned 'white', or non-African American, comport himself? As I type this, I can imagine my lovely wife - who is African American - jumping up and down in her seat, hand raised, yelling 'I know, I know the answer! Treat us as individuals, and not as representatives of some clan, class, or group.' In a word, not as an 'other.'
Or maybe that is not the answer, maybe there is more nuance. And maybe, just maybe, I will come to understand it over time. Maybe we all of us - regardless of 'race', gender, or creed - will come to understand it. With a 'biracial' (Baratunde's word) president in the White House, I believe there is reason for hope, even as the sound and fury of reactionary howls from the right-wing nut-job tea-party fringe crescendoes. Let us make these the last desperate gasps of a sorry sorry past.
Baratunde Thurston, the author of How to be Black, spoke to a full house. An alumnus of Sidwell, he writes for the digital Onion, does stand up, and co-hosts Jack and Jill Politics, among other things, which you can see here: http://www.jackandjillpolitics.com/index.php?s=baratunde&submit.x=0&submit.y=0 A very dynamic speaker, he 'worked' the audience by walking up and down the aisles, gesticulating at one of two screens on which slides - and at one point a video clip - were shown. The venue was the Quaker 'meeting room' where silent 'meetings' are normally held. (Tangentially, I understand that the name Quaker was given to the original sect in England who would sit in silence - sans preacher or minister - until moved, or quaked, by the 'holy spirit' to speak, or otherwise bear witness to the power and glory of the _________ - name your deity or force or whatever here.) Baratunde spiced his talk with some small and tasteful bits of profanity - usually quoting somebody else in a vignette - and even once used the darkest profanity I know of, the 'n-word.'
I very much liked the talk, Dwan bought the book, and had it signed afterward. Our teens (even Eli joined us) admitted to having enjoyed the talk as well, but I think our stop at 'Z-burger' afterward was even more to their liking.
Were it not for the presence of the teenagers - and possibly also Dwan - I might have posed a question of the speaker, as at least half the time of the talk was devoted to Q&A. Why, you might ask, be bothered with what my teens would think? No matter what, any question I might ask would have been considered 'retarded' out of hand, and grounds for great embarrassment. And why a concern about my wife hearing what I might query? Well, perhaps I was just feeling a bit 'too white.' Let me explain:
Having been diagnosed with MS eleven years ago, and using a cane or walker for over half of that time, I am coming to understand how to 'be a cripple.' (And yes, I reserve the right to use the 'c-word,' at least as long as rappers can use the 'n-word' with impunity.) Furthermore, having turned fifty over the summer, and watched my hair and beard turn gradually from gray to white, I am beginning to learn 'how to be old.' (Going back to college, where the average student is less than half my age is also instructive in this journey.) I also know more or less when and how I feel supported or ignored by the young, or the non-handicapped. And approximately what I think I would like in regard to this, that is, how and when I would like to feel supported, or how and when I am happy to be ignored.
Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man, as I recall, chronicles, in part, how the author - an African American - felt virtually invisible, as if but a cipher in the eyes of a racist and segregated society. Though older and crippled folk are not disenfranchised in any way like African Americans were at the time this novel was written (and to a large extent still are), the 'invisibility' factor definitely speaks to me.
Because I can say when and how I might feel - or want to be - supported, or when I'd prefer just to be ignored, my question for Baratunde would have been: 'If I read your book, will I learn how to be white?' And if it isn't clear already what I mean by that question - the formation and explanation of which clearly would have outstripped not only my wife's and teen's patience, but probably also the esteemed author's - let me state it as clearly as I can: Given the troubled and violent history of white European enslavement of black Africa, and the enduring prejudice and racism that have been a part of this 'land of the free' ever since emancipation, how should the compassionate and concerned 'white', or non-African American, comport himself? As I type this, I can imagine my lovely wife - who is African American - jumping up and down in her seat, hand raised, yelling 'I know, I know the answer! Treat us as individuals, and not as representatives of some clan, class, or group.' In a word, not as an 'other.'
