Antigone

I named her Antigone.

She called for help, to her mate, to keep her children safe – she cried her sorrow into the unforgiving blue sky of daylight, a wild unbridled sound alien to the staid urban neighbourhood, a sound as ancient as anguish itself, a cry more visceral than the safety of her own life.

I shivered. I hadn't understood the words of her language at first, but I soon found a translator: he was the one who had been sent to harass her and her newborn out of their home. It wasn't their first encounter; they had played this game a year or two earlier, when her home at the time had received the green light for bulldozing for one of the city's new “developments”. She had managed to move then, but, “Where should they go this time?” I asked.
It was an honest question: the neighbourhood consensus was “NIMBY - Not-In-My-Back-Yard”, and the bulldozing and construction was taking place everywhere that wasn't already a backyard, as though one could never have enough shopping malls nearby.
“I don't know,” came the answer, the concern in his voice telling me that the callousness of the reply came from higher up.

It's a strange time to witness firsthand the anguish of displacement, especially in a place where upstanding values are consistently emphasized. Displacement is a theme at the forefront of public discussion today, perhaps most acutely in the Israel-Palestine conflict as in the Europe-Jewish conflict before it, in the Ukraine-Russia conflict, and also as colonization is being viewed from the colonizeds' perspective, including here in North America where indigenous populations were brutally driven out of their traditional lands – how and to where? The conquering narrative has changed from the “Good Cowboy and Bad Indian,” to “maybe what was done to Indigenous People was not so nice” - but despite consistent wordy “treaty acknowledgements” at various public events, including at this neighbourhood's university, it's less public what, if anything is being done to learn from and coexist with the traditional life of Indigenous people. “Crown Land” is at the disposal of the crown to be bulldozed wherever and whenever the crown so wishes.

Antigone had survived the bulldozing longer than most, but this time she was in trouble: she had been attacked by a local outside his backyard and had fought back. Now when locals came too close to her, she tried to defend what she thought was her safe family-raising territory, rather than quietly moving on as the neighbourhood expected her to. It didn't matter that her ancestors had lived here long before bulldozers were even invented, long before the wonders of modern technology made the self-assured life of complacent urbanity possible. The new neighbourhood had decided that she didn't belong here, and would be tolerated only if she remained essentially invisible.

As she cried, I silently prayed for her to become invisible again, to be quiet and go underground. Her paid harasser too expressed sympathy for her, and I can't help but believe that he hoped she would find a way to move along under the cover of not ruffling too many feathers, although he had the authority to forcefully “relocate” her, or even kill her, if it should be decided thus. But a few days later, which is today, I spoke with another of the paid harassers, who said the higher authorities had issued the decision to move to step two. I still pray that she and her family will quietly move tonight under cover of darkness.

When I read about terrible inter-personal current world events, and wonder how any person can do such horrible things to any other person, I see one consistent theme: the people come to the point where they paint their enemy as “not human”. The other side speaks “gibberish”, their habits are strange, they appear menacing if looking at one the wrong way, they deserve to “die like dogs” (as though dogs don't deserve to live or die well), their existence and happiness or suffering doesn't matter because they aren't “like us”. The power we have over those whose language we choose not to understand, is that we may view them as irrelevant.
The Antigone whose cries I understood emotionally before they were explained to me, was a nuisance to the comfortable and controlled everyday of the neighbourhood, which cared less about what she said than about being confronted by her presence. A neighbourhood full of pet dogs finds it more convenient to pretend that coyotes are such a different species that they don't belong (never mind that they were here first), than to acknowledge that the two can get along and even interbreed. Letting them eat by hunting backyard mice and voles would be stealing jobs from the “pest management” company. As the parks officer told me, “It's easier to train a coyote to stay away, than to train the yahoos to manage their dogs and coexist.”

We don't yet know
   how this will all end.
I hope that those
   with nowhere to go
      may still find a way.
And that we can all look at ourselves and say,

what can I do to help?

Hearing, Seeing: Ticking of Time

A few nights ago, I sat at the kitchen table as always later than planned in the evening, waiting. There is a clock on the wall, a beautiful clock from the Audubon society with twelve birds on it, which sing on the hour. Well, they used to, we disabled the sound after listening to it for a few years. My violin teacher had this clock my first year in New York, 1997, and when I saw it, I knew it would make a perfect gift for my mom. And I found it for $10 at Weber's on Broadway and 68th - a kind of dollar store that had all kinds of interesting and wonderful things, from a mug I still use, to an elegant off-the-shoulder top - and so on. In any case, I did fit it in my suitcase, and brought it to my parents, where it's been on the wall ever since:

Time's Progression

The ticking of a clock - 
- hearing it, is always in the past
the empty tick tick tick of waiting,

waiting for a grieving person to rejoin time,

the lifeblood of the living.

Yet watching the clock, silently, ticking -
- waiting, again, for the ill parent or pet or both to convalesce,

to once again begin to live forever -
- seeing it, time moves forward, 
there is motion, hope for the future,

as the visible steady flow progresses,
inviting the story to continue,
maybe not forever, but at least for now,

and the next moment, and the next, and the next ... 

