Look the other way, please.

There really are inconvenient truths, aren’t there? There are some things that seem to slip quietly under the radar -things that go unremarked until they  are brought our our attention. And even then, they are perhaps dismissed as unimportant -or worse, accepted and rationalized in an attempt to justify them as tools that enable the greater good of humanity. We, after all, are what it’s all about; our welfare is paramount, not to mention our survival. And when you frame it in those terms, there is little room for noblesse oblige. Survival of the fittest, quickly becomes survival of the ruthless -of the remorseless.

Perhaps I should explain. I live on a little hobby farm in the country, and when I was actively breeding sheep, chickens, and llamas, I was well acquainted with interested visitors, both two and four-legged. Everybody, it seemed, had or wanted, a stake in the game. Friends wanted eggs for their breakfasts, colleagues wanted lamb for their dinners, and I wanted an escape from the city. But, to share with some, was to share with all.

That’s how Life works, I suppose: word gets around, and soon there are all manner of uninvited guests -not all of whom knock, or ask permission. Some just appear -like carpenter ants- but some try not to advertise their arrival, and in fact seem to want to stay out of sight, if not out of mind. They’re the ones I used to worry about -if they’re in the barn, where else might they hide?

Of course I’m talking about rats -not so much the mice which kept my three cats busy in the night. No, the rats who hid in the engine of my pickup truck and ate the plastic off the wires to my distributor, or the battery wires in my car; the rats who patrolled the barn and left their distinctive trail through the uneaten bits of grain I fed the sheep; the rats who also holed up in the woodpile in my garage, and wherever else they could gather relatively undisturbed.

And yes, I declared war on them with spring traps baited with peanut butter, and put warfarin-like pellets in short, narrow little PVC pipes so the cats couldn’t get into them, but alas, the rats outlasted my efforts. Only when I retired and the chickens died in a well-fed old age, and only when I sold the sheep and llamas did the supply of grain eventually disappear -only then did the rats disappear. And I’ve never seen a rat, or droppings since. It reminded me of  the last stanza of Longfellow’s poem The Day is Done:

                                 And the night shall be filled with music,

                                      And the cares, that infest the day,

                                Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

                                     And as silently steal away.

I know, I know -they’re only rats, but their leaving seemed so sudden; I came to think of them as having made a collective decision to move their troupe away to greener fields -sort of like the Travellers in Britain with their little trailers, able to leave when conditions are no longer hospitable for them. I suppose I Disneyfied them in my over-active imagination, and yet there was something about their migration that softened their attributes. I’ve never been fond of rats -especially their tails- but on the other hand I’ve always found it hard to believe all of the sinister lore attached to their sneaky habits. After all, they’ve lived with mankind and our middens from the beginning, I would imagine… and we’re both still here in spades. You have to assume a certain degree of intelligence to coexist with us for so long, despite our best efforts to exterminate them.

As these things happen, I tripped over a tantalizing essay co-written by Kristin Andrews, a professor of philosophy at York University in Toronto, and Susana Monsó, a post-doctoral fellow at the Messerli Research Institute in Vienna. https://aeon.co/essays/why-dont-rats-get-the-same-ethical-protections-as-primates

The first three sentences of the article hooked me: ‘In the late 1990s, Jaak Panksepp, the father of affective neuroscience, discovered that rats laugh. This fact had remained hidden because rats laugh in ultrasonic chirps that we can’t hear. It was only when Brian Knutson, a member of Panksepp’s lab, started to monitor their vocalisations during social play that he realised there was something that appeared unexpectedly similar to human laughter.’ And then, okay, they tickled them. ‘They found that the rats’ vocalisations more than doubled during tickling, and that rats bonded with the ticklers, approaching them more frequently for social play. The rats were enjoying themselves.’