Or maybe that is not the answer, maybe there is more nuance. And maybe, just maybe, I will come to understand it over time. Maybe we all of us - regardless of 'race', gender, or creed - will come to understand it. With a 'biracial' (Baratunde's word) president in the White House, I believe there is reason for hope, even as the sound and fury of reactionary howls from the right-wing nut-job tea-party fringe crescendoes. Let us make these the last desperate gasps of a sorry sorry past.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Orange peel pickle
I remember fondly the lemon peel pickle in Nepal with daalbhaat. I've found good lime pickles here in the states. And now I have created a truly excellent relish. Some pictures:
Ingredients, prep, chop.
Cookin' it up.
A label for the jar...
Close up on the oh-so-clever label.
I wasn't planning on adding raisins, but tasting the jus while cooking it up, the stainless steel spoon nearly melted. Okay, just kidding, but it was incredibly spicy, so I decided to dilute. Had some with a salad dinner, went to lie down afterwards, and visions of Krishna danced in my head as I dozed a bit. Woke refreshed, and ready to post.
The ingredients read 'natural (not motor) oil' for a reason. Some of the best pickles I've found - the ones from India - read 'edible oil' in their ingredients. Just in case you were wondering.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Democratic socialist? What the?
The typical employee now has but one choice to express his disaffection with a company: to quit. And with unemployment remaining at record levels, this is not a realistic option. By and large, people have to put up, and shut up. And then often end up being 'downsized' anyway, their jobs having moved to a country where worker's rights are even more marginalized, if they exist at all. To say nothing of environmental regulations or OSHA type enforcement. Is this democracy?
Well, kinda sorta. It is true there are local, state, and federal opportunities to have an electoral voice (unless you live in the District of Columbia, home of 'taxation without representation'). But that voice - which I encourage us all to exercise - can be rather muted with the private fortunes drowning them out - coming from unelected, unaccountable, and now even anonymous, entities.
(For an example of true workplace democracy you can look at the Mondragon cooperative in Spain's Basque region. A young priest was sent to start a vocational school there, in 1941, and teach Christian values. And some students apparently paid attention, forming their first cooperative in 1959 building kerosene stoves. The co-op has grown over the decades, and now employs over 80,000 in manufacturing and other industries. For more information, you can look here: http://www.mcc.es/ENG.aspx There are many examples of cooperatives in this country and around the world. Though not a cooperative, United Airlines is technically 'employee-owned,' which is to say, a majority of their shares are in employee's hands. As best I can tell, however, in most respects United operates like any other airline, which is to say, not very democratically. Michael Moore, in his movie Capitalism, A Love Story, cites various employee-owned and democratic cooperatives as an alternative to capitalism. There are many critics who claim this is a simplistic view, and that basically if the larger system is set up to police and enforce the private unfair distribution of capital - while not providing much along the lines of Social Security, public health insurance, robust educational systems, etc. - such co-ops can have only a small impact. For more such analysis, you can check out sites like this: http://louisproyect.wordpress.com/2009/09/29/are-worker-owned-companies-an-alterative-to-capitalism/http://louisproyect.wordpress.com/2009/09/29/are-worker-owned-companies-an-alterative-to-capitalism/)
There are hybrid political-economic systems. China only embraced capitalism in the 1980's, but is more autocratic by far than democratic - both within factories, and within government. Is it a communist country now that it is one of the emerging economic superpowers? Again, kinda sorta. What it clearly is not, is democratic, on any level. Could it be, and still be called communist? Of course. Can it be called capitalist? On many levels it competes as a capitalist nation, buying a few and selling a lot of goods in 'free markets' worldwide, even though its own markets are far from free.
Try a thought experiment: Say the Chinese government still owns and controls all the land, factories, etc. (Marx's 'means of production'), but it also allows free and fair elections (even in Tibet - but sorry, that's another sticky issue entirely...). And the government so elected might choose to insist, for example, that factories pay their employees a living wage. And not hire younger than a given age (do I hear fifteen? Sixteen? Eighteen?). And not allow toxic emissions from smokestacks or effluent pipes into rivers, etc. And pay for the health care and retirement of their workers. Would they still be communist? For the purposes of this thought experiment, yes, the 'means of production' owned by the government, that is, the people. Would they be able to sell off their state-owned property to the highest bidder, like Russia did in the nineties? Of course. Would they still be 'communist'? Less so. This is the story of Russia today - having emerged after the soviet union collapsed - which is now basically crony capitalism with a phony democracy. Our thought experiment China might look more along the lines of many western European 'social democracies.'
