It's Fantastic

In this time of fantastic news stories and press conferences, I often think about a joke I heard in Junior High.  It’s a useful joke.  Comes in handy on many occasions.  It’s a joke I’ve told my kids.  Over the years, it’s become a family inside-joke.  I now share it with you.

(Imagine, if you will, two little old ladies talking on a park bench.  For good measure, add in a bit of a Yiddish accent.}

B:  “So Myrtle, what’s new?”

M:  “Bessie, you just won’t believe it.  Remember my son Gerald?  He’s a genius.  Just got into an Ivy League school.  Someday he’ll win the Nobel Prize.”

B:  “That’s FAAN’-tastic.”

M:  “And my husband Lou, he loves me more and more each day.  Showers me with presents, furs and diamonds.  Wants to take me on a trip around the world.”

B:  “That’s FAAN’-tastic.”

M:  “As for me, I’ve lost twenty pounds and am going to have plastic surgery that will make me look thirty years younger.”

B:  “That’s FAAN’-tastic.”

M:  “So, nuh Bessie?  Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

B:  “Well Myrtle, I’ve been going to charm school.”

M:  “Really?  And what are you learning in charm school?”

B:  “I’m learning how to say FAAN’-tastic . . .  instead of bullshit.”

Kafkaesque

“Someone must have been telling lies about Joseph K., for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one fine morning.”  (first line from The Trial, by Franz Kafka, 1883-1924) 

Kafkaesque.  It’s a wonderful adjective.  Kafkaesque connotes an absurd situation in which you find yourself trapped, powerless, and clueless.  You are controlled by a powerful, impersonal, and unapproachable bureaucracy.  A Kafkaesque scenario is nightmarish. You want to escape, and you can’t.
It’s a measure of Kafka’s literary stature that his name was turned into an adjective.

Franz Kafka was born into a middle class, unobservant Jewish family.  He lived his entire life in Prague.  During the day he worked as an official in an insurance office.  At night he wrote the novels and short stories that made him an icon of Western literature.

Much of Kafka’s writing is difficult to interpret, surreal, multi-layered, allegorical, written almost as-if in a bad dream.  Sometimes his stories feel grim, even ghoulish.  Simultaneously, many of his stories are laced with satire and ironic humor.  Some of his stories have been called prophetic, foreshadowing the totalitarian regimes of the mid-20th century.

Frequently his stories are deeply personal explorations into his tormented and neurotic psyche.  At yet another level, his stories are about unfulfilled religious yearnings.  He seems to search in vain for a distant, well-guarded, and unapproachable deity.  Some scholars detect in his writing similarities to the Jewish mystic writings of Kabbalah.

Kafka’s health was poor. For many years he suffered from, and eventually succumbed to, tuberculosis.  Tuberculosis was the great killer of its time, accounting for up to 1 in 7 deaths.  It was a respiratory illness spread by people working in close quarters to one another, affecting a disproportionate number of the poor. Kafka died in 1924.  It wasn’t until 1943, with the development of Streptomycin, that tuberculosis could be cured.  In the meantime, tuberculosis was contained by good hygiene and avoidance of overcrowded conditions.

Which brings me to another respiratory disease and the current pandemic.  It’s a situation in which I am trapped and powerless.  Decisions affecting tens-of-thousands of lives are being made daily by God knows who. It feels nightmarish.  I want to escape it, but I can’t.

 “It’s like the flu.”  “It’ll go away.”  “We’ve got it under perfect control.”   “It’ll all be beautiful.” Someone must have been telling lies about coronavirus for without having done anything wrong, the world changed, and one fine morning we were confined to our homes.   It feels Kafkaesque.

Dreams

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”  (from The Tempest, by William Shakespeare)

I had a vivid dream last night.  I was in an airplane, a passenger plane, and I was the only passenger on board.  There was a pilot, but he was asleep in the back of the plane and I didn’t wake him.  I assumed the plane was flying on autopilot.  Since no one else was on the plane, it occurred to me that I could move from coach to first class, and nobody would object.  It was a midnight flight and I was headed home to Denver.  I was going there to surprise my parents.

I was aware that there was nothing but air below me and only the thin skin of the plane shielding me from the void.  I was aware how quiet the plane was.  I could hear no sound from the engines, no creaking of the plane.  Just to hear something, I went over to a rack of music and picked out a George Strait CD.  If you’re wondering, George Strait is a well-known Country Western singer.  I occasionally enjoy country music, but I have no idea why I picked this music to play.  However, music, any music, was preferable to silence.