Of course, there were some other features, that if further substantiated, we likely don’t want to hear: ‘We now know that rats don’t live merely in the present, but are capable of reliving memories of past experiences and mentally planning ahead the navigation route they will later follow. They reciprocally trade different kinds of goods with each other – and understand not only when they owe a favour to another rat, but also that the favour can be paid back in a different currency. When they make a wrong choice, they display something that appears very close to regret.’ I’ve left the links intact, for reference, in case the reader’s credulity level sinks to the Fake News level.

But, for me at least, ‘The most unexpected discovery, however, was that rats are capable of empathy…  It all began with a study in which the rats refused to press a lever to obtain food when that lever also delivered a shock to a fellow rat in an adjacent cage. The rats would rather starve than witness a rat suffering. Follow-up studies found that rats would press a lever to lower a rat who was suspended from a harness; that they would refuse to walk down a path in a maze if it resulted in a shock delivered to another rat; and that rats who had been shocked themselves were less likely to allow other rats to be shocked, having been through the discomfort themselves.’

The reason the essay intrigued me, I’m sure, is because it has long been a practice to utilize rats (and mice, of course) as mindless fodder for our experimental quandaries. And, there’s little question that it is better to experiment on an animal than on a human, and especially a time-honoured nuisance and villain like a rat rather than a chimpanzee, or whatever. I don’t think I would be prepared to argue their utility for this, nor that until we have devised non-living alternatives -cell cultures, or AI modelling, perhaps- some things will require validation in functioning organisms to advance our knowledge for the benefit of the rulers (us).

My hope, however, is to point out that our hubris may tend to blind us to the increasing likelihood that rats, are not mindless protoplasms living forever in the ‘now’ of their experiences. Are they sentient beings…? I suppose their sentience , like ours, is on a spectrum, isn’t it?

But if we are to continue to utilize them as unwitting research subjects, it seems to me that we should treat them with kindness and a degree of respect. Remember the words of Gloucester after he has been blinded by Cornwall, in Shakespeare’s King Lear: ‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.’ Let us not stoop to that…

More sinned against than sinning

I’ve already written about the problem of creepiness and fear in another essay,  citing the 2016 study from Knox College in Illinois by the psychologists Francis McAndrew and Sara Koehnke (Can We Forget the Taste of Fear?) but there is another form of creepy that is less -what?- entertaining: when we judge people (usually men) as creepy. What I’m interested in is how that might make us (well, usually women) react. In other words, is it a useful judgement, or merely an impression garnered from the creepy person’s appearance, or social status? Does it help the judger survive, and prosper, or merely prejudice the object of their concerns –‘More sinned against than sinning’ as Shakespeare’s King Lear moans having been thrown out by his own daughters.

First reactions can be mistaken and even harmful, especially if they are misplaced. Not everybody conforms to our expectations of comportment; there are many we may encounter who, through no fault of their own, are dirty, or poorly dressed -people who are beset by mental challenges, or are themselves bereft of social skills.

I came across a helpful essay in Aeon by Heidi Matthews, an assistant professor of law at Osgoode Hall in York University, Toronto. https://aeon.co/ideas/what-is-to-be-done-about-the-problem-of-creepy-men

‘Disgust assists us in policing the line between inside and outside our bodies, but also to create and maintain interpersonal and social borders. Physical reactions – such as the shudder response, nausea, and exclamations of ‘ew’, ‘icky’ and ‘gross’ – can be important ways of producing and transmitting commitments to social norms. Signalling disgust helps society maintain the integrity of taboos around sexuality, including paedophilia and incest.’

‘Creepiness is different from disgust in that it refers to a feeling of unease in the face of social liminality… We become uncomfortable when events don’t easily fit our expectations or transgress social rules… Feeling ‘creeped out’ justifies our decision to shut down, rather than undertake the task of analysing ambiguously threatening situations. It is a form of cognitive paralysis indicating that we are unsure how to proceed… Judgments of creepiness, however, are not necessarily reliable. Conventional wisdom tells us to ‘trust our gut’, but researchers say that our gut is concerned more with regulating the boundaries of social mores than keeping us safe.’