If all this seems confusing (coming as it does from the dendritic kudzu of my brain) let me try to clarify and probably make it all murkier. Spain under generalissimo Franco: 0% democracy, 100% crony capitalism. (Side note: 'crony capitalism' means simply that friends and family of the powerful in government end up with all of the 'means of production' and therefore the wealth and power of a nation. Normally it does not encourage - or even allow - free markets, which are necessary for capitalism to flourish. Another side note: the Mondragon cooperative mentioned earlier was started under this Spanish dictatorship.) Germany: democratic and capitalist, though with a robust legal framework which puts limits and hefty taxes on corporations, and upholds workers' rights to unionize, strike, etc. It generally has found a healthy balance, and I believe this is one of the reasons it is Europe's most successful economy. North Korea: 100% of what I would call crony communism, 100% autocracy, 0% capitalism, 0% democracy. Could they benefit from some capitalism, or more precisely, some free enterprise? Sure. But more to the point, they could use a big dose of democracy.
Which I think we could all use more of. And lately, with the 'Arab spring' some nations are attempting to head that way. But what a precarious journey it is proving to be so far. In the U.S., the 'occupy movement' is trying to head us in a fairer, more just, and more democratic direction. Their message has been a bit murky so far, but seems to be congealing around dismantling the 'Citizens United' case.
As long as corporations are allowed to spend unlimited money, protected as 'free speech,' the chances of reversing the past thirty years of stagnating wages, plummeting union membership (down to 7% in the private sector), soaring profits for shareholders, and an ever widening wealth gap between the rich and poor - which is many times as extreme among minority groups - are somewhere between zip and nil. Which, again, is the kind of long-winded sentence I'm susceptible to but which boils down to: reverse 'Citizens United' now! Right now!
Which is of course, something of a 'no-brainer.' Will we work for or contribute to a candidate for elected office whose campaign is funded largely by these anonymous entities protected by Citizens United? If so, I posit we may reap just what we sow. Or reap more of the manure we put on the crops (to push a metaphor to thee limit of its utility). I have to hand it to the OWS folks, and am happy to see the discussion they have generated has tilted public debate to the very core issues of what this country could be. What promises it truly holds.
Clouds, drizzle, and sun are vying for preeminence this day - literally - which given the scope of this post, puts me in the mind of a song...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScfUfsUlGro
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Falling slowly
New year's resolutions seem to bubble up on me around this time of year. Actually, the 'resolution' part of that statement isn't really accurate. In December and January, I'll find myself doing something or other which is either brand new, or in some way an incremental change. For instance, in '09/'10 it was playing the guitar on a daily basis. So I called it a resolution, and have continued ever since. A sort of 'leading (myself) from behind.'
This year - this fall and winter actually - I've notice a somewhat hastened slowing down; this may sound like an oxymoron, however I mean that my symptoms of MS seem to be getting heavier faster. Is it my resolution to make it even faster? Hardly. Resolutions to the contrary or not, that's how things have felt, with their attendant emotional baggage. Particularly over the past few weeks.
For a couple reasons perhaps, not least of which might be the less healthy diet that is so popular this Yuletide season. Another reason was my first colonoscopy the week before last (the result: clean as a whistle!) Which means I haven't been to the gym for two weeks. I've recently resumed, and behold, I feel better! Causality of course is not clear - that is, maybe I'm getting back to it because I feel better, and not vice-versa - but it is good to be back at it regardless. During this decade of 'MS-tery', the single best medicine I've found is regular exercise.
Which includes daily physical therapy, starting with balance movements, and moving on from there. A bit of tai chi, a swing and lindy hop, and recently I'll attempt to include something 'baroque' each session. By which I mean some improvised movement in the moment that is not necessarily fancy, ornate, or extravagant - the usual metaphoric meaning of the term. But instead something odd. Strange. Unexpected. The word baroque derives from the Italian word for an irregularly shaped pearl, and that is the meaning I employ for something surprising, or out of the ordinary. Suddenly reaching up to the sky, or swiveling my head, perhaps slapping the floor. Maybe all three in succession. Or something that happens in the moment - maybe it has percolated up from below, some muscle group that is subconsciously asking for attention. Or something quite pedestrian, which may or may not result in a feeling of release.
