dreampepper: desaturated photos with sections in negative (negative space)

[1] The New Yorker - Will Shortz’s Life in Crosswords. (archive link) "The veteran Times puzzle editor discusses his favorite clues, debates in the crossword community, and unexpectedly finding his first serious romance."

As Sandy Weisz from the Puzzle League says, "If you know puzzles, you know of Will Shortz. In the latest New Yorker, Liz Maynes-Aminzade interviews him about, among other things,  how the NYTimes' daily puzzle, seen by many as the industry's standard bearer, has kept up — or not — with modern culture, and with demands for clues that address a more diverse set of life experiences.

My favorite question in the piece is about the desire for a canon of universal knowledge vs the acknowledgement that such a thing doesn't exist. For me, I’m constantly feeling the tension between wanting to use my platform to boost ideas, people, historical events, and works of art that I think are underrepresented, but also knowing that puzzles don't work unless they rely on, for the most part, things the solver already knows. It's a tough balance to strike."
 
It's worth mentioning that Will also shares about his personal life, which isn't something that happens often in spite of his celebrity, and specifically on finding love at the age of 70. Shortz and his partner are planning on getting married later this year.

[2] London Review of Books - Diary: Saving a Life, by Patricia Lockwood. Only Patricia Lockwood (often described as “the poet laureate of Twitter”) could turn a story about her husband's sudden life-threatening intestinal torsion into something akin to the sublime. Truly, she is a treasure. 
 
"I was by this time ill – as far back as the plane ride I had cleverly been developing bronchitis, from those cubes of cold air that tumbled through the doors of UCLA – and I kept rising out of myself not through fever, but some supersession of the subtle body that watches things happen to us down on earth. It watched as I bent my head to Jason’s stomach, listening to his inner workings to hear whether he still moved. A frightening Build-a-Bear arrived from my publicist. The ceremony I had come for (the Dylan Thomas Prize) came and went without me; I actually won, which seemed like the funniest outcome. Caspian, my agent, showed up in the lobby one morning with a crystal book and a cheque, and Jason and I laughed at our reflections in the gold elevator as we carried them upstairs. Was the Heathrow we had landed at not the solid and substantial one, but a dome of the fantastic, where we found ourselves with crystal books and unexpected cheques and second acts in our hands?"

[3] The Convivial Society: Vol 2, No. 16: Notes From the Metaverse, by L. M. Sacasas. On modern media and where it interacts with culture, as well as creates it, as well as culture cycles, the commodification of life, virtual spaces, and more. It's an incredibly smart and thoughtful piece. My excerpts do not do it justice. 
 
"We never go back. This is not to say that elements of the past can never reassert themselves or re-appear in interesting ways, but we never go back to a past state of affairs because you cannot undo what has happened since. Even when elements of the past are retrieved or patterns echo, they will have been changed by their passage to the present. I say this, in part, because when new technologies appear, it is tempting to cast them in light of older technologies or in relation to older social states. Some of this reflects the understandable tendency to make sense of what is novel by reference to what is familiar, hence the fact that we still speak of web “pages.” But it applies, too, particularly with new media, to the idea that we are thrust into an older form of culture by a new technology.

[...] Digital media does not make whole what had been broken apart. It’s rather more like having the pieces thrown into a pile together. Work from home is not a return to agrarian modes of relatively autonomous subsistence. For most people, it is a job and a boss that are being introduced into the rhythms of home life, in which children, as has been widely recognized, are not meaningfully integrated but rather appear chiefly as logistical problems to be solved. What will be needed, in my view, is a new way of thinking about work altogether, not merely a migration of old jobs into new settings. And it may be that we get there, and that digital technologies will play a key role in making it happen. But the metaverse as it is presently being packaged is, from this vantage point, a tool that is already obsolete, centered as it is on virtual simulations of traditional office work."
 
There's just so much in this newsletter. Finding it recently felt like the old internet opening up, words tearing through me, tying thoughts together that had before been floating about, uncertain if they should connect. I am the audience for this, undoubtedly, it's all tech and philosophy and an aesthetically pleasing hybridization of insight and praxis, with quotes from Marshal McLuhan and Jacques Ellul mixed in with snippets of poetry, but perhaps that speaks to you, too. It's written by Michael Sacasas, an independent scholar of technology and culture, and the About Page describes it as "The Convivial Society is a newsletter exploring the relationship between technology and society. It’s grounded in the history and philosophy of technology, with more than a sprinkling of media ecology. No hot takes, only shamelessly deliberate considerations of the meaning of technology for human experience."

