Thursday, September 29, 2005
Innocence lost
Yesterday's NYT article about the prevalence of fistulas in Nigeria and other sub-Saharan countries is a heavy-hitter. The saddest part of all is that, as the article states, women and girls (some pre-menstruating) who are lucky enough to obtain treatment for this condition are hardly in the clear. The chances of reoccuring episodes are high and consecutive treatments far from guaranteed.
The story reminds me of a friend, introduced to me by my n-bug. Her name is Liezl and she's one of the neatest women I've been privileged to meet. Moved by her spark, I wrote and sent a profile of her to Seattle Magazine. The editors passed on it, but no matter. Here's her story:
Liezl Casanova: Living with Purpose
Through bright eyes that crinkle with her warm smile, 27-year-old Liezl Casanova, a law student at
Dr. Hamlin’s incredible spirit and compassion inspired Liezl to contribute to the cause. She collaborated with a few friends in forming a business plan, setting the bar high with a goal to raise $10,000 for the hospital. She organized a planning committee to coordinate a benefit gala, and all went swimmingly. Liezl recalls the positive response of the local Ethiopian community, whose members not only donated funds but offered free services like the printing of marketing materials. The night of the gala, which was held at The Islander Restaurant, a stirring documentary was shown, Dr. Hamlin herself participated in a conference call from
You kick ass, L.
Crunch time
Lounging on her couch (two days left and counting), cup of Earl Gray in one hand, strange and fantastic book in the other, I'm thinking this whole out-of-work business isn't half-bad. Yes, Ashtray and I have officially parted ways, and I haven't ruled out sending her a (truly) constructive email in response to her sorely ineffective management style. I won't really do this. Thirty minutes from now when I'm wading through the morning's editorial job postings, I'll second-guess myself. I've set my goal at two to three applications per day, which is pretty modest I know, but me and cover letters have a tedious relationship.
The reality is I'll land yet another mind-numbing temp job before greatness eventually comes my way. And honestly, this is fine. Fine because I've never been so ready and willing to write my little heart out, and when I'm writing steadily, I'm apt to make sacrifices--i.e, nine-to-five satisfaction--in other areas. Alongside the RW story, I've churned out two essays (one for RW--fingers crossed--and another for some other wellness mag, not yet sure which). Then, in interviewing the last of my RW sources last week, I was presented w/ a great lead for a story I may pitch to Self or another mag of its ilk. But my proudest writing moment of late: a short piece of fiction that essentially came out of nowhere. Whacked me on the head (or, in the head) and demanded I write it. Love when that happens. And I thought making stuff up was outside my game...
More on the current housing situation later. Suffice it to say there's a good deal of adrenaline involved.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Poetry
A week old, but in case some missed it...
Dear Mrs. Bush,
I am writing to let you know why I am not able to accept your kind invitation to give a presentation at the National Book Festival on September 24, or to attend your dinner at the Library of Congress or the breakfast at the White House.
In one way, it's a very appealing invitation. The idea of speaking at a festival attended by 85,000 people is inspiring! The possibility of finding new readers is exciting for a poet in personal terms, and in terms of the desire that poetry serve its constituents--all of us who need the pleasure, and the inner and outer news, it delivers.
And the concept of a community of readers and writers has long been dear to my heart. As a professor of creative writing in the graduate school of a major university, I have had the chance to be a part of some magnificent outreach writing workshops in which our students have become teachers. Over the years, they have taught in a variety of settings: a women's prison, several New York City public high schools, an oncology ward for children. Our initial program, at a 900-bed state hospital for the severely physically challenged, has been running now for twenty years, creating along the way lasting friendships between young MFA candidates and their students--long-term residents at the hospital who, in their humor, courage and wisdom, become our teachers.
When you have witnessed someone nonspeaking and almost nonmoving spell out, with a toe, on a big plastic alphabet chart, letter by letter, his new poem, you have experienced, close up, the passion and essentialness of writing. When you have held up a small cardboard alphabet card for a writer who is completely nonspeaking and nonmoving (except for the eyes), and pointed first to the A, then the B, then C, then D, until you get to the first letter of the first word of the first line of the poem she has been composing in her head all week, and she lifts her eyes when that letter is touched to say yes, you feel with a fresh immediacy the human drive for creation, self-expression, accuracy, honesty and wit--and the importance of writing, which celebrates the value of each person's unique story and song.
So the prospect of a festival of books seemed wonderful to me. I thought of the opportunity to talk about how to start up an outreach program. I thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some books and meet some of the citizens of Washington, DC. I thought that I could try to find a way, even as your guest, with respect, to speak about my deep feeling that we should not have invaded Iraq, and to declare my belief that the wish to invade another culture and another country--with the resultant loss of life and limb for our brave soldiers, and for the noncombatants in their home terrain--did not come out of our democracy but was instead a decision made "at the top" and forced on the people by distorted language, and by untruths. I hoped to express the fear that we have begun to live in the shadows of tyranny and religious chauvinism--the opposites of the liberty, tolerance and diversity our nation aspires to.