An Epic Journey Home: Company Buffers Frugality

Dec.4, 2019
Dear Diary,

I returned to JFK airport, from visiting family in Canada, at midnight the Tuesday night / Wednesday morning following Thanksgiving. Even though I live about as far as possible from JFK in the city - at the northern tip of Manhattan in Inwood - I planned to still manage to get home via public transportation, determined to capitalize further on a cheap flight by not spending $80+ on a car. As a 22-year New Yorker, I would think myself capable of selecting from all the possible routes and options to make it home at a relatively reasonable hour! I was confident that there were enough options that I could avoid the perennial “being mta'd”.
I kept my cheerful mood throughout the hour-long wait for the plane to dock at the gate – it meant I could finish watching my documentary! And call my family to let them know I'd arrived!
The AirTrain was running at 16-minute intervals, but mine to Jamaica arrived within 8 minutes – no problem! I could take the LIRR to Penn Station 20 minutes after arriving, or the E six minutes later – I could make the E! And it would be for subway fare only! And even though the A was stopping at 168^th street, I could still transfer instead to the 1 to get home!
The benches on the E were filled with very tired and mostly sleeping men. The one across from me snored like a proverbial saw. Two-hours jet-lagged from the west, I brightly read my book, while sensing the weight of those who had worked hard all day or were going to work at this hour, or might not have anywhere else to keep warm. Only 36 stops to go!
How would I have known, before we neared Manhattan, that we were running on the F line? (A baroque musician would have no problem with E=F, but my strong sense of absolute pitch finds this difficult to comprehend!) No Penn Station for me.
But I could exit at 57^th street and walk over just two short long blocks to Columbus Circle for the 1! And get fresh air along the way, which would be much appreciated after 36 stops amid the gasses of large sleeping men!
And there was even a booth! I'd realized I could have been $2.75 more frugal, since I was travelling after midnight, and planned to start an unlimited metrocard in the morning, which I could have bought before my first subway train instead. There were no people in the station – no line at the booth! Would it hurt to ask if they might be able to refund the $2.75 if I refilled the unlimited ride there?
I asked.
The station attendant was very kind and said, well no, unfortunately not.
“Ok, I have two metrocards here, can I instead combine the monetary amounts on them, so I can make one a monetary card, and the other an unlimited?” (Monetary amounts on an unlimited card can't be used until the time period of the unlimited expires.)
He had me swipe the cards: $3.75 on the one card, and $1.50 on the other card.
“Wait – how is it possible – I just put $20 on one of the cards at JFK – how is it possible that so much of the balance is used up already? The AirTrain is only $5!”
“I wouldn't be able to tell you that – you'd have to mail in the card and request a refund.” He gave me the envelope with the correct forms. Presumably I had been double or triple-charged at the AirTrain turnstile, which had been behaving problematically but didn't betray its mistake fully. It was the $3.75 card that was thus aggrieved.
“Ok, I have a third card here – can we make this one the unlimited one?” (It had no balance on it.)
“No – that's an AirTrain card; you can't make it unlimited.”
“Ok, can I transfer the $1.50 from the second card to the AirTrain card, and make that the monetary one?”
“No, because - “ and I still don't really understand the reason why, but something about transferring balances to AirTrain cards not being possible.
My math seemed to be failing me. I had three metrocards. One was afflicted by being overcharged, and would thus have to be sent in an envelope for reimbursement (never mind the time of filling out the form.) The other was the magic card, being unlimited and monetary at the same time, while of course it wasn't possible to do both at the same time (as I might wish to if I have a guest I would swipe in.) And the third card appeared to be useless, but nonetheless still worth $1.
Both of my parents are mathematicians. I've grown up surrounded by math. But tonight the attendant and I appeared to be stuck in a math puzzle, and must have gone back and forth for five or ten minutes, he patiently humouring me but unable to deliver justice; from my side, “I've just spent half an hour longer on the train than planned because there was no way to know that E=F, I've been triple-charged for the AirTrain, and I have three metrocards here, but you're saying I still need to buy a new metrocard for $1 to make it possible to have an unlimited card and a monetary card?” There didn't seem to be a way around it. And it was 2am. His suggestion of going downtown to transfer at 14^th street without paying to re-enter the train system seemed really unappealing, and equally it didn't make sense to put off buying the unlimited metrocard and pay $2.75 for the next leg of my journey left me even more in the red.
Do you see the answer?
Eventually I did, and voiced what I wanted to do. I wanted to walk to Columbus Circle as planned, I wanted him to top off the magic card with $1.75 more so I'd have $2.75=1 ride on it, and then add an unlimited week to it (cutting my losses), and then I would fill up my AirTrain card to use as a pay-per-ride (which, for whatever reason, IS possible). And I would mail in the the aggrieved card. He said ok, and I'm not sure I had been able to communicate why this was the functional solution that more or less did not leave me short-changed, but he was amenable, and set to work on the $1.75. I handed him my credit card, but was rejected: “booths are cash only.”
“Ok, I can do that.”
But I wanted to use my credit card for the $33 unlimited week, so went to the machine for that. Then tried to put $20 on the AirTrain card, and the machine rejected the transaction. So I returned to the booth. Was it a look of trepidation, or amusement, the attendant and two friends gave me when I returned? Actually, it was one of the friends who processed my transaction, and I sensed that her guard was up, that she was prepared to argue with me if necessary, but when I turned out to be friendly and at least superficially not crazy, but straightforwardly able to request something politely and coherently, she placed me in the harmless-oddity/mildly-amusing-diversion category. When I looked around the station with bewilderment following our transaction, both she and the original attendant called out to direct me to the best exit to get to Columbus Circle.
I double-checked the bank notifications on my phone – yes, I'd been charged $20 at JFK. In the time I checked this, the original attendant exited the booth and walked towards my exit. Conversationally, we walked up the stairs together, he explaining that he was on break, and had three more hours to go afterwards. (Was he really not annoyed at me, after I'd taken so much of his time over the math puzzle of $1 at 2am?) Up top, he again pointed me in the right direction, and seemed to hesitate as I stopped to pull my mittens out of my suitcase.
It turned out we were walking in the same direction – he'd waited for me - and so the conversation continued. He explained that he was walking a few blocks west to the pharmacy, since their prices are the lower NJ prices, whereas those more on the east side are the higher NY prices, so the walk becomes worthwhile for him. I suppose we were on a similar mission of frugality. My mood started going back to the cheerful side. Here was someone at 2am who would put up with a math puzzle over $1 and still make conversation? That's nice, and comfortable too!
As we continued to talk, I realized that something I had just told friend from home, had once again show itself to be true: “New York can be a frustrating and tiring place to be, but I love the people!”