Also:

"It seems that the conglomeration of devices, apps, platforms, and networks that are now being repackaged as the metaverse simply push us along the path toward commercialization and datafication, the drive to render our experience quantifiable and subject to computational analysis. Life conducted within the metaverse is already reduced to data. If we were running up against the limits of profitably data-mining human experience in the so called “real world,” then translating even more of our experience into a realm of virtual simulacrum would open up a new frontier. Alternatively, if you’ve run out of physical goods to sell and physical spaces in which to place ads, then a new persistent virtual realm solves those problems. Either that or purchase ads in what may become the equivalent of billboards in space whose messages will be streamed via Youtube."
dreampepper: jhayne facing the camera in a red jacket and with big purple glasses (Default)
 
give me space / at least six feet / dig my grave just as deep / i got sex on my mind all the time, fuck /  scrolling through the internet time suck / i’ve been feeling flat like a pancake / i could use a hug or a handshake / i could use some drugs or a bandaid / cooped up in a hole i wanna /  lose all my control i wanna just go on a rampage / give me wisdom, give me teeth / give me vision, let me see / give me courage to confess / every night i text my ex /  give me girls / give me boys / give me life / give me peace / give me noise / someone give me fucking zen
 
 
 
It's unclear what long-term effects lockdown will have on art and culture. Fewer than I'd want, I suppose, given that lockdown was abandoned more quickly than perhaps it should have been for lack of socialism. Still, the music that trickled its way to me has all been terrific. Thumpy bass, kicky hooks. addictive even when the lyrics are sour. 

Unlike everyone else, I'm still in lockdown. I miss dancing so much that it's like a limb is missing. Clubs, clearings, church basements, restaurants with the furniture pushed back. I don't care where or even what kind. Buncha people, all together, moving and stomping and throwing their wrists. 

This is the cost of staying Covid Zero though. No life. No shared purpose. And the adhedonia doesn't help, either. 
 

 
dreampepper: jhayne sitting in a window near a piano (by the piano)
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January 15th: On a scale of one to ten, how was your lunch today?

Alex and I made a cherry & fudge cake, perhaps that might count. It was a 10, delicious. 

::------::

I used to cook quite a bit. For myself, for partners, for roommates, for large monthly feasts of ten to twenty to thirty people. I would host orphan dinners every holiday and grandiose pierogi fests and crepe making parties that lasted for 12 hours. Once, with a group down by Sacramento, I helped dig a pit wherein we roasted entire hogs. Now I make very little. The pulmonary embolisms knocked me off my feet and cratered my lungs, so at first I couldn't move, then I still couldn't stand, then I still couldn't breathe in an active kitchen. It took a year or so for me to be able to take part in making meals again that weren't microwaved. My problem now is weakness. Not enough blood, is my theory. But still, too, the lingering lung damage. I made grilled cheese sandwiches for Alex and I last week and found myself on the floor, gasping, when the butter, heated slightly past temp, slid past golden brown to black. It was only a small tendril of smoke, at first, but I still had to open the back door in spite of the snow and sit in the frigid clean air while the sandwich burned, unable to get up enough to reach the pan and move it safely from the burner. As a result, one side of my sandwich was basically cheese-slathered coal, a christmas-treat for the naughty with a side of Heidi on the mountain. 

Part of me wants to go nuts to spite my frailty. Take on a labor-intensive project like an Eggnog Spice Cake with Bourbon Custard Filling and Eggnog Buttercream or Hand-made Tortellini with Sunchoke & Black Truffle Filling. Recipes from a dream dinner party list that call for sustained effort and tenacious mashing or kneading.  I want to have, at the end, a testament to grit. Something to make the suffering feel worthwhile. I'll suffer either way, after all, why not have something noteworthy at the end. 

In the meantime, however, back in the world where I can't be trusted with a cheese sandwich, I'm too aware of my limitations to try. Instead I throw canned things together and try not to feel too dreary when Alex reacts with praise. One day, is my refrain. One day, some day. Just not today. 



dreampepper: jhayne's from behind in a dark space (looking away)
 

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January 14th: Are you a leader or a follower?

I used to be the former, sometimes the latter, but now I'm nothing at all. 




 ::------::

dreampepper: jhayne facing the camera in a red jacket and with big purple glasses (Default)
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January 13th: Where do you want to travel next?

Unknown. List: Friendly Europe, City Museum (St. Louis), Smithsonian. Somewhere with surgery & new adventure. 


 ::------::

I took a near continent-spanning road-trip last year, that stretched from Vancouver, Canada, down to Seattle, then to Nevada and back for Burning Man, then from Seattle to Tacoma, then Portland, and from there to Boise, Jackpot Nevada, the Bonneville Salt Flats, Salt Lake City, Moab, Denver, Boulder, Lincoln, Des Moines, Cedar Rapids, Minneapolis, St. Paul, Madison, Chicago, and Detroit before crossing back into Canada at Sarnia and finally arriving home in Toronto. 

