Episode 19

Quite excited to be working on Episode 19, which will be on Islam. Have been going through old photos of my adventures in the Arab world (where I wish I was), and it's been weird.

 
I'm not very good at looking back; I find it unsettling. Not sure why. But I am so fond of Arab culture, and it breaks my heart to see the images—recent and my old photos—from Gaza, in particular. Such a beautiful people, such a special place—one of my favorite, now reduced to agony and rubble. Biden and Trump should die in prison, together.

At any rate, I have put Adam Smith to the side for a short while, and will try to make the Islam episode a good one.

Just wanted you to know that the Inquiry is alive and well.

My Friend Leah—update 8

[Read time: 3:00]

This update is a bit different. It’s mostly a note to Leah.

While in the hospital again, Leah and I were chatting on the phone. The staff there must get tired of fielding calls from “Gregory,” because I call about five times a day.

Actually, the staff were warned this time, and Leah told them, “Just be advised, my friend Gregory is going to be calling [she had just been admitted], and he is very persistent.”

Like I said, we were chatting, and we do this thing where I have to hang up the phone. So, I say 1, 2, I love you [first name plus middle name—withheld], you’re beautiful, and I am proud of you, 3.” I then said, “I don’t think you understand how much I love you.”

She replied, “Put it in a note and tell me.”

I then said, “[sigh] I’ve done that already.”

“Do it again!”

“That was a brilliant piece of writing! You wouldn’t say to John Lennon, “Hey, that ‘Strawberry Fields’ song wasn’t half bad. Write another one!”

She begins laughing.

I say I will write another one.

She was quite satisfied with this, and we hung up.

This is what I wrote:

The universe rarely does me any favors. But when I met you it certainly did. I can say my life changed. At first, admittedly, my guard was up. I assumed anyone who has a list of mental-health issues, getting close too fast can be destabilizing. Things can get weird; but things never did.

We have been friends for not terribly long. However, we have packed about ten years into that short span. If people talk to a friend once a month, that’s twelve times a year. Double that, it’s 24. Once a week: that’s 52. Twice a week: that’s just over a hundred. If you and I continue on our present course, you and I will average 2,232 times a year.

We agreed that Michael is my best friend. And so I have decided that you are my “super-duper, stupendous friend.” You’re not crazy about this—I believe you asked if I was in fourth grade—but I suspect it will grow on you. Like when I started calling you “Cuckoo Bird.” You recently asked me, “Why did you stop calling me that??” I really thought you didn’t like it. I predict it will go back into rotation.

I recently have had a hard time with your suffering. When you bottom out, are weepy, whimper, begin blaming yourself, talk of being done with the fight, I’m a wreck. The thought of waking up in a world without you in it is an unbearable one.

You have changed my life. You are kind. Your moral compass is precise. You are one of the smartest people I have ever met. When it comes to the particulars of your daily demands [which I cannot go into here] you are dedicated and great at them. I am just happier when I am talking to you, bickering, goofing around. These things make me happy. You make me happy. I know it sounds trite and banal, but life before you is something of a blur.

We have so much to do, but I am so proud of your progress and what you’ve achieved in such a short time: you’re stronger, you’re more confident, you’re more developed, you’re more refined, you’re beginning to intellectually blossom. I laugh and adore that you have all these really serious books, just everywhere: Plato, Seneca, Marcus Aurelius, Dostoevsky, Adam Smith. Who has those books, period?? You not only have them, but are always reading them, and just have them lying about everywhere! I’ve never seen anything like it.

As mentioned, we have a lot to do. First stop: the Art Institute. You’ve been warned: I am annoying when I’m in there. (“You’re annoying everywhere,” I can hear you saying.) Despite my tendencies, it’s going to be grand.

The years ahead of us are also going to be grand, because I will have you in them.

I love you. You’re beautiful. I’m proud of you. And I believe in you.

Photo: Leah has an unbelievable collection of various retiles, fish, a python for a time; it’s crazy. This is Onyx. She’s a bearded dragon. She’s in a basket. Not sure why.

Suicide (repost)

 I posted this essay in 2019; I felt it was worth revisiting. Suicide has also come up in conversation a few times recently, so that was a sign.

[Read time 4:00]

Comedian Dave Chappelle's ... Netflix special Sticks & Stones opens by contrasting two narratives: that of Anthony Bourdain and an old high-school friend of Chappelle's. Bourdain, the audience is told, had a great job, which allowed him to have enviable experiences, and yet took his own life. Chappelle's friend, on the other hand, faced a series of life setbacks, was now in a workaday job, and in spite of it all had not taken his own life.

