Quitting: Virtues of the Virtual

By Suzanne Danforth

January 31, 2008 6:00 AM

In this global electronic culture, presided over by Web wizards and new media mavens, 15 minutes has been whittled to just six or so minutes. This is about the amount of time the New York Times Web site had as its lead story the unexpected and as yet unexplained death of actor Heath Ledger.

Warhol himself, father of the original 15-minute prediction, only foresaw as far as his artist sensibilities would allow from the vantage point of 1968. And just how far can you get on sparkly wigs, soup cans and Edie Sedgwick smoking long cigarettes in the corner? Warhol might have predicted we would each be famous for 15 minutes but he could not have prophesied it would be within 15 minutes.

This is not a piece about Ledger, sad losses or why there is such a thing as a market that commands a more than $20,000 per month rent bill, even in Manhattan. This is a piece that wonders where writing fits in these digital days, how our ability to communicate in pictures, via IM and text messaging may be eroding our essential language capacities, and whether the species will survive in a recognizable way as a result.

Tall order for 800 words, I know. But if Japanese girls can write novels on cell phones (with the obligatory short sentences and lack of plot or character development) surely I can raise sweeping cultural issues in the local newspaper on a Thursday morning.

Let's consider the big issue first; could our species actually change as a result of our electronic habits? Looking to the children, I would argue yes, that as a result of favoritism, our brains will change shape over time in response. Stranger things have happened (some on the HMS Beagle).

Ask any occupational therapist on the street and they can tell you that many little people starting school have not developed the classic tripod, or pencil, grip. Although some kids tend toward less dexterous fine motor skills than others, more recent trends seem to indicate greater numbers than your garden variety bell curve distribution.

Many kids these days come in to school with PlayStation thumb instead of pencil grasp. The muscles developed in manipulating video game controls are literally opposite those developed in learning to manipulate a pencil. Your 5-year-old may be able to beat your butt on a video game, but can she hold a pencil? Does it even matter anymore? Maybe the digital shift will favor those with game, rather than tripod, grip skills.

One well known fact of development is that when brain real estate is unused, adjacent brain real estate takes over. If a person becomes blind because of an eye injury, the brain section devoted to sight slowly begins to be taken over by the neighboring brain section for hearing.

Stunning isn't it? The amount of brain matter devoted to hearing actually grows into the area formerly reserved for sight. So much for specialization.

So, if that kind of change can happen in individuals, why not in species? Why wouldn't the digital immersion of children raised in an electronic culture result in changes in neural architecture?

The second big question is whether our essential language capacities are eroding because of YouTube, Instant Messaging and text messaging. Marshall McLuhan might have been prescient enough to herald the medium as the message, but where will all this leave language?

When I began writing in 1986, I wrote my first pieces longhand. I did not encounter a computer until I was hired as a reporter. I can still recall the difficulty I had switching from composing by hand to composing on computer. At a symposium I attended at UC Berkeley that year, authors Tom Robbins and Ken Kesey spoke about their own writing habits. Robbins spoke of writing his fanciful stuff longhand on yellow legal paper. Kesey, on the other hand, plucked out his messages on computer. The messiness of Robbins' method (with all the attendant innuendo) contrasted deeply with Kesey's custom. But both resulted in lovely writing.

Lovely writing is harder to come by these days. Sure it still exists, but it is countered everywhere with writing more suited to the medium. To wit: Japanese cell phone novels.

This leads us inexorably to our third big question: whether the species will survive in a recognizable way as a result of all these other (unsubstantiated) changes. Who knows? Not me.

Better minds than mine have wrestled with this question.

: o

For more scary dystopian-isms, see www.wired.com/wired/archive/8.04/joy_pr.html

suzanne.danforth@gmail.com.

Quiting my brain: All out of ideas

By Suzanne Danforth

January 24, 2008 6:00 AM

Put down the paper, people, quick. Stuff the fireplace, slide it into the recycle bin or better yet, line the birdcage, preferably so my visage is up-facing. I have been writing this column since the beginning of August and today marks the first day I am fresh out of ideas. Nothing, nada, zilch.

Should I write about smoking? Naw ... sure there is information to report and struggles to chronicle, but I would like to remain quiet (shhhhh) about those until I have something positive to say. Besides, chemo patients can smell smoke, dog feet, and the fluoride in water from 100 paces. I fear if I write about it there will be a yell from the other room putting the kibosh on it.

How about trash again? Um, nope. That would just make me angry. Northampton doesn't have curbside pick-up and trash and recycling have become nothing but a pain on the back porch. I guess I don't really mind those huge New Hampshire property taxes after all.

Hmmm, what about all the amazing medical advances I have conquered of late? I can track neutrophil counts, manage dehydration, even give a shot. Naw again, why go through it twice?