‘In a 2017 Canadian study, female undergraduates were shown images of Caucasian male faces from three groups: emotionally neutral faces taken from an image bank; images judged ‘creepy’ in a pilot study; and images of criminals from America’s Most Wanted. They were then asked to rate the faces according to creepiness, trustworthiness and attractiveness… Participants made their creepiness assessments in seconds, and reported high degrees of confidence in their judgments.’ Unfortunately they were often wildly mistaken in their judgments.

Judging someone as ‘creepy’ often is caused by social difference –‘otherness’. I mean, how could anybody reliably assess the risk posed, with only a glance at a face? Just ‘a feeling’ unsubstantiated by any other evidence? As Matthews suggests, ‘When we judge a situation or person creepy, we participate in shunning and social ostracism.’

She goes on to elaborate some of the unfortunate consequences of this faulty assessment, and then writes that ‘what most people intuit to be creepy aligns closely with the attributes of individuals and populations already on or beyond the boundaries of social acceptance. The mentally ill and disabled, the physically deformed, those with ticks or other abnormal movements or facial features, the impoverished and the homeless are all more likely to be judged creepy… [and] the homeless and mentally ill are far more vulnerable to acts of violence than they are threatening to the rest of us. In short, ‘we’ are far more likely to hurt the ‘creepy’ than they us.’

We have to be on our guard, to be sure, but mostly I think, to be open to ‘responding to the odd, the new or the peculiar with curiosity, interest and generosity of spirit.’ This can be hard indeed.

I was sitting on a park bench that, despite its view of the sea, was quite isolated. The solitude had attracted me, but its silence even more. It was almost hidden in a heavily treed area in Vancouver’s Stanley Park -well away from vehicle traffic, and yet perched on a hill overlooking English Bay. Only a single, narrow path led to the bench, so its very existence seemed odd. There were no signs advertising its location, nor any indication that the trail led anywhere but to the cliff edge. I’d discovered it largely by accident. Serendipity…

At any rate, I settled down on it determined to read the book I’d stuffed in my pocket, but I think I must have dozed off in the warmth of the slowly sinking sun. When I opened my eyes again, it was because I had the distinct sense of being observed. I jerked my head off my chest and glanced nervously around at the trees that, only a few minutes ago, had guaranteed me privacy. I thought there was movement somewhere inside the dense collection of trunks and evergreen needles, but the wind was picking up, and I couldn’t be sure. There are deer in Stanley Park, I told myself –and yet I still couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. The sun was close to setting and shadows were starting their slow stretch for the evening.

It’s hard to read when every sound, arouses suspicion, but I did manage a few pages until the sensation overwhelmed me and I turned around to examine the trees again. I nearly missed him -the shadow standing as still as the tree it was leaning against.

He was a tall, powerfully-built man, dressed in a dirty pair of brown, ill-fitting pants, scuffed dark boots with no laces, and a ragged black suit-jacket; he didn’t move when our eyes met. He only frowned -or scowled, it was hard to tell. His hair was messy, but it seemed he had made an effort to tame it with his hand, because it didn’t fly up in the wind.

Uncertain how to react, I smiled, but the gesture may have been misinterpreted because I could see his eyes narrow, and his hands tense where he was grasping the tree. For a while, it seemed a standoff for both of us. He was near enough to the trail that he could easily block my way if I decided to run.

My heart began to pound as I considered my options -I didn’t really have many… any, actually. So I did the only thing I could think of – I said hello.

It seemed to surprise him, because his expression softened and he made a tentative move away from the tree.

I’d heard of a community of men living somewhere in the middle of the park, so I asked him if he lived around here.

He nodded and took a step towards me, his eyes locked on mine, and I could see wariness in them -or was it fear?

He stopped a few feet from the bench and shrugged.

I could see his lips beginning to move, as if they were looking for the right words. “I…” He hesitated and then, as softly as the breeze rustling through the trees, he continued. “That’s where I usually sleep until it gets too cold,” I think I heard.

It was my turn to speak. “I… I’m sorry, sir,” I stammered, embarrassed that he’d had to confess his situation to me. “I didn’t realize…” I continued, awkwardly.