The purpose of this blog is not to engage in art criticism. And the purpose of this particular blog post is not to review some entertainer's work. It is irrelevant that Chappelle's joke wasn't funny. (Though, judging by the response, many in the audience would disagree with me and felt someone's suicide was hilarious.) What is relevant is that the joke reinforced a prejudice.

I understand well the principle that because a joke mentions a subject does not mean the joke is about that subject. However, Chappelle was indeed speaking to suicide, all the while fostering an all too common assumption that those who take their own lives do so casually. I have personally, on many occasions, heard people criticize, condemn, dismiss, and ridicule victims of suicide. When the topic arises in a group or at a gathering, condescension is sure to follow.

This critical commentary leveled at victims of suicide is an expression of both disappointment and conceit. There are three basic verdicts that seem to predominate, and frequently overlap:

1. He or she had everything. Chappelle adopts this approach, as if to ask, Why would someone who enjoyed the appurtenances of material success kill himself? The question of course is not a question; it's a judgment that happens to feature a question mark. Removed from consideration is the reality that suicide—it sadly bears mentioning—is an internal event. Money, friends, good looks, and the like do not preclude agony.

2. He or she was selfish. This reaction, that the person should have considered others, might be based on genuine frustration with the suffering created by someone's suicide. We see the knock-on effects, and wish the person who took his or her life would have "thought it through." However, again, this line of thinking neglects the internal realities; from the suicidal person's perspective, those left behind will be better off. Judging the suicide victim for not seeing clearly is not dissimilar to judging someone suffering from renal failure for not having better kidneys. One must also note the gratifying benefits of sounding or appearing righteous, of being able to see the big picture. As if to say, "My kidneys are working perfectly."

3. He or she was weak [etc.]. This is the most base of the three—sometimes simply ventilated as "That was stupid"—and seems to be purely motivated (similar to example 2) by an eagerness to appear rugged and resilient. The message is not difficult to decipher: "I've had disappointments in life, and I'm still here." It is my observation that this outlook oftentimes emanates from a particular personality type.

Suicide is a tragic and complicated phenomenon that can involve a multitude of factors. Almost half of those who commit suicide suffer from some kind of underlying mental health condition. Other considerations that can place someone at risk of suicide may include: substance abuse, medical issues, physical or sexual abuse, problems with family or finances, and a long list of possible stressors in one's life. The act can be planned or impulsive. Access to firearms also plays a significant role.

At the point of suicide, a person has lost all hope, is in unthinkable pain, and sees the end of life as the only possible release or solution. Throughout this post I have used the wording "victim of suicide," because that is what they are. We don't say one "contracts" or is "stricken with" suicide, but perhaps we should. The person has succumbed to despair. To suggest otherwise is an act of ignorance, self-aggrandizement, or cruelty.

Suicide, like gun violence, is a national health problem and should be taken seriously. But to be taken seriously, it has to be understood. Please familiarize yourself with the subject of suicide and the warning signs of someone at risk.

And if you are having suicidal thoughts, please—please—talk to someone. Anyone.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1 800 273 TALK (8255) or dial 988

Leah in Space

I took this photo while on FaceTime with Leah. Her sunroof was covered with ice; but it looks like she’s in space.

Patience

I really like this series. It’s called Patience, and it’s about a young woman, Patience Evans, who has autism. Patience has a keen interest in criminology and puzzles. Through happenstance, she befriends a detective, whom Patience helps with her investigative work; and they form a friendship—one of Patience’s first.

The series is sophisticated, and it seems to have a decent grasp of autism. It doesn’t (so far; I’m on episode 5) traffic in stereotypes.

I’m enjoying it. The characters are good, the writing is intelligent, and the drama and touching bits are nicely balanced.

The show was panned by the Guardian’s Lucy Mangan. Mangan also panned Etoile, another favorite. Lucy Mangan needs to get a real job, maybe mixing paint at B&Q (B&Q is like Home Depot in England). Or stocking shelves at Tesco. And if you work hard, Lucy, you can make your way up to register. I’m not saying hang up the writing; maybe start a website that features fart jokes?

https://www.pbs.org/show/patience

Gaza Film

 Hind Rajab is a name that shames us all. Hind was the name of a five year old girl. She lived in Gaza.

Her family was fleeing Gaza when their car was shot up by snipers. All occupants were killed except for Hind. Contact was made between Hind and the Palestine Red Crescent Society (their Red Cross).

Red Crescent EMTs were dispatched to rescue the girl. They were murdered. The car was shot up some more, and Hind, too, was murdered.

Israel and its supporters act like they are the victims, conflating criticism of Israel with anti-Semitism and crying Holocaust denial every five minutes. When Israeli crimes are brought up, Hamas is blamed. ”What about October 7??” Yes, whatabout, whatabout, whatabout.