And so, as he caught my words, the evening began to be bright and shiny and luminous again. We parted ways at his drug store, and I continued to the 1 at Columbus Circle. It was only coming in 16 minutes? No problem! I could start writing this meanwhile! 215^th street and 110 steps to go up the hill? A chance to try out whether my roller-board suitcase could go up the bike ramp! (It did.) Another 66 steps up to my home – par for the course!

I finally made it home at bit after 4pm. A non-stop flight to my hometown is a little over four hours; here in the city it took just four hours to get home. But it's ok – I'm staying up late to write a good story!

Although I am falling asleep doing it now. Good night!

Energy Savings in a Tree-House - a CONfidence EDucation?

Quirkiness has its perks!

It wasn't a scam, exactly, but I also couldn't figure out how it would work, sounding too good to be true.

I saw the young team of two in the courtyard, looking energized and high-fiving each other before tackling a entryway: they looked fun, young, trust-worthy, with big smiles and like they believed they would do a good job. She went one way, and him I ran into when I got to the top of my stairs.

He was talking with my neighbor, and paid no attention to me. He looked official, and, as I'm on my tenants' association, I wondered if he was a new face in management – and so, as I entered my apartment and heard him leave, I turned around to ask, “You look official and I'm curious!”

He said he'd knocked on my door; I replied that I'd just come home – presumably he'd missed me. His hair was a joyous collection of little bunches, maybe fifty of them, and he still sported his big smile under his glasses. He must have been in his early twenties at most.

He also wore an ID on a blue emblazoned collar, which read “Family Energy”. He explained his presence as linking green energy savings with going door-to-door to see if we are eligible for a flat rate of $62.50/month, and said I'd need to check my utility bill for a particular code. It sounded like a great deal, and the lowest I've ever paid monthly and so I decided to check. Which, as I'm paperless, required trying to log into my online umbrella Con Edison gas-and-electricity account, which required knowing the password I invariably forget, so having it re-set, and so forth. He said he was paid hourly so no problem to wait – and wait he did, in the staircase. At last I succeeded, feeling rather middle-aged, and, lo and behold, we looked at my bill and found the magic code; he explained that I was paying too much and that the Con Ed charges on my bill were incorrect and would all be erased if I signed up with his plan. Hm, I said, I thought it was correct that I have both green energy and Con Ed charges additionally, as that's how I'd signed up previously. He glossed over this and said he could explain it all to me, could we sit somewhere perhaps?
He had another drink with him, and explained that another woman in the building had given it to him. “You females are so nice.” I didn't take well to the flirtation and reframed it, “Yes, the tenants here are in general pretty nice.”
He did try to flirt again, asking what I do. I said I'm a music teacher and he tried to guess what ages I teach, catching himself saying that I looked like I could be that. I think I frowned.

So I invited him in, and insisted that I needed to find an uncomfortable chair for him. Flirtatiously, he protested that, he was giving me a deal, shouldn't I be nice to him? I said, no, let me explain. You see all that white powder? My cat brought in a flying squirrel the other night, and, I took it in to rehabilitate it, and it was insanely cute, and I'll show you the pictures (and they were indeed insanely cute and he thought so too), and unfortunately the squirrel also had a flea or two or three, and so, everything in my apartment right now is covered in diatomaceous earth, including the upholstered chairs, and so, since I don't want to you get fleas or be covered in DE, I'm actually being very nice to you by offering you the uncomfortable un-upholstered chair, see?