I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival in order to bear witness--as an American who loves her country and its principles and its writing--against this undeclared and devastating war.
But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you. I knew that if I sat down to eat with you, it would feel to me as if I were condoning what I see to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush Administration.
What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I would be taking food from the hand of the First Lady who represents the Administration that unleashed this war and that wills its continuation, even to the extent of permitting "extraordinary rendition": flying people to other countries where they will be tortured for us.
So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish and shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds and fire. I thought of the clean linens at your table, the shining knives and the flames of the candles, and I could not stomach it.
Sincerely,
SHARON OLDS
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
The countdown begins...
When we first moved to W-burg, I found the below text here. Still, it doesn't answer my question, which is, why ringlets? Every so often I'll see a pair of uncurled payos (or maybe that's a contradiction), but it's definitely the exception. I mean, the instruction "you shall not round the corners of your head" doesn't specifically request curls. If anything, it asks the opposite (curls, round... ok, that's weak). Maybe it's just a matter of convenience/keeping the hair off the face? For those prone to the frizzies (especially when humidity's hovering at 80 percent), I suppose this would make sense. I don't know, though. Judging by the head-to-toe black clothing seen all summer long, convenience doesn't appear to be high on the list...
Q-5:: What is the significance of the untrimmed beards and sidecurls? At what age do boys begin to wear sidecurls?
A-10: The payos (sidecurls, pronounced PAY-us) and beard are worn in obedience to this commandment in the Torah (Bible):You shall not round the corners of your heads, nor mar the edges of your beards. (Leviticus 19:27)
The "corners of the head" are the area above the ears. "Not rounding" them means not shaving the hair there, or cutting it very short. Together, both the curls and the untrimmed beard are a symbol of obedience to the laws of God. Many Hasidic men also cut the rest of the hair very short. This is not really required, but is more comfortable under a hat. Also, some Hasidim see the entire haircut -- very short hair with beard and payos -- as part of the "uniform" of their group.
![[Close-up of the FAQ author's payos]](hasidfaq/payos1.jpg)
The minimum length for the payos is long enough that you can grab a hair and bend it towards its own root -- which comes out to be just about to the middle of the ear. But there are other opinions also, and many Hasidim wear them longer. Some men curl them carefully and let them hang conspicuously in front of the ears, while others tuck them behind the ears or up under their yarmulke (skullcap.) Again, this is a matter of style and, in some cases, personal preference. (Yes, that's a photo of me in a Star Trek uniform. It's a nice Purim costume (grin) and also a publicity photo for my soon-to-be-published book, Jewish Themes in Star Trek, which you can read more about on TrekJews.com.)
Lubovitcher Hasidim, however, do not wear payos, except for the young boys until the beard grows in. And some non-Hasidic Orthodox wear them also, including many Sephardic and Yemenite Jews. In fact, the website of Ohr Sameach (a non-Hasidic Orthodox org) even has instructions for how to curl your payos properly. So you really can't tell if someone is a Hasid based on whether or not he has payos.
How does a Hasid curl his payos? I get asked that a lot. Most of us twist them while still wet. If you do this often enough, the hair gets trained that way. (See the Ohr Sameach article mentioned above.) And no, we don't use women's curlers! The result you get depends a lot on your hair type. Mine is very straight and rather thin, so it doesn't curl so well. I wear them out for dressy occasions, but tuck them behind my ears otherwise.
At what age does a boy start wearing payos? At age three. Before that, his hair is not cut at all, and is allowed to grow long. On his third birthday, there is a special ceremony where the hair is cut short except for the sidecurls. At this time, he also receives his first set of tzitzit (a four-cornered garment with special tassels, see next Q-6 below). He is now no longer a baby, but a child, which is a different category with more responsibility. The hair-cutting ceremony is usually followed by a happy celebration for his family and friends.
I should also mention here that grabbing or pulling a Hasid's payos -- even in so-called "fun," is a big rude no-no. Ditto for asking to touch our beards. We are not animals for you to pet. I don't pull your hair, please don't pull mine.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Greatness
My SWB friend Suzanne has been involved w/ 826 Seattle from day 1 (or close to it). Pretty crazy that a bunch of twentysomethings were able to come up w/ such huge $ in so little time.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
ahhhhhh!!! (or, *more Syd-art*)
subway art 1
subway art 2
Herald Square, near my work
Podunk, East Village teahouse (love the name)
?