Suddenly he smiled. “You couldn’t know, mister,” he said, slowly, but still softly -as if he was unused to conversations.

He stepped aside as I stood up and headed for the trail. But then I stopped and turned around to face him. I reached in my pocket and found the twenty dollar bill I always carry for emergencies. “Here,” I said, handing him the bill and smiling at him. “In case you need to buy a blanket, or something…” I felt uneasy with my words, but I didn’t know what else to say.

But he accepted my unexpected gift with dignity, and when he touched the back of my hand in thanks, my discomfort vanished. Sometimes, we all need to reach out to one another…

Fairness Which Strikes the Eye

Sometimes it seems we cannot help ourselves –the pull of the tide is just too strong to resist. And sometimes an argument, when considered too quickly, too uncritically, captures us with its ostensibly intuitive wisdom. We have no need to question it. No need to probe the basis of its logic.

The rhetoricians of old were well versed in this form of argument –the art of persuasion and how to best achieve it. Aristotle, for example, suggested three essential features of a convincing argument: ethos –the credibility of the contention; pathos –understanding the needs and emotions of the audience; and logos –the patterns of reasoning and the words chosen. His wisdom, although modified and woven into the contemporary tapestry, has not been lost in modern times.

What could provoke a greater sense of outrage in a population than the 1% contention? That is to say, in at least one of the iterations fostered by the Occupy Movement, that in the United States, 1% of the population controls 40% of the wealth. And to many, that unequal distribution of wealth, is symptomatic of what is wrong with Capitalism. It certainly resonates with those of us in the 99% who hear it. It begs for remonstrance; it demands rectification.

And yet there are usually many sides to a story –or at least this one, at any rate. There are times  when we need to move back a step or two in order to appreciate the different perspectives. Even so, I have to admit that an article in the BBC Future series came as an intriguing surprise: http://www.bbc.com/future/story/20170706-theres-a-problem-with-the-way-we-define-inequality It allowed me to entertain an alternative that I had not even considered.

As they tease at the beginning, ‘Some researchers argue that income disparity itself may not be the main problem. The issue, they say, is not the existence of a gap between rich and poor, but the existence of unfairness. Some people are treated preferentially and others unjustly – and acknowledging that both poverty and unfairness are related may be the challenge that matters more […] While many people may already view inequality as unfairness, making the distinction much clearer is important.’

They go on to say that ‘In a paper published in April in the journal Nature Human Behaviour called ‘Why people prefer unequal societies’, a team of researchers from Yale University argue that humans – even as young children and babies – actually prefer living in a world in which inequality exists. […] Because if people find themselves in a situation where everyone is equal, studies suggest that many become angry or bitter if people who work hard aren’t rewarded, or if slackers are over-rewarded.

‘“We argue that the public perception of wealth inequality itself being aversive to most people is incorrect, and that instead, what people are truly concerned about is unfairness,” says Christina Starmans, a psychology post-doc at Yale who worked on the paper.

“In the present-day US, and much of the world, these two issues are confounded, because there is so much inequality that the assumption is that it must be unfair. But this has led to an incorrect focus on wealth inequality itself as the problem that needs addressing, rather than the more central issue of fairness.” And as Mark Sheskin, one of the co-authors remarks, ‘“People typically prefer fair inequality to unfair equality”’.

In a way, a lot of the argument hinges on definitions. There are, after all, several ways to look at inequality: equality of opportunity, equality of distribution of benefits, and of course, equality of outcome. Must all of them be addressed, or is there a priority? Is the existence of a super-rich 1% the problem, or would it be more helpful ‘ to concentrate more on helping those less fortunate, who via a lack of fairness, are unable to improve their situation’?