His face was a little blank as he took in all this unusual information, but eventually brightened again. It was not warm out, and he mentioned he was cold; I offered him tea, incredulously, he happily said, “You would do that for me??” I said it's really no problem, what kind would he like? Available categories: fruit, herb, green? After some indecision he chose fruity and so I made hibiscus. It clearly hit the spot.

As we got back to the subject matter, I still couldn't figure out what the benefit to the company would be, was it that if enough people signed up the flat rate would be worth it? As he was talking, he began repeating himself, and occasionally touching me on the arm to make a point, which made me bristle more, and in particular I was unhappy about being told that I needed to sign up on the spot, rather than being able to take in the information, research it online, and then make a calm and studied decision. So I began looking up information as he spoke: googling “Family Energy” brought up a professional-looking website; posting on the Inwood Community facebook group brought a joking reproach from him “Checking facebook while we speak?” - “Yes, I want to check this out online before making a decision.” I hoped some of my neighbours would answer my query quickly. I wrote, “Has anyone used Family Energy (green energy) – they come door-to-door to promote flat-rate plans?” He insisted I call it “green energy” and seemed to prefer if I didn't write “Family Energy” in the group. He also suggested I could facebook him; I said that would be rather invasive of me, wouldn't it?

He kept talking about a phonecall I would receive; I said I didn't want to do it now, but he insisted it needed to be done as the sign-up was possible only with an agent in person, and seemingly suddenly in a hurry, he called from his phone, and there was some official talk between him and someone at the other end. He had already noted all my Con Ed account information on a detailedly official-looking “Family Energy” sign-up form. I kept checking my facebook, seeing that someone was typing. She replied to my query: “My understanding is they are a scam. I see posts on local groups online. Are they part of a group that rings your bell and says they are a subsidiary of con ed?”

He saw what was up, but tried to continue. Quietly, I interrupted the call, and slid the paper he'd written on out from undert his hand: “I don't want to sign up today. I want to think about it, research it, and then maybe get back to you.”

He could see that he'd lost but wasn't entirely ready to believe it yet. He tried, “Would I try to scam you?” and, “I'll have to tell the company to update their procedures,” and “Here, let me at least write down my cell number so that you can get in touch if you want. We'll be in the area for the next three or four hours,” and finally, “I know nothing I say is going to change your mind.”

And so I decided to explain. I said, “You see my cats, rescues. You see my diatomaceous earth, all over my apartment, for taking care of a flying squirrel. I am a softie, and I am someone whom it's easy to scam" - his eyes narrowed slightly, was it that he meant he wouldn't scam me, or was he disappointed to have lost easy prey? - "and I have been scammed previously. And so it's because of this that I need to protect myself: you could be the most legit company and person, and none of this is personal, and I would still insist that we follow proper procedure: I need have time to think about it and research, and a real company would let me do that.”

He looked positively crestfallen, and I felt pity. As I tried to make conversation to lighten things back up, I asked how long he'd been at the company: six weeks. I thought, what a lousy job. Likely he gets paid pittance, he's taught by his supervisors to do their dirty work and is versed in his pitch, which isn't his responsibility, likely he gets some cut from any sign-ups he snags. I'd detained him no doubt for the greater part of half an hour. He would go back out in the cold. I wondered, did I have a sweater I could give him?

I took my computer and the papers out of range, into the refuge of my room, leaving him to recover in the living room, and finish his tea. Perhaps he was wondering how it had happened – he'd been so close to a deal, how had it slipped away? Was it that he thought I was a bright-eyed twenty-three but actually I'm probably old enough to be his mother? Or was he thinking, why in the world was he doing this shitty job? Or was he taking in the disconnect of being involved in questionable peddling practices to finding himself in la-la land -in an apartment with hibiscus tea and diatomaceous earth and oversize plants and kitties climbing over the table?In any case, although I needed to get on with my day, I gave him a few minutes to find himself, and eventually saw him out the door. He still looked utterly dispirited, and, when I said thank you it was nice to meet you and extended my hand, he shook it only reluctantly.

I'm sorry to write that his day didn't look up from there. In yet another disconnect between the two worlds, I took my kitty Ernesto for a quick but long-promised walk ... At the bottom of my staircase resides a good-hearted but immensely gruff bull-dog-of-a-man, whom my parents have nicknamed “The Curmudgeon” from various stories I've told them, and, well, the kid had knocked on the wrong door. I exited to hear the Curmudgeon reaming out the Kid for having represented himself as being associated with Con Edison. No tea and cookies here ... no Friendly Females to empathize ... I've been on the receiving-end of such a verbal barrage, and it is not so fun ... the kid put on his smile again when he saw me exit, but there wasn't much I could do to rescue him. Was it an EDucation not to CON?