NYT's Kristof has written a lot about the Darfur atrocities and the Bush administration's unwillingness to step in. This is his latest on the topic, and as usual, he strikes readers to the core w/ his wrenchingly evocative stories of human suffering. Every time I read about this tragedy, I'm left wringing my hands at the gall of Bush & buddies, at the blatant contradictions that, for many, have come to define this president's term. To stand behind the 'right to life' claim in opposing abortion rights while at the same time disregarding *more than 70,000 dead in Sudan* is beyond comprehension. Too much potential for failure? god knows he's working his magic/precluding failure in the abortion rights arena, so no worries there. Or maybe the situation's not close enough to home? Then again, Iraq's 6,000 miles away and that didn't stop him. What's that? There were other issues at play? Oh, yeah. And as Kristof states, if Bush needs further convincing to push him over the edge, why not take comfort in knowing your evangelical base strongly supports interference? If that doesn't get him...
Friday, September 16, 2005
This, pulled from McSweeney's, is cute
I Can Never Recall the Name of Brooklyn's New Hip Band.
BY DAN KENNEDY
- - - -
I'm Clapping as Fast as I Can
Clap Your Hands Together Like This
All Clap Hands, That's Right!
Yes, I'm Clapping, OK?
Clap, Clap, Clap for the Band
Writer undercover
Oh geez. I've been interviewing folks (just wrapping up the process) for the RW story, and most of the time, I've been able to take care of this at work. However, I can't possibly make the calls from my desk, as there are perky ears in every direction. The best solution, it seems, is to hit the bathroom. The single-occupant unisex bathroom. So it's into the john I head, cellphone recorder cords trailing behind me, eyes darting back and forth, my fingers crossed for anonymity. For whatever reason, there are two chairs in there, and these I arrange front to front. I sit on one and set my list of questions/etc on the other. An ideal setup, things considered.
One problem: The room is situated smack in the center of a heavily trafficked hallway, and judging by the clearly audible voices I hear while inside, I'm sure my hushed one is still detectable. I'm always a little apprehensive upon exiting--"is she batty?"--but so far I don't think anyone's on to me. Thing is, what choice do I have? No choice, really, unless I want to delevate (should be a word) to the lobby, which is just too much work.
So it goes. Today, two under my belt. This evening, one more. That one, however, will be conducted in the comfort of my own bathroom.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Like everyone, ilovethebook
By Steve Almond, for Nerve
One night early in grad school, a bunch of us aspiring writers gathered at a bar to blab about the books we loved and of course Lolita came up, because Lolita always comes up in such conversations. The other guys and I took a cold, analytical approach to the book. We wanted to say how much we adored it, how much we secretly identified with Humbert Humbert and his excessive, illegal passion for prepubescent Lolita. But we were also hoping to get laid (of course), and we figured such a confession might not put us in good stead with our female classmates.
There was one in particular, a women I'll call Rita, who, as it happened, had more than a hint of the nymphet in her. She wasn't exactly "four-foot-ten in one sock." More like five-one in black stockings. But she was small and pale and occasionally dressed like a schoolgirl, and this made us all the more leery about directly endorsing Lolita. So we sat around parsing Nabokov's intricate wordplay and sipping our beers until, toward the end of the night, emboldened by a shot of George Dickel, Rita stood up and addressed us in an imploring tone: "But you guys, don't you get it — he loves her!"
And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is the whole ball of wax when it comes to Lolita. He loves her. Without the blinding force of Humbert's passion, the book — newly reissued for its fiftieth birthday — would never have endured its initial ignominy, nor become the most influential novel of the last century.
I feel vaguely qualified to speak about the book's influence, because I spent so much of grad school either writing dreadful imitations of Lolita, or reading them as the fiction editor of our literary magazine. I have friends who still keep a copy of the book by their keyboards, as a kind of talisman they can rub when their own prose starts to flag.
There is no need to belabor the plot of Lolita (man meets girl, man seduces girl, man loses girl — that about does it) nor the oft-cited symbolism (old, refined Europe seduced by young, vulgar America). What matters, in the end, is the heartsick love song of Monsieur Humbert. Here he is describing the boyhood tryst that presages his eventual coupling with Lolita:
"She trembled and twitched as I kissed the corner of her parted lips and the hot lobe of her ear. A cluster of stars palely glowed above us, between the silhouettes of long thin leaves . . . She sat a little higher than I, and whenever in her solitary ecstasy she was led to kiss me, her head would bend with a sleepy, soft, drooping movement that was almost woeful, and her bare knees caught and compressed my wrist, and slackened again; and her quivering mouth, distorted by the acridity of some mysterious potion, with a sibilant intake of breath came near to my face."
To be overrun by feeling, yet able to marshal words with such elegance and precision — this was Nabokov's knack. That he did so on behalf of a quivering pervert makes the achievement that much more astonishing.