I was gone from June until November, mostly living in a Honda Element bought specifically, (at least partially), for the trip. I slept in the back on a foam mattress piled with blankets and pillows, the Burning Man festival camping gear underneath, random couches, and the occasional bed. 

There is often a demand made of women to feel unsafe when alone or travelling, but there were no concerns, aside from Covid, which occupied my mind every time I looked at all the Americans pretending it was over or had to brush my teeth in a rest stop bathroom, and the encroaching weakness of my body, which writes its own biography of failure every day, with little to no input from myself.   

It's the kind of trip that people write novels about, the Great Americana of it all, the timbre of each state, rolling hillsides or sharp mountain peaks, how the beauty of farmland is striking to the city eye. A certain type of literary realism seems to spring forth from these experiences, but I didn't feel it that way. It wasn't remarkable, somehow, driving that long distance alone.

I took mental notes, though, occasionally, of things I thought it might be nice to share. Odd signs, (the Michigan Left, the No Name Rest Area), songs that meshed well with the dark, the unexpected number of foxes dead along the highways of Nebraska, what it was like to drive in a complete white-out blizzard between Madison and Chicago, the moving lace of the snow as it built in ripples and waves, the shocking pungency of the rich red of Moab, cracking from beneath the grotesquery of the repellent, ugly landscape between Salt Lake and Moab. 

Other snapshots I didn't take: Clusters of Instagram-poisoned families taking near-identical toddler birthday photos at the Salt Flats, all with the same metallic number-shaped balloons. Well-polished groups tumbling out of #vanlife RVs, all blonde, the children snapping into poses, practiced and true. The sharp bird of prey that woke me from my sleep at a Colorado rest stop, peering down at me curiously through the sunroof of my vehicle as I blearily greeted the day. A four story ruin with trees sprouting from the collapsed top floors, part of Detroit's crumbling architecture across from a post office with more security gates and bars than a high profile bank that couldn't sell me stamps because the delivery truck hadn't come, three weeks running. In one direction, yoga studios, boutiques. The other, abandoned for decades, an area without power, street lights blank, yet still, perhaps, with a handful of tenacious human inhabitants. 

Colorado was gorgeous, if oddly car-dependent. Idaho was flat, both geographically and culturally. Des Moines might have had a spark, but I was only there for an hour or two, lonely in a sculpture garden that felt like an obvious tax write-off, the art all the same large-scale work that splays itself across corporate courtyards in a dozen cities. The tall creepy spider legs almost comforting in their homogeneity. The polka-dot pumpkin the same as every other, cloned across social media in thousands of mirror room selfies, reflections of reflections of reflections.  
 
There's more, of course. The little dinosaur statues that were a mascot at some gas stations, how stepping into Target can be disorienting, because it feels like stepping into any other Target, visiting live buffalo in Nebraska, sitting silently in wild grassland. The loveliness of waking up in a rest stop, surrounded by bird song, looking out over a river - how unexpected, too, the gift that is the endless parade of rest-stop visiting dogs. I hadn't considered that aspect of travel, that every rest stop is now also a potential petting station. There was even a local cat at one outside the twin cities, sitting by the side of the parking lot. I threw it a snack, uncertain if it was feral, but it was gone by the time I had changed out of my pyjamas.  
 

dreampepper: jhayne looks to the left, black & white photo (b&w headshot)
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January 12th: What's your favourite accessory?

Alex got me a Victorian vine jewelry set from Micheal Michaud for Christmas. I have no reason to wear it yet, but it's terribly pretty.


 ::------::

I also love my silk Alexander McQueen scarf patterned with jewelled dragonflies and the soft goldenrod yellow split-snood and glove set I got last November from Target during my roadtrip, but the one thing I won't leave the house without is a KN95 mask from MaskLab, a Korean PPE company that pivoted during lockdown to selling medical-grade art-covered masks for civilians. 

How much do masks reduce transmission? Studies have attempted to answer this:
  • Mask wearing corresponded to a 19% decrease in the R(0) in one study. In other words, masks helped reduce transmission.
  • In Bangladesh villages were randomized to be provided free masks. Villages that got the intervention had more than double the mask usage than villages that didn’t (13% vs. 42%). This resulted in a 9% reduction in cases in the mask-wearing villages. 
  • In the U.S., a 10% increase in mask wearing was associated with greater control of transmission.
  • In Germany, mask mandates reduced spread by 45%.
  •  
These studies reflect vastly different settings and cultures and they show a huge range of impact. Every study has holes and flaws. That's just how science operates, by chipping at problems one opportunity and facet at a time. In the meantime, the main question, do masks keep you safer? The answer, unequivocally, is yes. Not by 100%, of course, but a measurable amount. So remember: it's the bare minimum, like wearing a seatbelt. Stay masked indoors. 
dreampepper: jhayne facing the camera in a red jacket and with big purple glasses (Default)
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January 11: Today you lost _________.