I hope he finds his smile again in a different job – one that's totally above-board, and gets him on a good track, and maybe includes a sprinkle of professionalism-between-genders training. Maybe I'll text him this link - or send a message via facebook ...

And I will remain with my current green utility, and dutifully continue paying my energy bill, which, according to further facebook posts, is correctly divided between Con Ed and the green ones, and would be just about the same more or less even if I'd made the switch (contrary to what he'd told me). And so my tree-house remains happy and safe, with kitties, flying squirrels, and, well, I've now vacuumed up the diatomaceous earth, so we look, at least outwardly, almost normal again ... May my next visitors, also, find true confidence in this newly-educated quirky refuge!

My Guardian Angel Works Hard

[A lesson in mycology.]

This post has nothing to do with the subway; if anything, just with not taking the subway out of New York City.

There are two tenets of mushroom-picking:
1) do not eat anything you can't identify with 100% certainty, and
2) to reach 100% certainty, neither a book or the internet suffice, you must rely on an in-person expert.

Some hubris possessed me the morning of Saturday July 16: I'd awoken early after going to bed late, it was hot, I was out for a walk, and there were bright white young mushrooms greeting the sky, beckoning me as the edible shaggy manes have done many times in Canada. The lure of an exciting story of successful nature foraging in the big city, as well as the prospect of a delicious free meal, pulled me closer. They looked ever so slightly different from the shaggy manes I'd eaten previously, but upon pulling out my phone and looking at internet pictures, they seemed very similar, and some site or another told me that shaggy manes are among the most easily identifiable, and showed me two distant look-alikes that didn't really look alike at all. It also said that they could vary in shape a little, especially between young and old, from oval to goose-egg-shaped. They were enticingly fresh and young and I picked them.

Here are pictures of a shaggy mane, an equally edible shaggy parasol, and of the mushroom I found:


I made a quick facebook post with the picture to my dad's page - my parents taught me all I know about mushrooms - he wrote that it didn't look right, but someone else wrote that it looked like a shaggy mane to them. I cut my mushrooms open, and tried a little bite raw: it tasted a bit bland but fine.


Not dying after ten minutes, I disregarded a Kyrgyz friend's warning about the dangers of mushrooms, and cooked them in sunflower oil with salt, pepper, and rosemary. I had them with cranberry pecan toast with coconut spread, and a fruit-and-spinach smoothie, and they were delicious!!


I had read that the onset of symptoms in case of toxicity usually occurs between 20 minutes to 4 hours after ingestion, so after all went well for forty-five minutes, I posted to my dad's page (in our Swiss dialect), "Still healthy and sassy!" ("No gäng xung u böös!")

And off I went to teach.

Since this story doesn't end here, I suppose you have some inkling of what might have happened.

I'd eaten my mushroom meal at 10:45am, and at 1:45pm, just before the end of my last student's lesson, I started to break into a cold sweat. Something was wrong, and eventually I excused myself - as soon as I reached the washroom I vomited out my entire breakfast. I felt much better, and, emboldened by some other encouraging thing I'd read on the internet that said that symptoms would disappear after expulsion of the toxic substance, returned to my student and exclaimed cheerfully, "Isn't the body amazing? It knows when something is bad for it and just knows to kick it out!" Eleven years old, he made an excited kick in the air in agreement. We continued on, but, ten minutes later the chills returned and I had to leave the room for a second time. Again I felt better after, but when I returned to the room, my student's father had arrived and both looked concerned about me. I still planned to join them to go look at bows, but decided to call the poison control center just to get informed.

The poison control center answerer took my name and details, laughed when I said I'd vomited everything out, explaining that at three hours after ingestion, only 30% was left in my stomach and the rest had been absorbed, but then explained that I should be worried if I was vomiting six hours after ingestion. She said it would be helpful to identify the mushroom, and asked if I had a specimen or a photo. I said yes, and where could I send the photo to? She said they had no such contacts, but thought that if I went to the Emergency Room I could show the photos there. I was sure that no physician would know the answer unless they were also a mycologist, which seemed an extremely unlikely possibility to me. I looked up the New York mycological society, and some other mycological society, but both only had contact forms, no phone number to call.

I began vomiting more and more frequently, and couldn't complete the contact forms. The nausea reduced me to an embryonic position on the carpeted floor, and I had no expendable energy even to speak. I had sent my student and his family away when Rebecca, one of the administrators of the school, came to close up. She handed me the small garbage can when I needed it, and stayed with me, but said the family had insisted to stay close by on call, in case they could help by driving me to the ER or anything, so had just gone to get lunch nearby. I soon realized that I was too ill even to consider walking to a car. Could I wait it out in the school on the floor? It seemed tempting for I couldn't move and the prospect of an enormous hospital bill was prohibitive. But as I felt worse and worse I thought, is there anything that can be done in the hospital that can't be done on the floor of the school? Could they pump my stomach? I asked Rebecca to call the ambulance.

I remembered the poisoned rat I'd once seen in my local park, fully concentrated just on surviving, taking no notice of me as I approached. Now I know what it feels like, I thought. (And of course the poisoned roaches after an exterminator. Horrible. Never in my apartment.)