We root for Humbert because, when you come right down to it, most of our own wishes are illicit.
And there should be no doubt about it: Humbert is a perv. "The bud-stage of breast development appears early (10.7 years) in the sequence of somatic changes accompanying pubescence," he informs us, dutifully. "And the next maturational item available is the first appearance of pigmented pubic hair (11.2 years)." It should come as no surprise that Lolita was originally published by a French press. Nor that it was only published in the U.S. three years later, after being dubbed "the filthiest book I have ever read" by a critic in a British newspaper. Such is the American lust for scandal.
And yet it is our awareness of Humbert's pathology that makes his seduction so powerful. He knows he's doing wrong. We know he's doing wrong. He can't stop himself. And we can't stop ourselves from watching.
Nor, if we are honest, do we look upon Humbert with pure disgust. In our covert hearts, we root for him, because he loves her, and because, when you come right down to it, most of our own wishes are illicit, or feel that way to us. Humbert's crimes, in other words, may be of a greater scale than the ones we commit, but the same cauldron of deviance bubbles within us. (Note: this last sentence does not apply to registered Republicans, who manage to avoid immoral thoughts by hating gay people.)
Lolita has enjoyed periodic resurgences, owing to two excellent film adaptations by Stanley Kubrick (1962) and Adrian Lyne (1997). But the novel itself remains the vital artifact, because only it can capture — with unflinching fidelity — the fevered consciousness of Humbert himself.
"There my beauty lay down on her stomach, showing me, showing the thousand eyes wide open in my eyed blood, her slightly raised shoulder blades," he tells us. "Every movement she made in the dappled sun plucked at the most secret and sensitive chord of my abject body."
In moments such as these, Nabokov is nothing less than a poet of desire. He is not writing about sex, but about the tumultuous feelings that illuminate our clumsy acts of love. These are what sweep us along — despite the bleatings of our conscience. Big ideas, witty observations and tricky plotlines are all fine and well. But the engine of any great book is desire. And by that standard, Lolita is a Mack truck.
It's worth noting that the scenes of physical contact between Humbert and Lolita are fairly restrained in the particulars. They feel lurid mainly because our narrator is so fraught by his own yearning: This is the true scandal of Lolita: not that a man should love a child, but that he should be so helpless.
"Her legs twitched a little as they lay across my live lap; I stroked them; there she lolled in the right-hand corner, almost asprawl, Lola the bobby-soxer, devouring her immemorial fruit, singing through its juice — every movement she made, every shuffle and ripple, helped me to conceal and to improve the secret system of tactile correspondence between beast and beauty — between my gagged, bursting beast and the beauty of her dimpled body in its innocent cotton frock."
This is the true scandal of Lolita. Not that a man should love a child, but that he should prove so helpless to stanch his desires. Deep emotion is the book's central transgression and its saving grace.
Never has this been more obvious than the current era, which has placed carnality in the service of capitalism by stripping from sex any vestige of authentic feeling. We see more and more these days — virtually any dirty image is at our fingertips — but feel less and less. Everywhere we look, glistening parts are pumping away in congress, yearning to excite our wildest consumer fantasies. Every day, it becomes harder and harder to make a clear distinction between pornography and advertising.
But Lolita?
It has nothing to sell but the truth of ourselves: our afflictions of want, our shame, elusive and horrible and blessed. n°
Potty humor
We all do it.
The hunt continues
Yeouch. This chick means business.
Etc.
Those, my friends, are roaches. Cockroaches. They were spotted by Pea and I at around 10:30 last night as we made our way to the JMZ subway stop at Delancey/Suffolk. The two were making friendly just outside a crack in the cement. As far as I could tell, they had no redeeming (superficial) qualities. Neither, in fact, did their cohorts--one average sized, the other well beyond--spotted minutes earlier, scuttling about in that disgusting cockroach way. And while Average didn't elicit much more than an 'ewww,' Well Beyond shocked me into momentary panic, which meant I shrieked like a sissy and quite literally ran away. Get a grip--I know. According to Pea, he trailed me for a few seconds before moving on to a more enticing source of entertainment, probably garbage.
This got me wondering why exactly it is that roaches are viewed as such despicable little creatures. I mean, I at least speak for myself when I say the the things get to me a good deal more than do rats or mice (well, mice anyway). They're just, they're just... icky. At least rodents have fur, which makes them theoretically pleasing to the touch. But cockroaches. Something about that hard glossy shell, those spindly little legs, the wings... More than anything, though, I think it's their movements that freak me out. So darting and erratic, you never know where they'll end up. I suppose their asssociation w/ garbage and decay doesn't help their cause any.
And yes, I know they do good, I know they decompose organic litter and that they're an important link in the food chain, all that. But still, gross.