‘Harry G Frankfurt is a professor emeritus of philosophy at Princeton University. In his book On Inequality, he argues that the moral obligation should be on eliminating poverty, not achieving equality, and striving to make sure everyone has the means to lead a good life.’ Poverty, in other words, is the problem; it is unfair…

I suppose, when considered practically, it would be unrealistic and unduly Utopian, to think that we could ever dispense with at least some degree of income disparity. People ‘don’t typically work, create or strive without the motivation to do so’. It seems to me that the unfairness does not lie in the money fairly accumulated for work done, so much as in the fact that ‘not everyone is afforded the same opportunities to succeed, even if they put in that hard work.’

But, on the other hand, it’s not all simply a matter of the equality of opportunity, nor even of equality, per se. Fairness is something different. The issue of fairness is in a different Magisterium altogether. I’m Canadian, and I believe that no one should have to live in poverty. Not everyone has the skills, or indeed, the capacity to hold a job, even if an opportunity presents itself. Some are disadvantaged by appearance, or gender; some are discriminated against by virtue of their origins, or life-style; some, even, have succumbed to past failures and have given up trying… It is unfair to give up on them –any of them- simply because of the lotteries of birth or circumstance.

Fairness, it seems to me, is universally available and accessible health care. It is a living wage that allows even the poorest to feed their family. It is safe and obtainable shelter. It is the respect afforded even to those we do not understand. It is toleration of difference, even when the rest of us may not understand, or agree with it.

It seems to me that inequality, by itself, is not what drives revolutions. Inequality is not what causes societies to weaken and their moral fabric to unweave. Inequality is just the chipped and discoloured veneer most easily visible on the surface. What festers directly underneath, sometimes only detectable when the surface weakens or is pulled asunder, is inequity. Injustice. Unfairness… Poverty, unlike wealth, offers little protection. And that is the iniquitous thing.

For some reason, I’m reminded of Shakespeare’s King Lear: Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy’s straw does pierce it.

Prove me wrong…

 

Hurtful Scents

I realize that to comment on odour is to confront a two edged sword –none of us journeys without a scented trail- but apart from those occasional inadvertent and indelicate smells, the time has probably arrived when we should be wary of artifice. Well, at least in those areas where there is no escape; where the air is as imprisoned as the nose; where the vulnerable may be subject to harm: the hospital.

Now, to be clear, I am not advocating the abandonment of deodorants, nor am I exculpating the voluntarily unwashed. I am merely suggesting that artificial scents may have unintended consequences, as an editorial in the Canadian Medical Association Journal points out: http://www.cmaj.ca/content/187/16/1187.full  And it would seem that, ‘According to large surveys of the general public, about 30% of people report having some sensitivity to scents worn by others. Twenty-seven percent of people with asthma say their disease is made worse by such exposures. There is emerging evidence that asthma in some cases is primarily aggravated by artificial scents. This is particularly concerning in hospitals, where vulnerable patients with asthma or other upper airway or skin sensitivities are concentrated. These patients may be involuntarily exposed to artificial scents from staff, other patients and visitors, resulting in worsening of their clinical condition.’ One has only to take the long journey to a distant floor on an elevator to know how uncomfortable odour can be.

And this danger is particularly applicable to health care facilities because: ‘Federal and provincial human rights acts require accommodation for employees who are sensitive to scents in the workplace, but not for patients in hospitals or clinics.’  As the editorialist points out: ‘Many public places promote a scent-free environment. Some hospitals also do so. But it is not policy in all Canadian hospitals, and it is not required in hospital accreditation standards. [italics mine]’ In this respect at least, the truly vulnerable are not being adequately protected.

But we all need protection; odour is one of those modalities that we have been taught to sublimate –or at least not bring to the owner’s attention lest it be misconstrued. In fact, the perpetrator may have long since been habituated and therefore be blissfully unaware of the effects of the smell on others. Or worse perhaps, wants to inflict it on the rest of us in the naive belief that it enhances their identity –or enforces it. There is a fine line between self and not-self, I think; the boundaries are subtle. How far do we extend? At what range is another person an intruder? Given that personal zones –comfort zones- are often culturally established it would seem to be a labyrinthine problem only soluble by sensitivity and, probably, trial and error.

It certainly works like that in my office.