I could write about weedy species and relic species (sustainers please see Stephen M. Meyer and "The End of the Wild"), but that might be too depressing. Meyer writes of the big global issues in a concise voice that mixes science, intellect and love for the environment. Unfortunately, his voice is gone. Cancer.

I might write about writing. About how I can invariably tell when a writer just writes, pours it out in story form, and doesn't bother to edit much. I could describe my own editing, more accurately dubbed a word casserole; a little clause here, a bit of paragraph there, a cup of making sure the idea brings one circuitously but surely forward. Nope, why reveal my secrets.

No. No. No. All I can come up with is an idea about Quitting Career and Taking Up Home Keeping, a la Martha Stewart or Real Simple. Stay-at-homes (whether moms or dads) have always gotten a mixed nod from me: part acknowledgement of the work (unpaid mind you) and part envy.

Envy, you ask? Yes, envy. First of all, it implies someone to stay home for, usually a child. I need say no more, as a single childless woman of 43 years of age, about that gift. Second, it evokes either plenty of cash and resources, or a pioneering independent we're-in-this-together-and-will-make-it-work spirit. Gift number two.

The other part, the acknowledgement of the work, is what is truly breathtaking. Because my charges are my friend and three dogs, I don't even have to make sure anyone leaves the house on time, like a real mother. It's a good thing, too, because my morning ablutions alone take several hours.

First, there is the Goldilocks-esque dog feeding ritual. They all get the same dry and wet food, but in different proportions. Where it gets really complicated is with the gravy. Keenan likes a lot of gravy, Phoebe likes very little gravy and Atticus likes a medium amount of gravy. I have to mix things just so and make a big deal as I do it to get the gastric juices flowing in two of the three.

Yes, two of these three pooches tend to the anorectic side. They also take to bed for three days and fan themselves with their paws if you hurt their feelings. Drama central.

After they are shepherded out the door to play in the yard comes commencement of smoothie and coffee making. Now see, I buy my coffee pre-made. Past attempts at making coffee at home have gone miserably awry. Just when I think I have the ratio right, something shifts (probably at the tectonic level) and it becomes wrong.

This is no problem when making coffee for oneself; you mutter and go to the coffee shop. But I am making coffee for one of the original coffee snobs of the world. And because she couldn't drink it for more than a week after chemo, it better come through the door right the first time. (Not really. That yearning toward perfection is all mine.)

Smoothie making is similarly challenging. Not too much banana, especially if it is too ripe, plech. Just enough protein powder to escape that protein powder taste, a splash of Pom, some good yogurt and two ices cubes. Whirr! Taste and judge. It's a ritual.

Feeding myself comes last, I usually take a bit of the smoothie, a sip of the coffee (not from the same cup, can't share germs with a chemo patient you know), and move on to wrestle the vacuum cleaner out of the corner and into service. Who needs remuneration? I got love.

Forget you-know-who. What would you do? suzanne.danforth@gmail.com.

Quitting Home: Blue Alert

By Suzanne Danforth

January 17, 2008 6:00 AM

There's perfume burning in the air

Bits of beauty everywhere

Ah, Portsmouth, I miss you, in a myriad of ways. I miss the neighbors along my block. Walking the block two times a day for the two years I have had Atticus has resulted in many nod and wave relationships, and even a few name trades.

I miss the dogs we usually see; Mollie the barker, Sadie the Smiler, Fenway sitting in his doorway, Nellie and Cinnamon with her floppy ears. And of course I miss dog Fred, though he's been without his Ginger lately.

Shrapnel flying; soldier hit the dirt

I miss living one block away from the Grab and Scram (my nickname for Pic'n Pay, where I spent many a high-school hour cashiering). I miss not being able to get out of there in under a half hour because of running into folks and chatting a bit. I miss knowing that health and beauty aids are in Aisle 5, and that I can time things just right so that a gyro from the Pizza Factory will be ready to pick up before heading home.

She comes so close, you feel her then

She tells you No and No again

I miss my coffee crew at the Islington Street Dunkin' Donuts. The folks inside are as great as the parking lot outside is bad (yes, DD iced coffee is a continued guilty non-local pleasure). They almost have my coffee ready before I ask for it and the blend of sugar, cream and lots of ice is, without fail, perfect.

You know how nights like this begin

The kind of knot your heart gets in

I miss cooking something wonderful on the spur of the moment and inviting friends and kids over to eat and hang out. I miss eating with relish, come to think of it, and I don't mean the green stuff.

Any way you turn is going to hurt.

Luckily, I did not miss the Jumbo Circus Peanuts two holiday extravaganza shows at Christmas and New Year's. Dancing is important, and there's nothing like shimmying to "Car Wash" and "Wooly Bully" as played by a bunch of wacky warm folks in dress-up clothes. Even if they won't let me play piccolo with them.

