The Centre Cannot Hold

Turning and turning in the widening gyre the falcon cannot hear the falconer; things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world…  Remember that poem by Yeats? I thought he was exaggerating. Using poetic licence to make a point. But sometimes things can feel like that. Sometimes the world turns on its head and the expected order is reversed.

I dread the tidal bore of malls, the rushing mass of strangers pushing and shoving, strutting and fretting their times upon their internal stages; I hate the food ‘courts’ in malls even more, though. I’m not sure if it’s the smell of cheap food, or the Brownian movement of those who treat the ceremony of meals with disdain -but, like some parts of the city, they are places in extremis. Waypoints for some, perhaps -abrasions for others…

And yet, when all the usual shopping center seats for tired old men in the busy causeway are occupied, the courts are a form of sanctuary, if not salvation, I suppose. At any rate, the other day, exhausted by an already hard swim against an increasingly turbulent current of shoppers as noon approached, I found myself beached on the shores of a particularly chaotic food court.

I tried not to examine it too closely -I was only seeking temporary refuge, after all- but it is difficult not to be drawn into the drama constantly evolving all around it. Like the old woman with the grocery bag precariously balanced on the seat of the walker she had wrapped in front of her like a shield. She pushed it in little steps, presumably intent on threading her way through the roiling masses to one of the food stalls, but with little progress through the flotsam that surrounded her. People all around her waded past, seemingly blind or just indifferent to her distress, and I could see the frustration on her face as she made it beyond the boundaries of my seat.

Dressed in purple pleated slacks, and a white frilly blouse, she had draped a long black coat over a portion of the walker near her groceries. I imagine she was hot, because I could see little beads of sweat glistening on her forehead but her short silvered hair was still neatly combed and barely disturbed, and she continued pushing her way through the crowd with arms of steel.

I was about to offer her my seat, when an unexpected space materialized in front of her and she jogged into it like being sucked into a vacuum. Suddenly, someone else with the same idea knocked the groceries off the walker and the contents rolled onto the floor in all directions. A few feet noticed and hands picked up an apple here, or an onion there, but by and large, things disappeared like mice in a forest. The person who’d caused it, a middle-aged woman with in jeans, and a soiled grey sweat-shirt, was clearly embarrassed at blundering into a frail old lady in a walker and dropped to her knees to retrieve what she could, apologizing profusely.

The table right beside mine cleared, and the two of them sat down at it as the older lady restocked her bag and the younger scanned the floor for remnants.

Still concerned that she might have injured the elderly woman, she blushed and seemed uncertain how to make amends. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I…” she stammered.

“Leslie,” the older lady interrupted. “It’s Leslie, and thank you for your help. Some of these walkers have design flaws, don’t you think?”

“Mine’s Denise,” the other woman responded, obviously relieved. Then she looked at the walker and laughed. “I’ve never really seen one of these up close,” she added. “Quite the invention, eh?”

Leslie glanced at her new friend and smiled. “The physios put you in one of these if you break your hip and they figure you’re too old for crutches. They think everybody over eighty has balance problems… Anyway, I only use it when I come to the mall.”

Denise looked at her with new respect. “You broke your hip?”

Leslie shrugged. “Stuff happens, eh?”

“Look, you stay right here and I’ll get you something at the counter.” She rummaged around in her pocket with a worried look on her face. “What do you want?”

Leslie smiled, guessing her friend was probably between pay cheques. “Oh thank you,” she said, in obvious appreciation. “I was just going to have a cup of tea,” she said and pulled a $20 bill out of the little purse hanging from her shoulder. “And you get yourself something, too, Denise.”

I watched Denise thread herself expertly through the tumultuous crowd like an otter weaving through storm-tossed seaweed. I thought Leslie was being a bit too trusting, but then again, I was interested to see what Denise might buy for herself -if she returned.

She did return, though, and she made it back to the table in record time, balancing a cup of tea with its little tale tell string hanging from the lip, a soft drink and two huge slices of pizza on a tray. Impressive really.

Leslie reacted to her arrival as if there’d never been any question of return. As if she’d merely sent a friend on a mission.

“Thanks, Denise,” she said as the tray arrived.

“I… I didn’t know whether you liked pizza…” She looked down at the two slices, and handed Leslie the change. “I got two different kinds, so you could choose,” she said hopefully.