In my case, any extraneous effort made me vomit again, and when the paramedics arrived, though I was grateful they were there, I didn't even move to say hello, and knew I was being curt and impolite. They said we needed to go and I said I couldn't move. They assured me the ambulance had air conditioning (it was a hot day) and I said, "I'm freezing." They asked me various questions which all annoyed me - was I pregnant, did I smoke, had I had any alcohol, do I take prescription medication, do I take supplements - no, no, no, no, and no. "Nothing? Maybe that's why you're feeling this so strongly," - ha, I thought, maybe they were right, I have no tolerance, my finely-tuned system isn't used to abuse! But I did just eat bad mushrooms. They asked about the mushrooms, had they been cooked, were they from a restaurant or a supermarket - no no I picked them in the park, I was stupid - well, I heard them think who would do such a silly thing - and it was deserved, I knew. Rebecca showed it to them on my phone, of course they couldn't recognize it either.

The burly paramedics soon realized that I wasn't acting about how terrible I felt, and seeing I couldn't walk out of the school, decided they would put me in the chair, and needed me to climb into it. At first I was disappointed it wasn't a stretcher - how would I sit up? Once in it, I realized, slumped over, how cool this gadget really is.
 
We were on the fourth floor of the walk-up, and as we got to the first set of stairs, the paramedic warned me, "It's going to be bumpy" - but it wasn't, at all. I think he was lifting me by himself, while the other went ahead, and I think the chair had some kind of tracks on the bottom so I was gliding down. I've tolerated these stairs for six years, with heavy books and instruments, sprained ankles and crutches ... now, I was being carefully shuttled down, like royalty. As I think any teacher at the school can imagine, it was a true once-in-a-lifetime experience to enjoy!

We got into the street, and I blinked in the sunshine. A normal scene, but I was in the middle of the street. I wondered if this might be the end of my story, just like that - logically that seemed not great, but I had no emotional reaction to the thought; my body was tied up with just being. They transferred me from the chair into the stretcher and put me inside the ambulance, handing me a very smartly designed ring-topped bag, into which I vomited a few more times. Still freezing, I asked for blankets.

Rebecca came with me, taking care of my violin and things. It was a short ride to St. Luke's hospital, and as we entered the ER again we had to explain what had happened. Again there was the moment of incredulity of the nurses as the paramedics told her I'd picked the mushrooms ... yes yes I know, I was stupid, I thought - but are they going to pump my stomach now?
I was wheeled to my spot and waited. The patient next to me was yelling profanities about his treatment in a big boomy voice and it didn't even bother me, but the nurse returned and kindly said she was wheeling me to a better spot - "No-one needs that when they're not feeling well." Ah, I thought, yes, I'm not feeling well - too focussed on being I wasn't really self-aware enough to recognize how I was feeling.

At the new spot, they took my temperature and some blood and attached a heart monitor and put in an IV, to help replenish all the fluid I'd lost. I refused anti-nausea medication as I felt better every time I threw up, expelling more toxin, I assume. As the nurse was about to leave I asked her, "I don't really know how this works, but is there something else you do - can you pump my stomach?"
She replied that that was something from TV that doesn't really apply to real life - also that for snakebites they have antidotes but for mushrooms they don't, and in any case it was now over four hours since ingestion so all they could do was manage symptoms.
Thinking of the impending bill, I said something to the effect of, so why was I in the hospital?
She explained that it was very good that I had come; that we would find out if the mushroom was only toxic and if the symptoms would start to go away, or if it was poisonous and they would get worse, in which case they'd need to do "other treatment." I thought of the IV too and was sure that was helping; I didn't feel able to drink at all, certainly.

My student's father, arrived, and took over for Rebecca, who had stayed all this time. (My student and his mother had gone home via subway.) A doctor came, and the business department man came. He wanted my name and address, but after I said it and he didn't get it right I sent him away saying I'd tell him later, I was too sick, and threw up again. I was still shivering under three blankets.

Maybe an hour later, someone stopped by and I asked if I could go to the restroom. They brought a wheelchair and hung my half-empty IV bag on the edge. Probably thanks to the IV fluids, my GI tract expelled and flushed out anything and everything left. I felt much better.

Returning to my stretcher-bed, I soon fell asleep. My student's father kept watch. Eventually, the doctor arrived, and asked how I was feeling. "Much better," I said, noticing that I could speak to him without collapsing. He said that in this case, I was now out of the danger-window, and that my blood tests were all perfect, and that they could discharge me. Of course, should any symptoms reappear within twenty-four hours, I should treat it as an emergency and return.

The ER was busy and it took another hour or so before the nurse was free to check me out. I chatted with my student's father, who had taken charge of me as soon as he'd arrived. I was so grateful he was there. He said of course he was there, I'd taught his son for five years, and I should know I have friends in New York. Nonetheless, I know it's not easy for someone to take time out of their busy New York life, and, rather overcome with emotion, I thanked him profusely multiple times over the evening.