From biblical times to the present, much has been written about the meaning of dreams.  Some believe that dreams have prophetic meaning.  Some believe that dreams have deep psychological meaning.  Some dispute that dreams have any consistent meaning at all.  Whatever they may mean, during this Covid pandemic many people report having vivid and intense dreams.

I believe my dream was loaded with meaning and seasoned with a bit of existential angst. Travelling in a plane was symbolic of a new journey.  Being high above the ground, protected only by the thin skin of the plane, was symbolic of the fragility and contingency of life. The flight to Denver symbolized my mortality, an eventual reunion with my deceased parents.  The sleeping pilot . . . it symbolized the lack of leadership and guidance from a president who might as well be asleep at the helm.  As for the need to turn silence into music, I’m less sure what that symbolized.  Perhaps music was symbolic for hope and consolation.

Addendum:  A few nights before, I'd had another vivid dream.  I was fishing.  I could feel myself casting with my flyrod.  Twice I felt a fish take the lure.  Twice I felt the subsequent fight of the fish. Twice I reeled in a big fish, one a crappie and the other a bass.  Sigmund Freud wrote that dreams are the symbolic fulfillment of our unfulfilled wishes.  In this instance, I think he was right.

Jigsaw

Were it not for the coronavirus pandemic, my wife could have gone through life having never done a jigsaw puzzle.  But now she knows the immense satisfaction of watching a thousand small, random and misshapen pieces come together to make one coherent picture. One puzzle completed. She’s ready to start on our second.

It took the two of us five days, working four to five hours per day, to complete the puzzle.  Initially we completed 998-pieces of the puzzle.  When we got to the end, we discovered that two pieces were missing, but still we felt pretty good about what we had accomplished.  The picture was mostly complete, minus two small holes.

Two pieces missing out of a thousand, two pieces leaving two obvious holes in what otherwise would be a totally complete and perfect picture.  All that work and effort for a flawed picture?  Not content to leave the puzzle in that state, the carpet below the table was carefully searched.  And there in the shag of the carpet we found the missing pieces.  It’s hard to explain why a 1,000-piece totally complete picture feels infinitely more gratifying than a 998-piece picture.  But, it does.

My wife mused that I seemed more enthusiastic about completing the puzzle than I was when we had our children.  I responded that the very dumbest animals know how to reproduce, but it takes special skill to complete a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle.  It takes organization.  It takes patience and perseverance.  It takes a keen eye for small detail.  And it takes time, something right now that my wife and I have plenty of.

After the puzzle was completed, my wife and I stared at our work for a very long time, recalling the joys we shared, adding this piece or that to the puzzle.  My wife put a layer of mod podge over the completed picture so that we could lift the puzzle intact and find a place of honor for it in our home.

By the way, this is the 80^th piece of my blog, a blog that has been an assortment of small, random and occasionally misshapen pieces.  My goal is to get to 100 pieces.  Who knows?  Maybe by then the pieces will fit into some sort of coherent picture.  But there will be some missing pieces.

Existential Angst

It’s been another long, strange and stressful week.  There are more to come. While I am hopeful that “this too shall pass”, I am trying to prepare myself emotionally and physically for what I anticipate will be a very difficult next few months.  The news is bad.  Though most will survive this plague, far too many will not. 

Before there was Covid, I took much for granted.  I never thought twice about going to the barber or going out to eat.  No more.  Now it’s home haircuts and home cooking.  It used to be easy going grocery shopping.  No more.  Now, our food is delivered and before it comes through the door it is wiped down and disinfected.  I never worried about spending an afternoon at the lake fishing.  No more.  It’s not worth it.  I’m too busy watching everybody else at the lake, hoping they don’t spit, cough, or violate my six-foot space.

The days have a different pace, a much slower pace.  I have lots of time to read and to write, but so far, I’ve really done very little of either. Humorous memes shared by friends and family are a welcome relief from the day’s routine.  Calls from the kids and grandkids are another welcome respite from the long hours, but the calls are bittersweet, reminders of our forced separation and reminders that they too are feeling the vulnerability.

To pass the time, my wife and I are doing something we haven’t done for thirty years, a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle.  Altogether, I would guess we’ve put together 300 of the pieces. 700 to go.  We’ve got plenty of time to get it done.  There is something immensely therapeutic about transforming the chaos of 1,000 random pieces into a complete coherent picture, no matter how long or how difficult.