The ability to walk was intermittent today. Heart too fast, body too weak. 


::------::

I suppose at some point I need to write about the blood clots and my time in the hospital. How it's years later and I'm still struggling every day, unable to function at any kind of ordinary level. That everything wrong with me has either been caused or worsened by doctors who brushed me off or didn't pay attention or played to sexist stereotypes. It's a lot, though, and I don't want to yet. It's all very stupid, even while it carries huge consequence. And I still have the cancer that started it all. The small pinprick of pain inside me has grown to the size of a small lemon. It pushed on my organs, threatening adhesion, and causing me to gasp, unable to breathe. 

dreampepper: jhayne facing the camera in a red jacket and with big purple glasses (Default)
 ::------::

January 10th: Write down something that inspired you today. 

The class and degree possibilities at OCAD.


::------::

Dee was only able to visit for an overnight and a day. We walked, slowly, around my neighborhood, along Queen and into Chinatown and Kensington Market. Covid seems to have shredded their lungs and I am equally winded and weak, without enough blood, so it was a slow meander as we chatted, stopping into shops to look at art, picking up dumplings and calamansi juice and Japanese fried chicken from the street food kiosk by the hospital where my heart stopped the second time. 




To celebrate their 40th, I gifted Dee a copy of the Arcane Bullshit Oracle Deck, which might be my best gift to recipient match of the past five years. 

In spite of their infirmary, they seem to be doing splendidly. Which scans, I suppose. We are alike and everyone I know like me is either thriving and married (in some shape) or dead, which I guess is my current form. It's just my luck that the body refuses to see it that way. 

knot theory

Jan. 9th, 2023 05:24 pm
dreampepper: jhayne looks to the left, black & white photo (b&w headshot)
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January 9th: Was today typical? Why or why not?

Yes & No. Had an echo-cardiogram (hospital = typical) but then picked up Dee Harding from the train station, yay!


::------::
 
A funny thing happened at the echo-cardiogram - a necklace I was wearing lost its winged beetle pendant, even though it hadn't come unclasped and the ring of the pendant is a solid ring, without gap. Because the way it had come undone, so topographically odd, and it had been on long enough that the metal was the same temperature of my skin, I didn't feel it go. I nearly didn't notice until it was too late. It was pure luck that when I glimpsed myself quickly in the mirrored walls of the elevator on my way to leave that I noticed the chain around my neck no longer carried its passenger.

Feeling on the edge of fatalistic, I sprang into action anyway, punching the button back up to third, and aggressively scanned the floor all the way back to the examination room, certain that the thick loop of metal that it hung from had perhaps snapped and this tiny object that I cherished (a birthday present) was gone forever. But! A magic trick! It was on the ground, unbroken, in the exact spot where I had changed in and out of the hospital gown. Somehow, in the twist of fabric over my head and the shuffle of cloth, the chain had looped out and over and around the insect and its cage, freeing it. I examined it carefully, wonderously, trying to imagine how it was done. The method I understood immediately, a flash of improbable truth. How it could have happened organically, however, continues to baffle. Especially later, when to repair it, I had to reverse engineer the undoing, as the loops of the end of the chain were too big to fit through the hoop at the top of the bug. So even if the chain had come undone (it didn't), the pendant couldn't have slipped off that way, either. 

If I were taken to fancies, it would have seemed impossible. A miracle of atoms, physics on vacation, a metal suddenly immaterial, two solids vibrating through each other at the gods looked away, distracted for the smallest possible fraction of time, and witness, the material world hiccoughed and it dropped, freed. 



dreampepper: jhayne facing the camera in a red jacket and with big purple glasses (headshot jhayne)
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January 8: What song is stuck in your head?

Vessel, by Dan Mangan & Blacksmith

::------::


365: 2012/07/15 - Closing the Festival down with Dan


Somewhere along the line Dan got properly Famous tm and it's terrific. I'm so pleased for him. I found this album by hearing it in a movie, which, given how long I've known Dan, was intensely surreal. My heart lurched in joyful recognition, the scene in front of me utterly forgotten. And since, every time I listen to this song, I'm propelled back to the night he played the Main Stage of the Vancouver Folk Festival - the stars coming out over us, the crowd heaving, the way we stood together back stage, holding each other tight as we looked out over it all, squeezing me one last time before he took his guitar and stepped out under the lights. He was fire, he was metal melted and pouring into everyone in front of us. I felt like, yes, this is it. This is right, being able to be here and witness this - for chance to have put me right there, to be on this side of the fence, his personal photographer for the night, capturing all of the madness, the blaze of wild energy. When I helped him jump the fence and wade out into it mid-song, the sea parting, his voice soaring, I knew this was the rubicon. He was going to Make It in a way that we had always dreamed for him. He was going to escape. And it would be great.
dreampepper: jhayne sitting in a window near a piano (by the piano)
  ::------::
 
January 7: You are lucky; how so or not so?