I don’t like to characterize people –especially patients- as difficult, but sometimes I can’t help it; it is forced on me. One vicious peck from their eyes on my attire, or a facial attack on my beard and I can feel my cervical hair standing at attention… On guard, really. I’m not sure what it is about non-verbal criticism that is so difficult to take, but perhaps it is its unexpectedness, its lack of specificity that doesn’t allow for rebuttal. Whatever it is, it makes subsequent rapport more difficult to achieve.

Sometimes the office is a brutal affair with patients and complaints lined up like laundry hanging from a clothesline on a cloudy day. Even patches of sun are welcome diversions, and I had just seen a young woman who had biked across the city for her appointment. Sweating profusely but obviously proud of her achievement, her humour was a needed distraction from the long line still hanging in damp anticipation in the waiting room and I smiled fondly when she left. A flash of colour for my day.

But Elspeth, one of the last patients of the morning, was a mature lady who seemed to eschew colours, however. A large black bag sat beside her chair and she had a dark grey coat resting on her lap like a sleeping child. Her long black skirt topped with a pure white blouse complete with frilly cuffs would not have stood out in the waiting room ordinarily, but the way she wore her hair would. It was pulled so tightly off her forehead into a little raggedy tail at the back of her neck that it looked painful -her skin screaming in silent agony. Her expression mouthed the same feelings; she was not a happy person.

She stood to follow me into my office –reluctantly, I sensed- and I could feel her eyes burrowing into my back as we walked. Even in the office, her guard was up and her eyes tense and menacing.

I smiled to reassure her that I meant her no harm, but she ignored me and began to inspect the room suspiciously. She started with the walls, progressed to the various statues and plants in the corners, and finished with my desk and its contents. I wasn’t sure whether she was appraising their worth or my taste, but when she finally examined me like she was itemizing my clothing, I realized it was neither.

“There is a disturbing smell in here, doctor,” she said through her teeth.

How does one respond to that? “I… Uhmm…”

“And it’s not just in here,” she continued, “I first noticed it when I entered the waiting room.” Her eyes were angry. Mistrustful. “I thought perhaps it was somebody’s failed deodorant or a cover-up perfume so I tried sitting in several places, but it was the same everywhere.”

“I’m sorry Elspeth…”

Mrs. Trudle please, doctor. I don’t call you by your first name.”

“Sorry.” It was all I could think of replying.

“You of all people should know about the safety hazard of injurious odours and their effects on susceptible clients.”

Patients, Mrs. Trudle; I do not have clients! I am not a lawyer, nor a beautician.” I shouldn’t have said that –I don’t like the power implications inherent in the word ‘patient’- but I couldn’t resist. I felt attacked.

The effect, however, was almost immediate. The skin on her forehead rose briefly –perhaps to relieve the pressure- and then the ghost of a smile trickled across her face. “Touché, doctor,” she said and then chuckled. “I’m sorry if I was rude, but I’m terribly sensitive to smells nowadays. I find they give me headaches.”

I’m a gynaecologist, not an otolaryngologist, but her insistence that there was a disturbing odour in the office was worrisome –not least because nobody had commented on it before.

“Is it as bad in here as in the waiting room?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t my deodorant.

She thought about it for a moment before answering. “No… No I don’t think it is, although I can still detect it.”

“Any idea what it might be?” I wondered if it might be somebody’s perfume, or perhaps a chemical residue from the cleaning staff. We no longer had any carpets, so it couldn’t be unvacuumed dust or mold in the fabric.

“Well, many things seem to set me off… But here it was feet,” she said simply. I must have looked surprised, because the smile on her face grew larger and she sheathed her eyes.

“But…”

She nodded her head to interrupt me. “But there were only three other women in the waiting room -I know that. They must have thought I was demented to keep moving to different seats, but my headache was getting so bad I was afraid I was going to gag.” She slumped in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment. She looked uncomfortable. “Maybe it’s not the smell of feet so much as shoes…”

I just stared at her. I couldn’t make people take their shoes off at the door.