Last night's reading at Happy Ending Lounge was not gross. The literary star-studded lineup included James Salter, Julia Slavin, Jim Shephard, and Amy Hempel. Funny, because last week's Amy was Bender, but I'd somehow gotten Hempel in my head beforehand thus was surprised to find it was the other A. It didn't matter; AB was fine, but a chance to hear AH--couldn't pass it up. (She ended up being my least favorite.) Plus, it was a Katrina benefit, which made for even more incentive. Speaking of, this was weird: informational packets handed out, one per person, w/ 10 different charities listed/detailed. We were to vote, choosing the one we considered most worthy of the evening's cover/bar $. Something about ranking charities, each one plenty noble, stuck me as odd... Anyway, all readers came through; I especially enjoyed Slavin's contribution. She wrote The Woman Who Cut Off Her Leg at the Maidstone Club and Other Stories , which I randomly picked up at a bookstore years ago. Lines like "I once loved a woman who grew teeth all over her body" in one story, Dentaphilia, meant I was hooked. Last night she read about a childhood security blanket come to life. Good stuff. Jim Shephard (Harper's, Atlantic Monthly, Esquire, McSweeney's...) was also a hit, and I thought, the best reader of the bunch. Embarrassingly, I half-fell asleep at the start of Salter's turn, which means one of two things: I'm lame, or I'm sleep deprived. Pea later relayed the story, which was about a middle-aged man/his apprehensions as he approached his second marriage, and damn, wish I'd heard it from its author himself. Hmm. Maybe next time I'll pass on the PBR. PBR + six hours of sleep the night before = zzzzzzz.
On a sort-of related note, I went on an informational interview w/ an editor at BlackBook magazine the other day. It went well, I heard what I wanted to hear ("write! then write more! ideas, ideas, ideas!"), and the dude slipped me his card and encouraged me to pitch them.
It's been a good week.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Oh goll
This is Chrissy,* my partner in crime. Sometimes our similar names trip people up, and they say things like "whoa, that's tricky!" to which we respond by laughing courteously and saying "yeah, we try!" or something equally ridiculous. She and I work hard to entertain ourselves here in the office. We swap book recommendations and restaurant reviews, gawk at receipts for $500 staff lunches, mourn the city’s turn-the-other-cheek approach to recycling, and every so often, I cut her hair. We’ve developed a liking for Payday candy bars, which we take turns buying from the pitiful little vending machine in the mailroom. We also like to sing. In fact, Chrissy taught me a fun new song today. Well, not exactly new. It’s from 1971 and it’s called “Brand New Key.” It has at its center a pair of rollerskates, and it was written in all of 15 minutes. Boy is it wacky.
The joys!
*Photo-posting permission was obtained
Green money for general good vibes
Today on craigslist. Funny.
Date: 2005-09-12, 3:21PM EDT
This is an equal opportunity for housing to any and all. Any ethnic background will do! Looking to offer a nice bedroom in a very cozy townhouse in the EAST VILLAGE. Lovely Street and home. Quiet, clean, and peaceful. Looking for a graduate student of any kind, preferably...but will accept any one who has good manners, and green money. Access to kitchen, hot-tub and general good vibes. If you are doing a residency or just staying in the city for a feww...this one's for you! Call sooner than later at (212)228-6967 after
3:00pm M-F. East 7th Street/Ave D at Near this corner
East 7th Street/Ave D at near this corner google map yahoo map
this is in or around East 7th St/Ave D
yes -- it's ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Monday, September 12, 2005
http://www.cjrdaily.org/archives/001808.asp
"How does a hometown newspaper write about a city that in effect, no longer exists? How long can a newspaper staff, effectively homeless and running on fumes, continue to hold up? Where does a newspaper turn for advertising revenue when the city it caters to all of a sudden has neither businesses nor subscribers? Can a 168-year old paper, whose initial cover price was a 6 1/4 cent Spanish coin, long survive after being reduced to what amounts to the country's most tragic metro section?"
____________________
Compelling story on resident journalists' fierce determination in the face of New Orleans and a whole lot of doubt. Amazing, such drive to inform.
Hello, Hamptons!
Because I had to see for myself.
Ahh... Makes one want to whip out one's weathered old copy. 
Weird narrow building.
We walked South Main Street from The Village (restaurants, shopping) to the beach. Most properties were shielded by high hedges, which I'd expected, but it's hard to completely hide that many dollar signs. We still got an eyeful.
Pretty. And quiet. Very, very quiet.
Pea, thrifting. He walked away w/ some $5 Burberry. (Good deal. I don't suppose residents can be bothered w/ eBay.) I was surprised by the number of thrift stores, which are pretty conspicuous, sharing real estate w/ Saks/Theory/Coach/You Get the Idea as they do.