Something similar to Nazism could happen again. It could happen in the United States. And the crimes committed will receive the same disinterest they received in 1942.

We are distracted with other things; the murder of children (hungry ones) with bullets we paid for doesn’t quite make the list of priorities.

https://tv.apple.com/us/movie/the-voice-of-hind-rajab/umc.cmc.26sbzanlmf6pcvyuaaew7e8wp?ctx_at=6

My Friend Leah—update 7

[Read time: 4:00]

Note: Okay, this is big: I am changing Bailee’s name to Lilian. I hate the name (and spelling) of Bailee. Leah hates the name (and spelling) of Bailee. Bailee hates the name (and spelling) of Bailee. I have no explanation for my weird decision. So, Lilian it shall be. My apologies to all involved. I have brought shame upon the Harms name.

We (we??) continue to deal with pretty significant memory loss. This is partly due to the ECT (electroconvulsive therapy) and partly due to meds. It has been hard for Leah, who seems to take it in stride. Her strength is preternatural and regularly blows my mind.

As mentioned in Update 6, meds have been an issue. And they continue to be so. We’ve had a few rough nights. I recently joined in a Telehealth video conference meeting with her psychiatrist, whom I liked immediately: clued in, attentive to Leah and her needs, observant, and an intellect that came through the computer screen.

By the end of the meeting, Leah was lying on my bed, rocking back and forth, and lightly hitting herself in the head with her fist. She was on a merry-go-round that was spinning at a dangerous speed. The ECT had put a bunch of parts behind a partition, and they were trying to get out. Leah was switching rapidly. It was difficult to watch. She eventually resurfaced.

It would be remiss to not give a shout out to Lilian and Blair for essentially coming to Leah’s rescue. It was due to their strength that Leah was pulled off the merry-go-round and allowed to resurface. It’s good to know that there are parts who have Leah’s back and possess the courage to stand up to darker forces.

Over last week, things took a bad and weird turn. She was basically bed-ridden for two days, physically numb, when not in pain, and was conscious for brief windows. This started with some hallucinations; I was on the phone with her for some of that.

Her psychiatrist said this in a report:

The symptoms appear to be psychosomatic presentation of the level of distress and cognitive overload that she is experiencing and may represent an extreme form of dissociation and derealization symptoms that we will continue to monitor very closely.

That’s quite a sentence. Leah fears “leveling up,” meaning getting worse. It remains to be seen if she is indeed getting worse. Her therapist refers to these experiences as "growing pains."

The whole thing was quite unsettling. We’re not sure what happened. She eventually came out of it, and by the evening of day two, she was over to see me and we watched an episode of Starfleet Academy, the newest Star Trek franchise. It’s okay. I think there is room for growth and some good characters; Leah did not like the pacing and does not share my optimism.

Leah’s episodes are excruciating to watch—if I can make this about me for a minute. I feel useless. All I can do is tell her I love her, and utter platitudes like, “It’s going to be okay.” This is why I like to buy her stuff. I feel like I’m doing something, when in reality I am doing nothing. She says she loves the gifts, and that no one has ever done that for her before. I figure a few nice things and some books can’t hurt. And it has the added bonus of making me feel better!

Speaking of which, on a couple visits over here, she kicked off her boots and I told her, “You need to up your sock game.” You can well imagine the look I got. So, while she was in the hospital last, I ordered her over twenty pairs of socks. I bought her a few pairs of nice ones from Paul Smith, and I also picked out a bunch from Amazon. Suffice to say, she’s good in the sock department.

But again, this has more to do with me feeling kind of pathetic. And if it makes her smile for a few minutes, that’s good enough for me.

This is funny: I was talking to Leah on FaceTime the other night, and she switched. Lilian was now up front. We had a nice visit and a few laughs. At one point she said, “I like your glasses … you look like an owl.” I said, “God damn, Lilian! A friggin’ owl?? Now I’m self-conscious and want to buy new glasses!” (Which I did; they’ll be ready in a week.) We were in hysterics. We got quite a bit of mileage out of that.

Also amusing: Leah and I recently got into one of our weird debates, We were “arguing” which person was better at multitasking. (I know, I know.) I maintained I was like a heavy-weight champion in that department: “I have a multi-channel attention span!,” I ridiculously boasted. And she countered with, “I have multiple operating systems running!!” Okay … I guess you win. [sigh] “Fine! Whatever!”

There’s so much about Leah that I would love to tell you, stuff about her personal life, her photo, and so on. I wish you could really get to know her. I hate having to maintain her anonymity. But, for now, it’s what has to be. And because I love her so intensely, getting to write about her—if even in a shrouded way—means a lot.

Hi, Lilian. I love you.