She shrugged and shifted uneasily in her chair. “I haven’t had a period for over two years, so I’m wondering if all of this is related to the menopause.” Her eyes scanned my face for some reassurance. “I’ve got an appointment to see a neurologist this afternoon, but I was hoping it was something simpler… more easily fixed.”

I smiled but I’m not sure my silence comforted her.

She sighed, and looked at me as if she felt she was wasting my time. Then she gathered up her coat and purse. “Hope is sometimes naïve, isn’t it?” She stood, started to walk towards the door and then stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Even ‘Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds’, I guess…”

I recognized it as the ending of one of the more enigmatic of Shakespeare’s sonnets and I had the uncomfortable suspicion that she’d rehearsed it for just such an occasion.

Just as she left, she turned her head and smiled a sad smile. “I’m sorry,” she managed to whisper, and then disappeared through the door.

I was sorry as well… And all I could think of to respond was what Shakespeare’s King Lear says to Gloucester: Thou know’st the first time that we smell the air we wawl and cry… But I said nothing. Air was a continual surprise for Elspeth; and she was certainly not mad…

 

Sleeping in the Call Room

Sometimes in the sounding night, with footsteps rushing past and light-bound shadows flashing orally under the firmly closed door, I awaken, startled, and wonder if I am next. It takes me a moment to clear the fog of that constantly unsettled semi-sleep, and understand that I am not at home. And won’t be for uncountable time. The pillow is not right, and the bed is far too narrow. And empty. There is a dusty patina on the sheets that I can feel despite the dark. It makes me cough if I pull them close. But they are old, like the room. Echoes of the others who have slept here, echoes of the phone calls that suddenly scream their warnings in the night, echoes of opening and closing doors just outside  -all those echoes are trapped in here. All clamoring for an audience.

There are more things imprisoned within this room than a person should feel. To embrace even a small fraction of the anxiety plastered on the door, let alone the shadows rushing noisily past, would be to succumb to that which we are not allowed: fear. To suspect, even, that there may be a situation so dire, so entrenched and insoluble that we could only witness it in horror, is to abrogate the right to the room itself. The right to close the door, to close the eyes in pseudo sleep.

The desk that welcomes and entices in the light, holds no promise in the dark. Holds no answers to the urgent questions from the phone. Or to the voice whispering loudly near the door. Whispering things I should not hear, and can’t because they are too quickly said. Meant for others standing just outside or passing on their ways to other things. To other doors. Here be dragons…

There is no time that passes here. It is not allowed –nor should it be. This is a place of black and void, an empty space yet full of ghosts who do not talk, or pace about. There is no room in here: it is barren ground. A fissure carved deep within the building. An abyss, a surface with no boundaries –except perhaps, the door, and those who seem to wait outside. For whom? And why?

Do they, too, wait for a phone to ring before they pound restlessly on a door? Is there anything that starts their ceaseless pacing in the corridor? Or is it random? Brownian motion? Perhaps they’re too aware to sleep, anticipating pages not yet issued, problems not discovered. Maybe they walk the hall with with text books open in one hand, pencils ready to underline another fact, but smartphones in the other, an app, finger-close… Just to check, you understand. Prepared for what, they do not know…

It is not them I fear, nor the hallway that sanctifies their life. They have other duties in the night. Responsibilities they must guard, lest someone find them wanting. They are not mine; my door is just a mistake for them, an anomaly to tempt them from their task. Nothing more. They do not belong to me; they are not my specialty. Not my responsibility. I cannot answer for them and will not let myself be distracted.

There is a sentence I read somewhere –King Lear, I think- and it surfaces now and then in the dust motes circling around the light under the door. It, too, whispers to me when I am startled by a noise outside, and nudges me if I pretend too hard to sleep: O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; no more of that. And when it sounds, it loops and twists in my head like a roundabout, the words circling like vultures, going round and round and round again looking for an exit…

But my job, for now, is to pretend to sleep. To pretend I will be ready when my duty calls, my own phone rings to silence those calls for madness from without.