Maslow's pyramid base is taken care of. The top, however, is completely missing. 
 
::------::

I'm a machine powered by romance, without any fuel. A magic pixie dream thing, without energy or dreams. It is hard to face each day, knowing that the potential for change requires a body that isn't heavy with exhaustion and new connections that I have no way to make.

dreampepper: jhayne sitting in a window near a piano (by the piano)
::------::

January 6: Today was tough because __________.

I still have no motivation to make anything or continue to exist.

::------::


The Atlantic: Why Everything in Tech Seems to Be Collapsing at Once: The industry is having a midlife crisis. By Derek Thompson.

"The period after the Great Recession was defined by a weak economy with low aggregate demand and low interest rates. This created the perfect conditions for an era of endless cash that venture capitalists, seeking high rates of return, poured into low-marginal-cost software companies. As smartphone penetration rose in the U.S. and around the world, the app revolution took off. Social-media and consumer-tech companies became some of the richest and fastest-growing in the world. Hollywood went streaming, content went digital, and the services economy became intermediated by smartphones.

Then came the surge of post-pandemic inflation. Rising interest rates have meant the end of easy money. The Millennial Consumer Subsidy—my term for VCs splitting the bill with consumers to grow their companies—has come to a close. As the cost of risk has gone up, venture funding has gone down, and companies have had to cut costs, raise prices, or both. Meanwhile the narrative in markets has flipped from growth to profits, and valuations for tech companies have crashed.

The inflation explanation is fairly technical. I’ve got another story that’s a little bit harder to prove. It goes something like this: The tech industry is experiencing a midlife crisis."


I've been reverse engineering job positions at offices I'd like to join. Collecting lists of required skills, certifications, degrees, and more. Each item added to a checklist, then weighted by time, effort, and capability. Building a path from here to there, class by class, portfolio piece by coding test, a map to build expertise with, brick by brick.

A plan started coming together. The list of bootcamps was culled, prerequisites began to be gathered, the options narrowing as I homed in on a destination, a job that could fold into a career, rather than my usual jump rope skip from thing to thing, never quite climbing the ladder high enough to truly reach safety before the whole thing comes crashing down.

Then came the waves of lay-offs. Five of the seven places I was looking at suddenly don't even exist. An industry brought to its knees.

Five recessions in fifteen years. How many once-in-a-century crashes have happened within my small lifetime? Too many. And here I am, too late again. 

dreampepper: jhayne's from behind in a dark space (looking away)
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January 5: What is the last restaurant you went to?

I ate inside in Minneapolis w. David & Laura Bryan. Pho, I think. We went to a place next to their house, too, that was beautiful. Tropical. That was back in November of 2022. We sat next to an open window. Both times I wore my mask when not eating. These were the only times I've eaten inside a restaurant in 2022.

::------::

People are acting like now that we're all vaccinated, the pandemic is over. It feels a little like everyone's gone insane, but truly I know they're acting according to the information they have, which is woefully inadequate and oftentimes false. The COVID-19 misinformation wars have been lost. The public is being lied to about immunity debt, immunosuppression, Long COVID, the effectiveness of vaccinations, if booster shots are optional or not (they are not), etc, etc.

In short, when the current governments told the people of North America that the pandemic was now going to be managed through individualized risk assessment, it neglected to inform citizens of the true magnitude or mechanism of that risk.

The talking points that survive say that if you're vaccinated, you'll be fine. This isn't right. If you're vaccinated, you have far better chances. Full stop. You can still get sick. You can still be a carrier. You can still be injured and disabled for life. You can still die, even. These truths should be everywhere. Mask mandates should remain and continue. Testing centers should remain.  

And yet.. in spite of the science, the knowledge, the hard facts: Barriers to travel are gone. Workers are back in offices. Mask-wearing is optional in most public places. In Canada and the USA, life is pretty much back to normal for the vast majority of people. 
 
Meanwhile, more people died in 2022 either from COVID-19 or in association with the disease in Canada and the US than during each of the first two years of the pandemic.

Meanwhile, across the provinces and states that are top #XBB15 dominant epicenters (Canada/Northeast US), hospitalizations are increasing. The reason is that #XBB15 is one of the most evasive variants against immunity (high escape) and fusion with human cells (high ACE2 binding)—a worst of both worlds.