After the nurse took out my IV and walked me through my discharge instructions, I asked her, "Was I your weird case of the day?"
She answered, "You would have been, except for the guy who had inhaled so much angel dust he was throwing pens at us!"
She walked me to the business office, and as I thanked her immensely for her help and said how glad I was to be alive, she said, "Of course!" Then laughed and wagged her finger at me, "Don't do it again!!"

Since this is a public blog, I'll not go into my full financial details and insurance information, as discussed at the business office. Suffice to say that I was expecting an enormous charge - and in the end all I had to pay was $320, less than a typical visit to the vet for my cats! Will there be a separate ambulance bill? My understanding was that all was taken care of. In my state, I was about ready to cry and hug the two finance admins too.

My student's father was waiting patiently, and we walked to his car. He drove me north to my neighbourhood, and as he is a scientist, we joked that I should try the experiment again tomorrow to make sure that the toxicity was indeed from the mushrooms I'd eaten, and not the rest of the breakfast. It was good to feel well enough to joke again! He waited in the car as I went to the local supermarket to pick up electrolyte drinks. The manager of the store, who has known me since 2003, saw my plight and I told him what had happened; when I returned down the aisle with coconut water and kombucha and seltzer and apple juice, he brought me a small bag with sage leaves and said, "Take these, boil them in water, this is what I have always had for any stomach problems, and you see how healthy I am!" As grateful as I was for the leaves - and I followed is directions too - I was even more grateful for his care for me.

My student's father, Yong, drove me to my building, and I thanked him again profusely. He said I should let him know if anything worsened, and I promised it wouldn't! I gave him a big hug of thanks before entering my building. (I wish I could atone for the scare, but at least I hope I can show at least some token of my immense gratitude by arranging a thank-you gift for him and his family, and Rebecca!)

A neighbor I know entered at the same time I did, and I poured out the story to him. Funny, near-death experiences seem to make all else unimportant, and make clear who helps one survive. He urged me to rest well tonight.

When I got home, I broke down in tears, I was so grateful to be here. My flatmate came and gave me a big hug, and I poured out the story. Then began to feast on my apple juice and seltzer and coconut water, and just sat and chatted.

I was still weak, but when I phoned to tell my dad he was right, and most importantly to let my parents know I was alright, it was a relief to talk with them, and even to laugh at parts of the story.

There are two wonderful Swiss chansons by Fritz Wydmer that are fitting:
1) D'Ballade vo däm wo nie Zueglost Het The Ballade of Him Who Never Listened 
2) D'Ballade vo de Schwümm The Ballade of the Mushrooms

And then I identified the mushroom:
A Chlorophyllum Molybdites, aptly nicknamed "The Vomiter"

... courtesy of the clear pictures and description at Urban Mushrooms .com:  http://urbanmushrooms.com/index.php?id=4 

I've since had that confirmed by the North American Mycological Association, as well as the Central New York Mycological Society. Why couldn't the Poison Control Center get in touch with them? I'm not sure.

I had my first real meal on Monday night. (It was not part of the Idiot's Chlorophyllum diet, which I do not recommend!!) It was delicious. I am happy to be back in the world.

I have a dimple in my chin, and I'm told in Swiss culture it means I'm a "Glückspilz" - a lucky person, literally translating to "Lucky Mushroom" ...

A Lay-Person's First Visit to the Courtroom

I went, ostensibly as a spectator for a case at the Manhattan Supreme court, about a topic of interest to me, argued by a friend-of-a-friend, and going as the guest of my friend. I went out of curiousity for what the inner workings of the legal profession might look like, romanticized by the top stage where the legally versed perform. And I went most because I had once been together with and in love with a lawyer, the last picture of whom I'd seen was with fists clenched at his sides on top of the stairs of that very court. I was awake too late in the evening, with a fear to go.