(A favorite song of mine is Baroque and Blue by Claude Bolling, in which this is given a voice, and can be seen/heard here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dVtLVSzESU Click and you can listen as you read this post. There is much more to the suggestive title, it seems: the jazz, the classical, etc. I think the song takes the classical music sense of the word Baroque - Bach for example - and after juxtaposing it, weaves it gradually together with jazz, and the blues. And plays with the obvious double entendre, 'broke and blue'. The sense of baroque meaning something unexpected or enigmatic, however, would put the jazz into both words, making something of a hidden triple entendre. I love the resulting confluence of musical traditions. End of parenthetic foray.)
Back to the physical therapy. For a few days now, I have reincorporated 'the fall' into my routine. The 'fall of man,' Paradise Lost? Not exactly. Ideally, a moment will come when my balance is teetering a bit from some action or other, and I will slowly follow that in a relatively careful roll or fall to the floor. But more often, it will come at the end of the PT session, and not be preceded by a spontaneous balance loss. What's the point? No therapist has ever suggested it (liability concerns maybe?), but I have fallen and gotten bruised a couple of times since my diagnosis, and it seems that the more practice I get falling slowly and carefully, the less chance for injury. At the very least, it adds to the PT session, working different muscle and nerve groups as I get back up to my feet.
Sometimes, but not often, I'll have music playing as I do the PT. Glenn Miller's In The Mood is great with the swing/lindy hop steps, of course. I should try doing it to Baroque and Blue, but I don't 'have' that song yet. I think it's on my top 100 (plus) songs list that my dear wife has been burning by approximately 20 song chunks at a time to CD's for me, on my birthday, Christmas, etc.
Another thing that I've gradually been adopting, is to set a timer each hour to get up and move about, walk, stretch, do pushups, whatever. Most of us are doing far too little of that these days - witness the obesity, high blood pressure, and diabetes epidemics - but with MS it is particularly important. Butts sat upon for several hours can result in rather congealed and unyielding legs.
Which means, do it, right now, the alarm has sounded! Soldier, hit the ground, give me fifty!
This year - this fall and winter actually - I've notice a somewhat hastened slowing down; this may sound like an oxymoron, however I mean that my symptoms of MS seem to be getting heavier faster. Is it my resolution to make it even faster? Hardly. Resolutions to the contrary or not, that's how things have felt, with their attendant emotional baggage. Particularly over the past few weeks.
For a couple reasons perhaps, not least of which might be the less healthy diet that is so popular this Yuletide season. Another reason was my first colonoscopy the week before last (the result: clean as a whistle!) Which means I haven't been to the gym for two weeks. I've recently resumed, and behold, I feel better! Causality of course is not clear - that is, maybe I'm getting back to it because I feel better, and not vice-versa - but it is good to be back at it regardless. During this decade of 'MS-tery', the single best medicine I've found is regular exercise.
Which includes daily physical therapy, starting with balance movements, and moving on from there. A bit of tai chi, a swing and lindy hop, and recently I'll attempt to include something 'baroque' each session. By which I mean some improvised movement in the moment that is not necessarily fancy, ornate, or extravagant - the usual metaphoric meaning of the term. But instead something odd. Strange. Unexpected. The word baroque derives from the Italian word for an irregularly shaped pearl, and that is the meaning I employ for something surprising, or out of the ordinary. Suddenly reaching up to the sky, or swiveling my head, perhaps slapping the floor. Maybe all three in succession. Or something that happens in the moment - maybe it has percolated up from below, some muscle group that is subconsciously asking for attention. Or something quite pedestrian, which may or may not result in a feeling of release.
(A favorite song of mine is Baroque and Blue by Claude Bolling, in which this is given a voice, and can be seen/heard here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dVtLVSzESU Click and you can listen as you read this post. There is much more to the suggestive title, it seems: the jazz, the classical, etc. I think the song takes the classical music sense of the word Baroque - Bach for example - and after juxtaposing it, weaves it gradually together with jazz, and the blues. And plays with the obvious double entendre, 'broke and blue'. The sense of baroque meaning something unexpected or enigmatic, however, would put the jazz into both words, making something of a hidden triple entendre. I love the resulting confluence of musical traditions. End of parenthetic foray.)