Meanwhile, Long Covid continues to gather further victims. Defined by a constellation of numerous symptoms occurring weeks or months following Covid-19 infection, it affects both adults and children. It attacks those who had severe acute infections and those who had mild or asymptomatic infections. You can be sick, never know it, and still have irreversible damage.

Meanwhile, a recent Freedom Of Information request uncovered the fact that every provincial government in Canada had high quality information on the severity and prevalence of long COVID as early as July 2020. This was not communicated to the public. And if Canada had that knowledge, it must follow that in Europe and the US - same story.

First, it is important to acknowledge the ethical framework of Public Health, as set out by PHAC, states scientific uncertainty should not prevent decision makers from taking action to reduce risks associated with COVID. It's understood that Public Health therefore has an ethical duty to apply precaution. However, we also now know Canadian decision makers had a staggering quantity of high quality information detailing the prevalence and mechanisms of the long term complications of COVID. They simply chose to ignore it.

Meanwhile, COVID increases your risk of diabetes in the year after infection. Meanwhile, there is a direct relationship between COVID and potential heart disease

Meanwhile, we have no cure for the widespread damage a COVID infection causes in pulmonary, vascular, cardiovascular, gastrointestinal, and neurological systems (lungs, vessels, heart, stomach/intestine/bowel, and nerves respectively). Or any sure way to serve those suffering from the virus’ ability to induce ubiquitous micro-clotting.

Meanwhile, due to misinformation, disinformation, and negligent omission of data, public perception of Long COVID varies between it being uncommon and only impacting the immune compromised or those with preexisting chronic health issues, to it being imaginary, psychosomatic, or of dubious origin.
 
Meanwhile, COVID infections can disrupt the immune system, giving many COVID survivors serious auto-immune diseases, as well as make people more susceptible to other infections. Studies are beginning to show that for at least 6-8 months after a COVID infection, even in a mild, asymptomatic case, the t-cells of the body aren't working as intended. For reasons that have not yet been clarified, this is especially true for men. This means that everyone's who's caught COVID, no matter the symptoms, should consider themselves temporarily immune-compromised.

TLDR:  Wear a mask. Test regularly. Subscribe to Your Local Epidemiologist on Substack.



 

dreampepper: jhayne facing the camera in a red jacket and with big purple glasses (Default)
Last August, in the lead up to the crumbling last days of Twitter AKA the Elon era, I read a tweet (by Zarina Khan) that struck me like a bell and continues to resonate, even half a year later: "My toxic trait is that I don’t feel any sense of accomplishment after achieving something. Just a mild sense of relief that it’s done." 

It's been a long time since I've felt so seen. Occasionally I wonder if this is just adulthood - the cessation of internal spark or having any kind of satisfaction from life - but I know it isn't. This is something else. And it predates the lack of blood my body currently struggles with (a symptom of which is a ever present "sense of impending doom" which rises and subsides with the tides of my periods but never leaves). I wonder, too, if there's anything I can do by myself that would be capable of turning things back on. The short answer, so far, is also no. 

 ::------::

January 4: The best part of today?

I'm not sure yet. A clean bedroom floor, cat peace, (their first 3-cat snuggle was last night), being warm when it's raining, fresh hair-dye, having client work.

::-----::

When Silva required hospice, we also took in her senior cat, Rhiannon. She is a splendid cat, as long as she is the only cat. After her brother died, she was inconsolable. It's possible that she may have eventually recovered from her mourning and welcomed other cats into her life again, but when her previous cat-parents decided to get kittens, it wasn't done with delicacy or care. Rhiannon saw them replace her brother, and worse, replace her as well. As a result, Rhiannon came to us determined that she would never again suffer any other cats to live in her space. She was both the Alpha and the Omega and would stay such with two weapons: violence and urine. Unfortunately for her (and also our laundry capacity), we already had two sweetheart sisters, Kismet and Whimsy. Young and naive, our cats may have been open to the incoming adult cat, especially given that they'd been adjusting quite well to all the other rather dramatic changes: half our things in storage, strangers moving in, the living room transformed into a bedroom, and everything else Silva had managed to keep piled halfway to the ceiling in every other space. As you can guess, however, that was not to be. 

In the intervening time between their disastrous meeting and today, I have been applying endless tips and tricks from papers on CPTSD, early childhood education, positive reinforcement, research psychology, and various types of operant conditioning. Our home as Skinner box, the cats as traumatized children. And, slowly but surely, it's been working. The vicious battles subsided, replaced by skirmishes, replaced by stand-offs, replaced by irritation and disdain. There is still fear, but there are no longer panic attacks. There is hissing, but we no longer go through gallons of enzyme soap. Pee War 2021 is far behind us. 