The smile on Leslie’s face grew. “Thank you dear. That was sweet of you, but I had a big breakfast this morning before I left. You go ahead and eat them both if you’d like.”

Denise was obviously hungry, but I could tell she was trying to pretend she wasn’t. She gulped down the soft drink, though -as if she couldn’t really help herself.

Leslie sipped her tea, pretending not to notice her friend’s discomfort. “Please eat. Don’t mind me. I’m just enjoying my little rest.”

A little hesitantly Denise chose the lumpy slice, but once it neared her mouth, she couldn’t restrain herself, and it quickly disappeared. She was about to repeat the performance when she suddenly gasped and her face began to turn blue. Her eyes looked as if they might even leave their sockets as she fought to take a breath.

Leslie was on her feet in a moment, and dragged Denise upright from behind. She reached around her waist, compressed her abdomen just below the ribs and squeezed. Denise coughed once and took a deep, stertorous breath.

By now, people had gathered around them, not certain what to think, but it was a classic, perfectly executed Heimlich maneuver. I could see the onlookers glance at each other in admiration.

When Denise had recovered enough to breathe normally, and the people had dispersed, she stared at what she had thought was a frail old woman with a surprised look on her face. “What did…?”

“Once a nurse, always a nurse, Denise” she interrupted, as if it didn’t really require an explanation.

“But…”

Leslie stopped the question with a smile. “She hath borne herself beyond the promise of her age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.”

“What…?”

Denise seemed confused, but Leslie merely shrugged and her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Never mind me, dear -I’m just misquoting a line from Shakespeare…”

Denise thought about it for a moment, and then a smile suddenly appeared on her face.  “It’s from ‘Much Ado About Nothing’, isn’t it…?”

The two of them giggled like little girls.

I couldn’t help but chuckle with them, and I remembered another line from that poem of Yeats: the ceremony of innocence is drowned

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Understanding as…

There is so much stuff out there that I don’t know -things that I hadn’t even thought of as knowledge. Things that I just accepted as ‘givens’.  You know, take the ability to understand something like, say, an arrangement of numbers as a series rather than a bunch of numbers, or the ability to extract meaning from some sounds -for example words spoken in English- and yet not others in a different language.

And, perhaps equally mysterious is the moment when that epiphany strikes. What suddenly changes those numbers into a series? Is it similar to what makes figure-ground alterations flip back and forth in my head: aspect perception? Is it analogous to the assignation of meaning to things -or, indeed, picking them out of the chaos of background and recognizing them as somehow special in the first place? Is it what Plato meant when he referred to the Forms –‘chairness’ or ‘tableness’ for example- abstractions that allow us to identify either, no matter how varied the shapes or sizes -the true essence of what things really are?

I suppose I’m becoming rather opaque -or is it obtuse?- but the whole idea of aspect perception, of ‘seeing as’, is an exciting, yet labyrinthine terra incognita, don’t you think? I’m afraid that what started it all was an essay in the online Aeon publication: https://aeon.co/ideas/do-you-see-a-duck-or-a-rabbit-just-what-is-aspect-perception

It was the edited version of an essay written by Stephen Law, the editor of the Royal Institute of Philosophy journal THINK. He begins by discussing some of the figure-ground changes found in, say Necker cubes whose sides keep flipping back and forth (a type of aspect perception) and then suggests that ‘A[nother] reason why changes in aspect perception might be thought philosophically significant is that they draw our attention to the fact that we see aspects all the time, though we don’t usually notice we’re doing so… For example, when I see a pair of scissors, I don’t see them as a mere physical thing – I immediately grasp that this is a tool with which I can do various things.’

Another example might be ‘…our ability to suddenly ‘get’ a tune or a rule, so we are then able to carry on ourselves.’ Or, how about religion? ‘The idea of ‘seeing as’ also crops up in religious thinking. Some religious folk suggest that belief in God doesn’t consist in signing up to a certain hypothesis, but rather in a way of seeing things.’ But then the caveat: ‘Seeing something as a so-and-so doesn’t guarantee that it is a so-and-so. I might see a pile of clothes in the shadows at the end of my bed as a monster. But of course, if I believe it’s a monster, then I’m very much mistaken.’

I have always loved wandering around bookstores. Maybe it’s an asylum -a refuge from the noisy street, or a spiritual sanctuary in a chaotic mall -but it’s more likely that the range and choice of books allows me to exercise an epiphanic region of my brain, and to practice ‘seeing as’ to my heart’s content. I’d never thought of bookstores as exercise before, of course, but I suppose the seed of ‘understanding as’ was sown by that article… or maybe it was the little girl.