Back to the physical therapy. For a few days now, I have reincorporated 'the fall' into my routine. The 'fall of man,' Paradise Lost? Not exactly. Ideally, a moment will come when my balance is teetering a bit from some action or other, and I will slowly follow that in a relatively careful roll or fall to the floor. But more often, it will come at the end of the PT session, and not be preceded by a spontaneous balance loss. What's the point? No therapist has ever suggested it (liability concerns maybe?), but I have fallen and gotten bruised a couple of times since my diagnosis, and it seems that the more practice I get falling slowly and carefully, the less chance for injury. At the very least, it adds to the PT session, working different muscle and nerve groups as I get back up to my feet.
Sometimes, but not often, I'll have music playing as I do the PT. Glenn Miller's In The Mood is great with the swing/lindy hop steps, of course. I should try doing it to Baroque and Blue, but I don't 'have' that song yet. I think it's on my top 100 (plus) songs list that my dear wife has been burning by approximately 20 song chunks at a time to CD's for me, on my birthday, Christmas, etc.
Another thing that I've gradually been adopting, is to set a timer each hour to get up and move about, walk, stretch, do pushups, whatever. Most of us are doing far too little of that these days - witness the obesity, high blood pressure, and diabetes epidemics - but with MS it is particularly important. Butts sat upon for several hours can result in rather congealed and unyielding legs.
Which means, do it, right now, the alarm has sounded! Soldier, hit the ground, give me fifty!
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Bags of bags...
I just read that it costs San Francisco $4,000 to process (collect, compact, bundle, store, etc.) a ton of old plastic bags, but they can only get $32 to sell that same ton. And I wonder who is buying such a product. From my years as recycling coordinator in Charlottesville, I know that plastic bottle recycling (milk jugs, water bottles, etc.) is hard enough, that is, costs much more than what little revenue might be generated from selling the 'product.' And that 'closed loop' recycling - that is, turning old milk jugs into new ones - is quite rare. Making them into park benches or vinyl carpeting is more common, though the market for these items is pretty limited, and therefore the used container market is also. At least that was the case in the nineties, but I have seen nothing since to indicate any significant changes. When was the last time I bought something made of recycled plastic? And I'm the sort who actively looks for it when I do shop, which is, admittedly, a rare occurrence.
I also read that many of the compacted bag shipments are going to places like India or China with their much laxer, if any, environmental regulations. Then the bags are incinerated (hopefully, at least, to generate electricity). I have never heard of 'bag to bag' recycling. Even from an energy analysis, I can imagine that to wash, sort, shred, melt, and create new bags from old, would be much more intensive than using new resins. Which are, essentially, already 'by-products' of the fossil fuels we use mainly for energy production. To a certain extent, making plastics from such 'by-products' is a sort of 'recycling' already. The main problem comes from the trash produced. (Well, a case could be made that the bio-toxicity of plastics and their many chemical additives, is an even greater problem, but that would be for another blogger. Or hey, how about a scientist! Or a journalist! Remember them?)
I also read that many of the compacted bag shipments are going to places like India or China with their much laxer, if any, environmental regulations. Then the bags are incinerated (hopefully, at least, to generate electricity). I have never heard of 'bag to bag' recycling. Even from an energy analysis, I can imagine that to wash, sort, shred, melt, and create new bags from old, would be much more intensive than using new resins. Which are, essentially, already 'by-products' of the fossil fuels we use mainly for energy production. To a certain extent, making plastics from such 'by-products' is a sort of 'recycling' already. The main problem comes from the trash produced. (Well, a case could be made that the bio-toxicity of plastics and their many chemical additives, is an even greater problem, but that would be for another blogger. Or hey, how about a scientist! Or a journalist! Remember them?)
I have for decades tried to do 'the right thing.' I usually take a cloth bag with some used plastic bags inside for produce to the store with me. But occasionally I forget, of course. And in that case, sometimes I'll put my groceries in paper bags, which I then reuse for collecting paper to recycle. Or sometimes just give in to the plastic bag juggernaut. Even while limiting and reusing, however, somehow I still amass what seems like huge quantities of film plastic. Partly from forgetting to follow through on the good habits listed above, and partly from all the things that come packaged in bags, or bubble wrap, or other flimsy plastic. If I were a tad bit more OCD, I suppose I could do a self audit, and track just exactly where all this comes from.