And now, the latest victory: the contested space of the heated blanket has now become the first sleeping space they will share. When drugged by warmth and softness, they will even stretch out and touch one another and tolerate being touched by the other. 

It took about two years, but it's a tremendous win even so. And now I cannot help but meditate upon this: There may be no such thing as an untraumatized adult, but at least we can create it for our pets. How much better the world if we were all so cared for? If anxieties were soothed and bids for attention unthwarted.




dreampepper: desaturated photos with sections in negative (negative space)
My to-read pile is a nearly full bookcase, seven feet high. I bought the bookcase in San Francisco from a thrift store that existed in what used to be a big box store and soon became a Target, and carried it home, tied to my back. It towered over me, but I was pleased by how unwieldy it was to carry, how unlikely this gigantic thing, strapped to a woman who walked with a cane. It was already white, but chipped. The hard wood underneath showing through in places, so I repainted it when I got it home. Smooth wall paint, bought from a grungy housewares store on Valencia where the staff only spoke Spanish, junk mail on the floor underneath to protect the carpet from errant drips or stains. It's perfect. Taller and sturdier than anything similar I've found since.

 ::------::

January 3: What are you reading right now?

Talking To Strangers: What We Should Know About People We Don't Know, by Malcolm Gladwell. Also some fiction. Junot Diaz next and Finding Your Element: How to Discover Your Talents and Passions and Transform Your Life, by by Sir Ken Robinson PhD & Lou Aronica.


 ::------::

The bookcase is mostly full of books I inherited from Silva, my godmother. She died in that San Francisco apartment, while under my care. Mine and Alex and her friends who had joined us, Caroline and Tiffany, who were in the room with her when she took her last breath. All of us asleep, exhausted by hospice. It was so large a loss, in the midst of so much else, so many other losses, the pandemic, my relationship, Alex in the hospital, needing to leave San Francisco for an unknown destination, I couldn't process it. I still haven't been able to touch that grief. There was a brief moment in the hall, as they were wheeling the body away, where I nearly cracked. The slightest sob crumpled from me, but then my poise snapped back. There was just so much work to be done. So much stuff to sort through. So many tasks. Endless tasks. And everything was in lockdown. If any of us had tried to examine the macro, we would have failed on the spot. I had no partner to suffer with, no one to carry me, no one to bond with. It was better that I felt nothing, that I stayed nothing, that my spark remained snuffed.

The vast majority of her books are gone. Given away, donated, mailed to her friends or left in little libraries. Boxes shipped to scholars of Juddaism. Boxes shipped to scholars of the occult. I tried to only keep the ones I thought I'd read or would make sense to sell. Rarities, first editions, old bell hooks. I sat in my living room, surrounded by literal piles of her things, putting books into boxes. One for me, one for the donation box. Two for me, five for the donation box. It took over a week. Only the former are on my giant shelf. They are sorted by topic, a bit. Biographies take up an entire shelf, though I couldn't name one I've ever read before, and women's studies, loosely defined, takes up another.

Silva admitted at one point, while close to dying, that many of the books that had come with her were not even hers, but her ex-wife's. She had told people to take precisely half all the books in the house they shared together, when they were packing her things during the divorce. A petty revenge, served cold. 

The bookcase lives in my bedroom now, next to the bed, rather than next to the front door, which is where it lived in my last place. It was immediately stuffed full during unpacking. More than my weight in books, unloaded into the shelves. Each book hauled across a continent, and for what? Each one a possible afternoon, each one another avenue of ideas or story to walk down. Hardly any of them were something I would normally choose for myself. Instead, if I am lucky, reading these might be a way to know her better or perhaps spark something that wouldn't otherwise come to light.

In the year I've been here and capable of reading, I've only cleared one shelf. I pick them at random, waving my arm until it hits a book or scanning the shelf with blurry eyes until I happen to focus on a specific title. It's very scientific. The current book that I'm reading, Having and Being Had, by Eula Biss, has been an unexpected treasure. It is simple yet satisfying in the way that many things in life are simple yet satisfying. 

it is almost bad news that I've found a book I like amongst the piles, rather than getting two chapters in and tossing it out*, as my rule is supposed to be No More Books Until I Clear Another Shelf. Yet here I am, finding relief in these pages and consequently, I find myself wanting to reach for further books. I've never had so many books on hand that I haven't read, so my brain might be refusing to see them as new. Or perhaps I've grown used to the titles I have, I suppose, even though I've never read them. Subsequently, this rule, though reasonable, may be doomed. #relatable