Shortly after reading the essay, I found myself wandering blissfully through the quiet aisles of a rather large bookstore that seemed otologically removed from the noisy mall in which it hid. Coloured titles greeted me like silent hawkers in a park, the ones that sat dislodged from their otherwise tidy rows, sometimes reaching out to me with greater promise: curiosity, as to why someone might have dislodged them, perhaps. But nonetheless, I also found myself amused at their choices: book shops are catholic in the selection they proffer and I relish the opportunity to switch my perspectives… and expand my Weltanschauung, as the Philosophy section into which I had meandered might have put it when the thought occurred.

Of course, unexpected concepts like that are one of the delights of a bookstore -turn a corner into a different aisle and the world changes. It’s where I met the little girl talking to her mother about something in a book she was holding.

No more than four or five years old, she was wearing what I suppose was a pink Princess costume, and trying to be very… mature. Her mother, on the other hand, was dressed for the mall: black baseball cap, jeans, sneakers, and a grey sweatshirt with a yellow mustard stain on the front. Maybe they’d just come from a party, or, more likely, the Food Court, but the mother was trying to explain something in the book to her little daughter. The aisle wasn’t in the children’s section, but seemed to have a lot of titles about puzzles, and illusions, so maybe they’d wandered into it for something different: for surprises.

As I pretended to examine some books nearby, I noticed a Necker’s cube prominently displayed on the page the girl was holding open.

“Why does it do that, mommy?” Even as she spoke the perspective of the cube was flipping back and forth, with one face, then another seeming to be closer.

The mother smiled at this obvious teaching moment.

“It’s a great idea, anyway,” the daughter continued, before she got an answer.

“Idea…?” the mother said, with a patient look on her face. “What’s the idea, Angie?”

Angie scrunched her forehead and gave her mother a rather condescending look. “It’s an exercise book, remember?”

That apparently caught the mother by surprise. “It’s a book of puzzles and magic, sweetheart. I didn’t see any exercises.”

Angie rolled her eyes at her mother’s obvious obtuseness. “The nexercise cube, mommy…!”

Necker’s cube, sweetie,” she responded, trying to suppress a giggle. “It’s not an exercise cube.”

But Angie was having none of that, and stared at her like a teacher with a slow pupil. “It keeps making my mind move, mommy!” She shook her head in an obviously disappointed rebuke. “That’s exercise.”

I slipped back around the corner, unnoticed by them both I think. I felt I’d intruded on a very intimate moment and I didn’t want to trespass, but I couldn’t help wondering if Angie had come far closer to understanding Plato’s Forms than her mother or I could ever hope to.

The Primrose Path

Age is sometimes mysterious, isn’t it? Despite the experience and occasional brush with wisdom I have encountered, I am still a child in many ways. Naïve -not so much about things I have encountered in my drive through life, but more about those on streets I have not visited. Addresses in the shadows.

I suppose there will always be issues that will never spring to mind in our normal passage through the years and yet, in retrospect, one wonders how they were missed. Or why. What, for example, happens to different populations as they age? And who do we get to care for those who have chosen -or been forced- to walk the darker paths, then fallen neglected and forgotten by the wayside, too old to re-offend? Should we care for those who flout our laws and reject the duty to conform? Are we a family, or just a collection of intolerant strangers easily offended and quick to turn away?

Imponderables, to be sure, and yet, like it or not, there are needs that must be met… by someone anyway. I was intrigued by an article in the BBC News about aging prostitutes in Mexico City: http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-38677679  One of their members opened a retirement facility for them.

I must admit, that the plight of aging sex workers had never really occurred to me. I’m not sure what I thought would happen as they got old, although, as a gynaecologist, I was certainly aware of their life style risks; their need for consultation in the Emergency Department was a regular and frequent occurrence whenever I was on call. For some reason, I’m reminded of that quote of Queen Katharine buried deep in Shakespeare’s Henry VIII: ‘Like the lily, that once was mistress of the field and flourish’d, I’ll hang my head and perish.’ Is that how they end their days…? I hope not.