I felt like I was on the coast of Maine, which makes little sense. (I've never been to Maine. But a month from now, I hope to be able to say I have. Pea and I are planning a belated-birthday roadtrip there. Maybe I'll look up a second cousin or two... Pa: Where are they again?)
Oooh. The sand, so pretty. Sparkly quartz, much of it.
This beach feels more *beach* than does Coney/Rockaway. Something about being that much further out into the Atlantic...
Haha. This one's for you, RLE. (Ol' Kyle finally persuaded you, huh?) 
Green. Lots of it.
Because I've got 8 mil to burn.
Later on...
The Shayna (left) is in town w/ a birthday. I'm lucky.
That would be the bf, one Neil. 
Rounding out the evening...
I love this picture. Sneaks up on you, he does.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Reverence
Friday, September 09, 2005
'betes, vindicated
Pretty novel study, considering past research conclusions. Makes sense to me, though, as in this day and age and in the absence of other illnesses/conditions, there's little to block a 'betic from living a plain old life. And potential implications of this research are interesting to think about: For one, it becomes more of a stretch for a person to blame their 'betes alone for compromised mental health. Then again, w/ self-management becoming so straightforward in recent years, it's hard to blame such a condition for much of anything in the first place. That is, unless you're one of the unfortunate many who lack decent, if any, health insurance, in which case you're s.o.l. Then again, a person who's clinically depressed may be more apt to struggle w/ getting out of bed in the morning than w/ assigning blame to their condition.
05-SEP-2005
Diabetes Not Associated With Depression: Study
NEW YORK (Reuters Health) - People with diabetes are no more likely than the general population to have depression, according to study results reported in the journal Diabetes Care.
The results of a second study, also reported in the journal, suggest that most mothers of infants found to be at risk for type 1 diabetes do not become depressed in response to this information.
Although some studies have suggested an increased risk of depression among diabetics, Dr. Anne Engum at Hospital Levanger in Norway and her colleagues theorized that the association may be influenced by the presence of other illnesses and factors commonly linked to depression.
They therefore evaluated data collected in the population-based second Nord-Trondelag Health Study, which included 59,329 subjects without diabetes, 223 with type 1 diabetes and 958 with type 2 diabetes. Subjects were screened for depression using the Hospital Anxiety and Depression Scale.
Depression was more common among the diabetics (15.2 percent of type 1 diabetes, 19.0 percent of type 2 diabetes versus 10.7 percent in nondiabetics). However, the presence of one or more chronic physical illnesses was more common among diabetics (60.5 percent, 74.0 percent and 31.8 percent, respectively).
When the team examined the data for diabetics without other illnesses, their risk of depression was no higher than that in the reference population.
Moreover, factors among diabetics associated with depression, such as lower levels of education, less physical activity and physical impairment, were no different from those in the nondiabetic population.
For the second paper, Dr. Korey K. Hood, from Harvard Medical School in Boston, contacted mothers of 192 infants whose genetic screening showed that they were at moderate to high risk of developing type 1 diabetes, meaning that 2 to 25 babies out of 100 would develop the disease.
When interviewed 1 month after they were notified of their infants' risk, the group as a whole was no more depressed than the general population according to scores on the Center for Epidemiologic Studies - Depression Scale.
However, scores were higher for women of ethnic minorities, those with no more than a high school education, and those with evidence of postpartum depression.
The mothers' coping styles also predicted depression symptoms in response to notification of their infants' risk, with higher depression scores among those who frequently used wishful thinking and blamed themselves.
SOURCE: Diabetes Care, August 2005.
Copyright 2005 Reuters. Reuters content is the intellectual property of Reuters. Any copying, republication or redistribution of Reuters content, including by caching, framing or similar means, is expressly prohibited without the prior written consent of Reuters. Reuters shall not be liable for any errors or delays in content, or for any actions taken in reliance thereon. Reuters, the Reuters Dotted Logo and the Sphere Logo are registered trademarks of the Reuters group of companies around the world.
Tip?
Someone recommend a Murakami book. J's got a bunch, and I've been meaning to read him for a while, just now getting around... But I don't know what to start w/. I've heard raves about Norwegian Wood, which happens to be the one she doesn't have. I've cracked South of the Border, West of the Sun, but she has plenty of others that may be better...
?
Purina
Strange, crafty things. Given the inexplicable* antics of the feline we're presently subletting, this letter hits home.
Have I mentioned the keep-out contraption that Pea rigged a while back? It's very necessary. It consists of a lawn chair and some hefty string, and at night when it's rest we're trying for, we prop it up on the second-to-top step leading up to the loft and get it (rest). Well, I do. Pet dander hasn't been as kind to the boy.
I know about cats, you know? But this one is, how do I say... special.