* read: donating to a local library




dreampepper: jhayne sitting in a window near a piano (by the piano)
My desk is covered in papers, official and scribbled. Some both at once. The tax people in BC have revived a ghost echo of me and have begun sending me bills, again, for their existence. My name, misspelled, propagating through the system like a tenacious weed. This happened before and I had to hire a lawyer, finally, to clean up their mess. I couldn't afford it. I couldn't afford not to. The other, the fake person, the accidental ghost, "Jane" who shared all of my information, but who was not me, who was a typing error, someone's assumption, had to be declared dead or annulled, something the people who took my calls were not authorized to do. How does one provide a death certificate for a spelling mistake? Meanwhile, I was being threatened with fraud, as some parts of the government now believed that two separate people, eerily similar, were using the same Social Insurance Number. My SIN fraught with sin, but the crime wasn't mine, but theirs. 

::------::

January 2: Can People Change?

I know I have. Where there's bright intensity, there's nothing. I used to do and now I float in nothingness. It's possible for a person to turn off. 


::------::
 

This time, thankfully, I do not require a lawyer. It is explained to me over the phone, after my sixth or seventh or eighth hour of being on hold, (I have been following up for days at a time), being passed along, being on hold, being passed on again, traded between Health Services and the Tax Offices, that the tulpa, the echo person was, in fact, erased. However, only "Jane" existed in the system. The people who interfaced with the lawyer had erased the wrong Jhayne. "That's not my name," I said, again, to the person on the phone, "You should have a copy of my birth certificate, saying so." "We do," he said. "I can see it right here. It has been crossed out by someone, years ago, because the name didn't match. You'll have to send it again." 

I left the country a couple of years after needing to hire the lawyer to murder my ghost. When I left for the States, as is correct, I called the Health Services line used to report these types of absences and detailed when my account should be closed or put on hold. These calls, too, are on record and can be seen. These calls, too, have been crossed out. According to them, because of these things, I owe a not insignificant number of thousands of dollars. 

They erase over half of it after the first week of phone calls. It takes over ten hours of being on hold. After that, I stop counting. I press 3 to stay in the queue. I press 3 to stay in the queue. I press 3 to stay in the queue. I press 3 to stay in the queue. The debt is an accident. The debt is imaginary. "Jane" is both of those things as well, I say. The woman on the phone laughs a little and agrees. She finds this all amusing. I am relieved the debt is growing smaller. She tells me it is the best thing she's had to tackle all day.




dreampepper: jhayne facing the camera in a red jacket and with big purple glasses (Default)
I bought a tiny, yet heavy book from the Amazon recently, Q&A a day: 365 QUESTIONS + 5 YEARS + 1,825 ANSWERS. It's a five year journal about the size of my hand, elegantly crafted. Inside the format is simple - each small page has the date and a daily question beautifully emblazoned across the top and beneath are five small sections, tastefully printed blank lines tacked to an unfinished year, (like so: 20__), so that the writer can compare each year as it comes. Originally I wanted to purchase the one wherein you write alongside a partner, but lacking a partner, and KEENLY lacking a partner, made such a thing feel like a hideous impossibility. So instead this. I had to do something and walking into traffic would unnecessarily traumatize other people.

A five year journal feels like a powerfully optimistic thing to create, much less own, but I bought it months before the new year, to help pay some of that weight, as it were, in distance. And now, here I am, beginning.

::------::

January 1: What is your mission?

To change everything about my life. Find a career, a relationship, love, friends, joy. I feel a ghost, like I might as well be dead.


::------::

I am cheating a little, shifting the date of this journal back to January first, when truly it took me until the first of February to gather myself enough to start this account. I have already been writing in the book a month, why so long to start here? It has been a long time since I had a journal; I am long overdue. I'm not sure I have answer, except that things have hurt too much for too long. Everything hurt so much that it my spirit turned off and I lost the ability to feel. I've been mired in adhedonia for years and years and years now. Six, perhaps? Once feelings are gone, what point is there to create? 

Not that much is better, I still feel dead inside, this still feels pointless, but so does taking every breath my body needs, and this, at least, will keep me busier. 

I had forgotten how many clicks it took - the settings, the font choices, the colours, the placement of boxes. Where is my handy folder of user icons? Dead, lost, somewhere. My CSS cheat sheet, also forgotten. I've been at it thirty minutes and still haven't figured out how to choose my own fonts or text colours. Yet this all feels comfortingly familiar. Being able to kludge something together that feels right, rather than have to accept corporate branding as the only background. It's good, just being here. Away from the web.3 version of social media: monoliths all, rotting, tottering and dreadful. And it's my hope, too, that the act of writing, in itself, may be a balm to some of the things that ail me, even if no one reads these words. 

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dreampepper: jhayne facing the camera in a red jacket and with big purple glasses (Default)
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