Speaking of, I miss making music with that other group in town, the Leftist Marching Band. I hear there's a girl on the sousaphone these days. How hard can sousaphone be, though? It's probably a lot like being a drummer; anyone can do it. (Don't write me about that one, percussionists-at-large, I'm kidding. I remain amazingly aware that good drumming requires independent simultaneous movement of all four limbs).

She breaks the rules so you can see

She's wilder than you'll ever be

I miss my book club. Its formation was incipient but it was shaping up to be a real monthly look-forward-to-event in my life. Smart women talking about a good read, what's better than that? That segues nicely toward the reality that I miss reading. I find that I cannot quiet myself enough to sit and read anything longer than a few paragraphs. Great, if you are used to reading People magazine, but that's not really my style. Those New York Times just keep piling up, as does the stack of books I want to read. At least the desire hasn't left, just the actual luxury of reading.

You talk religion but she won't convert

I miss my walks in the cemetery, and meandering toward the water to the site of my mother's grave. I can't always go that way, but Atticus unfailingly runs there on his own, I can see him from up on the hill. I can't reconcile if it is because he's been there often and it is just one of his stops, or whether he knows my mom is there.

You try to look away, you try

But all you want to do is get there first

I miss having horribly overpriced appetizers at pretentiously pretty swank Portsmouth restaurants. I was shocked to find it cheaper to order an entrée in Brooklyn, N.Y., earlier this year that was as good as or better than any you can find in local kitchens. Even so, I love the ritual associated with our upscale eateries, from putting on nice shoes and mascara to saying words like "seared" or "drizzled".

I miss, finally, the care-free-ness of life I didn't even know I had. Oh sure, there were things to do, rooms to clean, food to cook, income to incur and dogs to walk, but my people were safe. And that, unlike this blue alert, is what carefree means.

Blue Alert lyrics by Leonard Cohen. This Suzanne is fresh out of oranges. Send her some at sdanforth@gmail.com.

Quitting: Pot Roast, Anger and Spaghetti Sauce

By Suzanne Danforth

January 10, 2008 6:00 AM

A long winter's nap is not easy to come by. We all sometimes yearn for a good long afternoon snooze. Until it occurs, it is a romantic fantasy of carefree time during which you can hit the pillow and just be.

The reality is that a deep afternoon nap these days is usually an emotional necessity, an event from which I wake confused, initially about self then about day and time. It eventually sorts itself out.

This thing has gone in phases. I've been home in our town for a week or so, now, and I find myself in Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' stage of anger. Although I had an academic understanding of the dying process because of college courses, the sum total was "DABADD"; or denial, anger, bargaining, acceptance, depression, death.

Researchers since have been careful to point out that the stages do not go in lock-step fashion; any one of them can rear their head at any time.

And anger does rear its head, let me tell you. Woe is you if you are in front of me at the grocery store and it is going slower than I can stand. I entertain forebrain fantasies of kicking, hitting or punching. Terrific takedowns, maniacal maneuvers that were I to execute them, would land me in the police station and eventually as star of one of Elizabeth Dinan's cop shop stories.

It also crops up less expectedly, out of a dead sleep for example. Have you ever woken suddenly in a rage? It's not pretty.

With the several people who have exited my life to this point, I have yet to experience the kind of anger I have been feeling of late.

For mothers and fathers and elders in general, surely you become angry at their plight, and yours. But there is a reasonable progression about such things; older people die. They even die younger than what is sometimes reasonable. But there is still a progression that is coherent: someone older dies, someone younger grieves.

Thanatos is a figure in Greek mythology, often referred to but rarely appearing in person. Thanatos is the personification of death and mortality. Marya introduced me to the concept. She also introduced me to Hunter S. Thompson and Bob Dylan.

Marya was (and remains) always c'est la vie. This has been more popularly expressed on bumper stickers in the past few years as "s**t happens". She recognizes things (and people) for what they are, always has. She has seen my family through two important deaths; that of my stepfather and that of my mother.

In 1998, before Sept. 27 turned at midnight into Sept. 28, Marya brought a spaghetti dinner up the highway. We all converged in the dining room; Tommy's daughters, our family, all together. None of us realized our hunger during the death vigil, and we shuffled downstairs to eat together at the dining room table, courtesy of Marya. My stepfather, musician Tommy Gallant, died that night.

Fast forward eight years later, to September 2006. My mother died after 12 long days with pneumonia (a strong heart they said). Marya arrived on the 11th night of our vigil. She laughed in her inimitable Marya way to note something like, "your mother will probably die tonight because I'm here." I did not disagree. As it happened, she did die that night.