*We saw/heard Amy Bender at Barnes the other night, and I was reminded of my dislike for words like invariably and inexplicably and inevitably. I mean, when they serve their purpose, fine. But often they're just needlessly tossed into the mix. The real story? I use them too much myself, and like myself (as a writer, as a writer) just a little bit less for it.
Oh, but other than the occasional word-flinch, I liked her--Amy. Especially when she read stuff like this: "Cashmere. It smells like a woman, like expensive perfume, but not as rich as me; me, I buy perfume so expensive it doesn't smell like anything but skin." And: "I'm planning on stealing something, but I'm not sure what to steal that would make him come find me. I survey the bed. I could steal all the wallets but it seems too unoriginal and detailed so I decide to do the thing I wanted to do with the red-haired man and that is to steal all the coats. I lean over and scoop them together, wool ones and tweed ones and velvet ones and cotton ones, and pick them up in a huge stack, my arms a belt, so heavy they make me stagger, and I go inside the bedroom closet with them and shut the door until I am smothered with coats. It's hot in there, and it smells like shoe polish. I arrange myself underneath the billion coats and then I wait for either the black-haired man to remember to hunt for me or someone else to get ready to leave the party." Some of her sentences are a little trying--you know, the run-on style--but she's cheeky and witty and worth it.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
And by that you mean?...
I just got off the phone w/ a U.S. Airways rep, w/ whom I had a little trouble communicating. No matter; he simply fell back on the "k as in kind" trick. It's funny, I think, what pops out of a person's mouth when forced to think fast and link any old word to a given letter. Is it purely random, or is there a little of the unconcious at play? The words were just rolling off the tongue of this rep-guy, and for whatever reason, or for no reason at all, he went for Nancy, Oskar, Robert, uniform, good, diet, lion, Susan, and birthday, among others. Any psychologists out there?
I'd like to hear words like know, gnat, gnash, and xylophone used.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Gettin' to be about that time...
We have through the end of September to vacate our current sublet. Then it's on to brighter, allergen-free pastures. I hope.
I want.
Monday, September 05, 2005
And then we played pool, and met Frederick, a very small fly
Tracks, made
This morning's run was great, maybe my favorite since living here. I covered three boroughs over a distance of 15 miles--a reminder of how relatively small a region this is. Until you consider greater Long Island, it's just not all that big. Anyhow, I started in south Williamsburg, crossed the W Bridge into Manhattan, continued north along FDR for a few, then at 60th, ascended the Queensboro Bridge. I'd been wanting to experience this particular bridge for some time, but until today, hadn't known if it was even possible. (Correct me if I'm wrong, someone, but until fairly recently--1996?--it wasn't pedestrian accessible.) But it is, and I did. And geez--what a view. I ran directly over Roosevelt Island, a two-mile long stretch of land consisting of a park, a playfield, some gov't housing, and--surprise--new condos. At one time the island housed a penitentiary and several social service houses, a period during which it was actually referred to as Welfare Island.
It's so green! Unsoiled and pretty (hee, from that high up, anyway), activity here was all but nonexistant at the reasonable hour of 10:00 a.m., which gave it an exotic quality and sort of made me feel like I was spying on it. I'd love to return for a visit via the cute little tram that runs adjacent to and just above the bridge.
Astoria, Queens awaited me at the other end--and actually, Pea and I were there just yesterday for the first time. We walked up and down quiet residential streets, gawking at the absence of Jim Beam bottles and Miller cans and McDonald's wrappers by which we've come to identify our own neighborhood. We strolled past a couple of lively Greek restaurants, a great old pub, several bakeries... Then Astoria Park came into view and we were further taken. Sprawling, pleasant, clean... um, pleasant/clean until you reach the river bank, that is (see pics). I've landed on a general rule: There are a few sources of almost-natural beauty in this city, but one must never get too close. One must never approach a potential object of natural beauty w/ anything less than dulled senses. Blurred eyes, half-plugged ears/nose... Ahh, there it is. Anyhow, a place we'd consider living. Maybe.
After locating Jackson Avenue, I followed it south a ways, entered Brooklyn, and was back to my starting point w/in two minutes of my figuring. Not bad.
THE GALLERY
A zillion shards of green glass (Stella Artois?) easily outnumber plain old rocks. With each wave that gently laps the shore, a series of chimes can be heard as glass meets rock. Just goes to show, garbage can soothe, too.
How many articles of trash can you spot?
Pretty, however.
Pretty, too.
Still pretty.
Still.
Mmm. Prettiest yet.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Some neighbors, Part II
Oh wait, he's a resident.