Now the less compulsively eco-fanatic among you might not see much of a problem here, and I respect that perspective. As long as we reduce what we can, and make sure it's properly landfilled, what's the big deal? Well, as the sixties adage goes, 'if you're not part of the solution, then you are part of the problem.' This has always spoken directly to me. And has kind of come to replace or complement the Catholic guilt, or the 'original sin' that I was born into.
You may have heard of the 'great pacific garbage patch', a floating mass of trash (mostly comprised of plastic). Some estimate it's twice the size the state of Texas. (For more information about this modern day tragedy, go here http://greatpacificgarbagepatch.info/ You'll find links to other sites with more info. For a quick glimpse, look at where our plastics (not just bags) all too often end up (you can look to the right now).
Which is all much ado about something. And just exactly what to do about plastic seems clear: stop making it. (As in the famous 'one word' of advice given to Benjamin (Dustin Hoffman) in The Graduate, the future still may be in plastics, but I think if we don't change course soon, not in the propitious way it was understood in the movie.) For you and me, to stop making it means to stop using it. Just how to stop is the challenge. So far, given the multitude of differing plastics, and even the economic and energy costs involved, recycling is really a smoke and mirror side show. Don't be fooled. However, if you find a pair of shoes, say, which are made from 100% post-consumer recycled plastic, and you like them, they feel good, etc., by all means buy them. But then wear them out as you traverse the planet (or your little corner of it), while attempting to avoid 'one-way', or single use plastics, whenever possible. Whereas recycling is not really viable, we can do much to reduce, and reuse whenever possible.
In the meantime, I will continue to dutifully take my bags of films back to the store to 'recycle.' I know it's bogus, but I think it's worth the effort to show that I, that we, are willing to do such a thing - and more - if it could possibly help the planet.
End of sermon, vade in pace ('go in peace' - not in plastic)...
Update: Montgomery county (where we live) recently passed a regulation that levies a 'bag tax' of ten or twenty cents. Some are of course outraged, but generally folks are either wealthy enough not to care, or conscientious enough to support it. Or even realistic enough to note that the fee is really just a drop in the bucket, and not worth notice. However, a couple 'scientists' recently came out with concerns about the potential adverse health impacts of reusing bags - which may have come into contact with meat or other germ infested vectors. To these Ebenezer Scrooges I counter, simply, bag humbug!
Now the less compulsively eco-fanatic among you might not see much of a problem here, and I respect that perspective. As long as we reduce what we can, and make sure it's properly landfilled, what's the big deal? Well, as the sixties adage goes, 'if you're not part of the solution, then you are part of the problem.' This has always spoken directly to me. And has kind of come to replace or complement the Catholic guilt, or the 'original sin' that I was born into.
 |
| Albatross chick |
Which is all much ado about something. And just exactly what to do about plastic seems clear: stop making it. (As in the famous 'one word' of advice given to Benjamin (Dustin Hoffman) in The Graduate, the future still may be in plastics, but I think if we don't change course soon, not in the propitious way it was understood in the movie.) For you and me, to stop making it means to stop using it. Just how to stop is the challenge. So far, given the multitude of differing plastics, and even the economic and energy costs involved, recycling is really a smoke and mirror side show. Don't be fooled. However, if you find a pair of shoes, say, which are made from 100% post-consumer recycled plastic, and you like them, they feel good, etc., by all means buy them. But then wear them out as you traverse the planet (or your little corner of it), while attempting to avoid 'one-way', or single use plastics, whenever possible. Whereas recycling is not really viable, we can do much to reduce, and reuse whenever possible.
In the meantime, I will continue to dutifully take my bags of films back to the store to 'recycle.' I know it's bogus, but I think it's worth the effort to show that I, that we, are willing to do such a thing - and more - if it could possibly help the planet.
End of sermon, vade in pace ('go in peace' - not in plastic)...
Update: Montgomery county (where we live) recently passed a regulation that levies a 'bag tax' of ten or twenty cents. Some are of course outraged, but generally folks are either wealthy enough not to care, or conscientious enough to support it. Or even realistic enough to note that the fee is really just a drop in the bucket, and not worth notice. However, a couple 'scientists' recently came out with concerns about the potential adverse health impacts of reusing bags - which may have come into contact with meat or other germ infested vectors. To these Ebenezer Scrooges I counter, simply, bag humbug!
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