Next week, via Zoom, I'll resume teaching philosophy to the psychiatry residents.  Given what’s going on, the topic will be Existentialism.  One principle of existentialism is freedom, the freedom to choose the attitude with which we face our circumstances.  Another principle of existentialism is meaning, our potential to live authentic and meaningful lives.  However, the core of existentialism and the source of existential angst, is the inescapable reality of mortality.  Our lives are fragile, and our days are few.  And should we happen to forget this inconvenient truth, we need only turn on the news.

I often think about a joke told to me by a friend back in Junior High, a joke I now think of as Existentialism 101.  A wise man was asked by his young pupil, “Tell me father, what is the death rate in this part of the country?”  The wise man did not answer right away, but instead consulted books of ancient lore and wisdom.  Finally, after several weeks of study and contemplation he returned to his pupil.  “Son, the death rate in this part of the country is one per person.”

Because a Little Bug Went Ka-Choo

“One fine summer morning a little bug sneezed.  Because of that sneeze a little seed dropped.”  And from the dropping of that seed came a series of connected happenings that changed everything, “Because . . . just because . . . a small bug went Ka-Choo!”

Because a Little Bug Went Ka-Choo is the ultimate ‘what-if’ story.  Who hasn’t looked back on their life and been amazed how one small incident, one decision, one action, changed history forever.  What-if I hadn’t gone out on a blind date 37 years ago?  I look at my children and my grandchildren, knowing that their lives all connect to that blind date, as do the lives of their spouses and their spouses’ families, and so on and so on.  The impact of that date 37 years ago, that ka-choo, continues to send out ripples into the world and the world is forever changed.

Written by Rosetta Stone, a.k.a. Dr. Seuss, Because a Little Bug Went Ka-Choo is a remarkable book and not only for children.  In its own clever way, the story poignantly and humorously illustrates many essential truths.  The little actions of everyday life can have enormous consequences. The actions of little people can have enormous consequences.   The actions of any one person can have a great impact upon many others.  We are all connected.  What we do matters.

In these difficult days, Because a Little Bug Went Ka-Choo is especially poignant.  May I suggest a slight modification of the story?  “One fine spring morning a little bug sneezed.  Because he covered his mouth, washed his hands for twenty seconds, and practiced social distancing, no germs were spread, the curve flattened, and that changed everything.  Because . . . just because . . . a small bug went Ka-Choo!”

COVID-19

“Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming it.”       (Helen Keller, 1880--1968)

Eerie.  Unreal.  Crazy.  I’m looking for the right adjective to describe what’s happening.  From last week to this, everything has changed.  The world is under siege.  Daily life is radically altered and I’m struggling to get a handle on it.

I watch the news closely trying to sort out which precautions are essential and which, if any, are excessive.  Which are based in logic and reason and which in fear?  I am at high risk, and I take this pandemic very seriously.  I understand that we must try to avoid here what is happening in Italy.  I understand that we must ‘flatten the curve’ so that the health care system won’t be overwhelmed.

Just to get out of the house, I got in the car and drove around.  Stores were quiet and most restaurants were closed.  There were a few cars in the drive-throughs at McDonald’s and Freddy’s.  There were a few cars getting gas, the price having fallen to $1.94.  There were lots of cars in front of the grocery stores, and the parking lot at Costco looked like the day before Christmas.

Fortunately, due to my wife’s foresight, we are well provisioned.  We’ve got plenty of food and toilet paper.  And my kids continue shopping for us bringing additional groceries, as needed.

I now sleep-in later than usual.  I get up, drink a cup of coffee and watch morning T.V.  I read.  I eat a large late lunch and a small dinner, all the while getting used to eating at home.  The indoor pool at my apartment complex has closed.  For exercise, I ride my stationary bike for an hour each afternoon.  When the weather allows, I get outside and walk keeping an appropriate social distance from other fellow walkers.  At night I either read, play my guitar, or watch some more T.V.

One of my hobbies, playing poker, is out of the question.  Sitting in close quarters at the casino with nine other players, passing back and forth filthy poker chips, isn’t an option.  I do go to the lake and fish.  That’s been my most life-normalizing activity.  However, the weather’s been uncooperative, and the fish aren’t yet biting.

It was announced yesterday that my grandchildren’s schools will be closed for the remainder of the year.  Their parents must now figure out just what that will mean regarding schedules, activities and home-schooling demands.  My children are well equipped to handle this challenge, but I fear for many who are not.

My youngest child is on the front lines, an internist in Omaha specializing in geriatric care.  She was asked by a worried family member if she could take a leave of absence from work.  She replied that was out of the question. That would be like a soldier deserting on the eve of battle.  I am proud of her for her sense of duty and her courage.  I hope she remembers, that in battle, a good soldier remains vigilant and avoids unnecessary risks.