Vocation, vocation, vocation
The last few days have been forgettable. Well, not today so much, but Wednesday through Friday. My admin counterpart at work took off for a week and a half, leaving me to contend w/ one vicious Ashtray. Our company was just bought out--sorry, integrated w/, as I'm told--another company, which has resulted in a horrific paperwork nightmare w/ Ashtray as the villian (mail merge, now!) and myself the blindsided victim (yes, yes, of course!). Lest I bore myself and others to rash action, I'll stop before I really get started. Suffice it to say that A made/makes me feel lower than low, may be out to get me (I can't decide), and deserves most every quip I toss out behind her back. I'm considering asking my agency rep to keep his eye out for something different for me, but I hesitate. The money's decent for a temp gig, my assignment may soon run its course anyway, and I don't want to risk earning a newfound reputation as *that difficult one.* You know?
Onwards.
I went on another informational interview on Monday, this one w/ Organic Style magazine. In related news, disclosed the very next day, Organic Style is folding. Regardless, the insight was/is appreciated; in fact, it was probably the most honest dose of it I've gotten thus far. I spent a good half hour w/ one of the associate editors--30s, confident, sarcastic as hell... The two of us share some history: Like me, she got a fairly late start in the industry. Unlike me, she landed her first internship right around her 30th birthday, during which she befriended an older mentor-type (I'll take one, please) who guided her into a subsequent internship and possibly a third before she ended up in her soon-to-be-over position at OS. Before our meeting, I'd been feeling pretty ok about my mb stint--yeah it's my only i/s, but perhaps that's enough? Nope. According to Lady, would-be editorial assistants save themselves a lot of grief (read: rejection) by racking up at least two separate internships. Magazine internships. And although I'd heard this before, it was never said w/ such decisiveness. Thing is, it makes sense. I've applied for plenty of ed asst jobs, w/o a single response. I've written for recognized magazines, edited for a variety of pubs, have an eye-rolling amount of administrative experience, write a mean cover letter, and still I can't climb to the absolute bottommost rung on the company ladder! Of course, I'm not saying it's all about the internship--it doesn't help that I know few people in the editorial sphere here, fewer still if we're talking strictly magazines. Anyway, Lady mentioned how flexible most of these gigs are, that one to two days in the office is generally acceptable (should be; they're paying you in business-lunch leftovers, after all). Still, supporting myself on anything less than five days of work--temp or otherwise--is hardly an option.
So internships: pretty much ruled out.
The next scenario, said Lady, involves worming one's way into a given magazine through consistent writing contribution. So like, once you've/they've become familiar, once they're calling you, consider slipping in something along the lines of, "You know, I happen to be looking for a permanent editorial job..." Sure, I can see how this could work. But uh, I'm still honing my own pitch. Stands to reason I'm a ways yet from waiting on the receiving end.
So worming way in: labor-intensive/long time coming.
But later that same day, I had what I'm calling a mini-revelation: I'm not a fiction writer! At least not for the time being. In the past, I've considered myself one, albeit a repressed one who's pushed the genre aside out of fear of failure, or something. And not that I won't revisit this format--maybe I will--it's just that right now, at this point in my writing life, I want to write reflectively--and I want to write about my own experiences w/in the broader context of, well, life. Enter the personal essay, a form I've always liked but for whatever reason half-dismissed. I've decided a full-on return is in order, and in fact, this morning marked day 1. I feel good about what I've written, which is saying a lot for a first draft. And as far as finding homes for my work, I'm confident I'll hit a few, although I do plan to write (loosely) whatever strikes my fancy rather than gear my words toward a particular publication. This way, rejections won't sting as much, because I will have written about something meaningful to me regardless. (Which I can then turn into blog entries!)
It'd be great if I could make a real go at a full-time freelance writing career. Hell, it's what I'd truly love to do. Editing? It's fine, I like it, but as I've said before, it doesn't last a single round against writing. Pow. I suppose that's an attractive element of magazine editorial--the writing involvement, as even editorial assistants get to pick up the pen (front-of-the-book stuff, mostly) once in awhile.
But, I want to create my own assignments, and the only way to make this happen--and to, um, get $ for it--is to exercise extreeeeme patience. I'm thinking about setting aside my 9-5 gripes, easing up on the job search,* in favor of just writing. Because once this dumb integration thing is over and done w/, I may find myself w/ some time on my hands.
If only Ashtray's office weren't directly behind my computer screen. Still, Word docs are innocuous enough, right?
*tssh, won't really happen
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Tested
Dear My Blog:
I miss you. Maybe someday, like in two weeks when that other temp returns from vacation at "the shore," I'll find time for you. Until then, I'm at the mercy of my brown-toothed overseer, the one who's got a thing for cigarettes--a great, great many of them, mind you--but (sadly) not breathmints. Something tells me you two wouldn't hit it off.
Oh, My Blog. I'm not a hater, but.
Things change.
*%$^#!,
k10