Myra (my nickname for her) arrived without spaghetti, but with her new young Labrador puppy, Phoebe in tow. Phoebe is now a 95-pound monster (a good bad dog), but that night she entered into the room where my mother was, became very calm and paid her quiet respects by climbing halfway on the bed and quietly looking at my mom for about a minute. It was a gentle act completely out of expected puppy character.

I only know how to make good spaghetti sauce because Marya taught me. Marya is Italian and Polish hybrid whose own mother's cooking made you groan. Cacciatore, Golabkis, greens with a sublime dressing of just oil, vinegar and pepper, in just the right amounts. We recently had Sunday dinner up in Greenfield where Marya's brother and partner live. Joey cooked the sauce and, unexpectedly, it was just like Marya's. And both, of course, are just like their mom's sauce. Phyllis has been gone since Christmas Day 2005.

On Christmas Day this year, my brother and I tried to resurrect my mom's pot roast. By the time we realized we should ask for her recipe, it was too late. We experimented, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. We agreed over plates of the stuff, along with brown potatoes and carrots, that we hit the 75 percent mark.

I tried again on New Year's Day, and in tweaking this and that hit the 95 percent mark. Yum. It was like a bowl of mama. A sure recipe to help anger wither.

Doesn't need much more 'splainin than that.

'Splainin welcome. Trying not to smoke. Write me at suzanne.danforth@gmail.com.

Quitting Certainty

By Suzanne Danforth

January 03, 2008 6:00 AM

"If you must play, decide on three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time."

— Chinese

Proverb

Uncertainty sunk to its nadir tonight, on my arrival home to discover the remains of an attempted burglary over the late December holiday. Not to worry, Port-citizens, these are Western Massachusetts thieves, where I am mostly residing these days.

The discovery followed a white-knuckle drive along the pike, earnestly listening to the news that another defender of democracy had joined the ranks of the slain. That Bhutto was without the proper fortification our democracy could have provided her is no longer material.

The day had begun by listening to a compassionate but realistic physician outlining specifics of chemotherapy and advising my friend that only she will know when it is time to cry uncle. (If you find yourself envisioning, reader, an image of a kindly male doctor, change it. This medico was a girl.)

I find myself, this week, quitting certainty. Certainty has been steadily exiting-stage-left over the past month, anyway, since the body of my friend Marya was found to have cancer in it (not her spirit though, no sir-ee).

Come to think of it, certainty has been leaking slowly away in a trajectory that dates back to childhood and upon inspection looks suspiciously a lot like life. Youth is wasted on the young and all that stuff.

The discovery of the burglary was well-timed if it is viewed as a variable to support my thesis that nothing is certain. I would have said, last week, that such a discovery would make me crumple, sink, curl up on the floor and sob.

Guess what? It didn't. Not only did it not force me to the floor in a headlock, I found myself beginning to laugh wryly. Then to giggle, which led to a laugh for real which ultimately led to a guffaw when I got on the phone to Marya (still in the people's republic of Cambridge) to ask where she keeps her checks.

I'm usually a strange mix of wishy-washy and black and white. I am impulsive or plodding, ready to accept full responsibility or to give it away wholesale, and full of daytime conviction that withers come night. I recognized shades of me in a recently published newspaper piece about feuding and conflict (thankfully I was more typified by emotional reactivity than narcissism, the two main personality types that tend to hold grudges).

I have assiduously ignored the smoking question since the cancer visitation. That's because I have been smoking. I smoke on the side porch wrapped in a prayer shawl made for me when my mother was dying. There is nothing relaxed about it, every move is tense and purposeful, crossed legs, crossed arms, looking at the birds and the occasional cardinal, dragging deeply.

When you are undergoing work up for cancer, the paperwork gets ridiculous. One particular intake form was exclusively about smoking and smoking habits. We have all been asked the questions: Do you smoke? How much? For how long?

Cancer historians want to know how deeply you drag, whether you take it in your mouth, down to your throat or whether you breathe it all the way in. If you are a breather-inner, they want to know how long you hold it, and if you ever blow it out your nose. They want to know if you ever smoked menthol, or cloves. Each question feels like a damning judgment, another pound of the gavel, rather than the data collection it is meant to be.

All I can do at this point is assign my own answers to these questions to the quit-if-you-can compartment. Because I am finding I cannot. Not right now.

So many apples on my family tree are gone and I am learning to forge my own way. I rely heavily on my triumvirate of angels ("In the name of my mother, my stepfather and the holy bassist, Amen"), the opportunity to write and a very small but very extraordinary set of individuals and animals for guidance.

But not even Atticus' gentle, predictable, reliable and certain ways can mask the fact that the uncertain road ahead is just not visible from here.

Here is one for Todd. Your kind demeanor will be missed. suzanne.danforth@gmail.com.