The relationship had not ended well, and as it turned out, today's story for me was of continued forgiveness. I have had the privilege to study something I love dearly, and though I'm sure I've spent as many hours in the practice room as anyone else has spent studying, and have sacrificed all sorts of things for the instability of my profession and the pursuit of artistic excellence, my impression of my world has always been of a friendly, colourful, and creative place. I realized today more intensely than in some time that it's my duty to share this world; in fact, the only colourful poster I saw anywhere in the building was an advertisement of Juilliard students performing at an official event. In a positive and friendly environment, there is room left over to help others, to empathize, to listen, to share, to care, to laugh.
The atmosphere in the courtroom was not relaxed. The benches were like uncomfortable pews in a church, facing a wall that had “In God We Trust” lettered upon it, as though this lower circuit on earth would certainly never give us justice. The forty-odd occupants were all clad in varying shades of grey and black, as though to blend in better with the fog outside and not suggest any idea that might be too provocative in any way. Roughly 90% were white men, one patterned in a suit like the next. Many bore the mark of stress eating itself to enlarged bellies. In the others, the stress showed itself in lines under the eyes. Nobody was smiling.
One clerk tried to lighten things up a little, beamingly commenting on his start to the day, perhaps even joking. He had a boomy voice and seemed to be addressing no-one-in-particular in the spectators' benches. In return, he was met with the ignoring non-response generally offered to kooky subway passengers.
The case I had come to see was postponed due to an illness of one of the parties. The gentleman from the opposing party looked relieved as he slowly gathered up his things and ventured out. As his face gradually relaxed, I could practically see his pent-up fight-readiness dissipating, evaporating and calming like water in a teapot freshly taken off the stove.
We watched a different hearing. My understanding of it, helped by my friend's explanation, was that an investment firm was suing a company that had gone bankrupt, claiming that one of the key members of the company had diverted all the assets into private properties and Swiss bank accounts. The judge called the prosecuting attorney to speak – hereafter referred to as “the guy on the right” – a slim, tall man, youngish, maybe in his late thirties or early forties. Given that he had about five minutes to explain the complexities of his case, punctuated by sharp questions and even refutations from the judge, meanwhile his reputation and salary and job were all likely are all on the line – I thought that he must be experiencing adrenaline at minimum comparable to that of taking an orchestra audition, even if he had some room for improvisation. As he struggled to find the balance between general explanation and specific details, and the right tone of deference to “Your Honor” the judge, while maintaining his position of accusation against the defendant, I noticed his wedding ring, and I couldn't help imagining a loving wife caring about him and his feelings, perhaps having bid him a concerned and well-wishing farewell in the morning ... in this room, his feelings would be treated, as in battle, as irrelevant. Despite his struggles, he convinced me that the defendant (who was not present) had probably run off with all the money. The defense attorney – hereafter referred to as “the guy on the left” - was also a slim tall man, and exuded an advantage of age and experience. His argument, as best I could tell, was “prove it”. The judge kept everyone strictly in line, and seemed to be explaining that the legal mechanism to go after the defendant was not available since it would be “piercing the corporate veil,” a phrase which was then bandied around a great deal, cast in light of never being done in such a situation before. (Was the guy on the right aware that his precedent-seeking position was a great handicap to his cause?) The judge's decision was that further hearings and discovery would be necessary. It seemed fair. When the young attorney turned to face the audience, the circles under his eyes seemed to have deepened. My read was that he was probably right about the truth of his case, but he'd been admonished several times by the judge for making allegations rather than stating facts, for which his response was that he would like the judge to order the defense to turn over the necessary paperwork for determining the facts.
As they exited the court's boxing ring after this intense verbal dance, I would have been inclined to give them all a hug. Surely there was common ground to be found? It must be especially adrenaline-inducing to represent just one side of things, such as “The company member defrauded a lot of people,” knowing you are against an adversary whose job it is to never agree with you, rather than everyone being on board with the idea, as in, “Well, he defrauded people, but his way of thinking, while not endorsable, is emotionally understandable, and now he needs to make good on what happened, so let's figure this out.” In a way, that was the judge's role. While I understand the principle behind the adversarial set-up of the court, wouldn't it be more pleasant if it were possible to set it up more coöperatively? What if everyone used the favourite Canadian phrase, "I'm sorry": “I'm sorry to have to go after you for your money, Mr. Company Member, but how would we make it up to the people who have lost money otherwise?” “I'm sorry to have run away from my obligations, but they were just too many, I would lose everything, and I just couldn't face the shame and guilt.” I am probably describing a utopian fantasy – or perhaps this just isn't how the boys' world of competition works. For it did feel like a boys' world, a fantasy of power struggle and weaponry fought with words.
I had come to the scene with good cheer, thinking to do reverse tourism (lawyers often come to musical performances, now I would go to a lawyers' performance), but after an hour and a half there, despite my interest it felt as though the room were sucking my cheerful spirit out of me, crushing it at once with both boredom and the tension of stressful focus. Is it possible to be happy in that world? To think about things like ladybugs and shooting stars and “For we like sheep” (especially without the comma, as the chorus from Handel's Messiah I'd played on the weekend). How could that courtroom feel fun, and like a place where one might be able to laugh?

I don't have a moral to this story. I am grateful for lawyers who go to verbal and administrative battle on our behalves. Could I survive in their world? I don't know. I imagine members of the legal profession may be grateful to artists for offering a change of mood. A delicate balance of symbiotic necessary coexistence.

Staring at nowhere

​People who stare - 

On the subway - once upon a time every minute was precious, a thirteen minute ride offered time to study for an exam, 

to read a chapter, to figure out the harmonies of a piece I'm playing.

And there were those who stare, into the distance, searching, or with problems they couldn't figure out at home.

Now there is an army of phones, each offering pre-occupation to its owner. On a good day, I write emails. Others play bejeweled, and others zone out to music.

And there are those who stare, looking for a solution to a problem, numb, maybe hoping it will come as the cars shake.

Sometimes I am now one who stares. The problems are too big. The solution is elusive, if it exists.

For example: is there a way around the trade-off, of an affordable apartment with space and sunlight, and riding this goddamn subway for almost more hours than I practice violin in my apartment with space and sunlight?