But a retirement home –how perfect! The social safety net in Mexico is likely not as comprehensive as that in Canada, and yet even here, I’m not aware of any such facility. Indeed, the oldest profession has undergone other, more callous impediments as I noted in a 2014 blog on prostitution laws: https://musingsonwomenshealth.com/2014/06/12/prostitution-laws/  So perhaps it might be asking too much to wonder if such a facility might be in the offing -if not governmentally sponsored, then perhaps privately funded. Or better still, a legal adoption of  something like the New Zealand model might discourage exploitation and even offer salaries and, who knows, pensions…? Comfort for their end of days?

*

I do not ordinarily sit in malls; I do not ordinarily go to malls, for that matter, but sometimes circumstances foster unexpected opportunities. I was tired that day –tired of fighting through Friday crowds in search of things I probably didn’t need, or at least could likely find with a little effort somewhere else. I had just decided to look for a place to rest and collect my thoughts, when I saw a woman check her watch and stand to leave an uncomfortable-looking wooden seat near where the tide of people was sweeping me. I immediately swam over and moored before the woman right behind me could claim it for herself.

The seat was one of four that served as a kind of breakwater for the waves of people flowing down the shop-lined banks in confused eddies. Bolted to the floor, they were arranged in a little circle, presumably to facilitate conversation, but only two of the occupants seemed to know each other. They were deep in conversation so even an exchange of pleasantries seemed inappropriate, but just before I closed my eyes, I managed to catch their attention and smile at them. In the seat beside me was an old man who also smiled, but seemed more preoccupied with his watch than anything else.

The women were quite old and both looked as if they’d seen better days. Although their clothes were clean and obviously worn with an attempt at style, I could see fraying at the hems, and areas where the patterns were disrupted by attempts at repair. Both their faces were wrinkled, as much by life as age, I suspected, and the one directly across from where I sat, seemed hollow around her cheeks and gummed her words through sparsely distributed teeth. Short and gaunt, she sat proud and straight in her chair, however, her long, greying hair swept back in an elegant ponytail that danced each time she talked. She had dressed that day in a green, fading sweater and black jeans that seemed a bit too large, so the cuffs were carefully rolled to matching folds.

The other was a larger woman with short, ash-white hair that she had scrunched under a blue baseball cap that had some sort of a truck logo on its front. She was dressed in a red and white flower print dress which seemed to hang shapelessly below a tattered and faded nylon jacket that had probably once been totally black. At her feet was a big, stained cloth shopping bag that bulged oddly in places with items too irregular to be just clothes.

Friendly strangers, they both smiled back at me before resuming their conversation.

I closed my eyes and tried to relax into the wooden slats, but their words kept floating over to me during lulls in the storm of voices and accidental elbows hurrying past me. I could tell it was an unsafe anchorage at best.

“Haven’t seen you for a while. You still working, Ethel?” It must have been the pony-tailed woman, because her words seemed strangely distorted and her lips smacked together a little as she spoke.

A gaggle of children passed nearby so I missed some of the response. “… men anymore, Rita…”

“Yeah, I guess, eh?” But I didn’t think Rita sounded very sure. “You still on the…” A demonic laugh surfaced in the crowd for a moment then faded along with Rita’s words.

“Yeah,” Ethel replied. “Hard to get off though, eh?”

I opened my eyes to get a little more comfortable on my seat, and saw Rita nodding in agreement. “Hang out in the same place?”

Ethel shrugged as I closed my eyes again. “They know me there,” she answered.

I imagined Rita nodding in agreement. “Mmmh,” I heard.

School must have ended for lunch, because a group of noisy teenagers rambled past, joking and poking each other. “What shelter you going to nowadays?” Ethel’s words caught my attention, even amidst the confusion of teenage jests and I opened my eyes, pretending to adjust my position again.

I could see the indecision on Rita’s face, and her lips moved as she considered her answer. “Used to go to the one on Main…”

“Yeah, me too,” Ethel agreed, glancing at her. “Got assaulted there, though, so I sometimes try the Sally Ann…”

“Mmmh.”

“What about now, Rita?” She adjusted her baseball cap as she spoke. “Where you headed tonight…?” She sounded suspicious. They were clearly not good friends –just acquaintances, perhaps, who’d found themselves in adjoining seats to shelter from the weather for a while.

Rita stared at Ethel for a moment, obviously uncertain how to answer. Then she ordered her eyes to scan the passing crowd. “Found a new place. Some of the girls got together…” But it wasn’t the noise of passing voices that ended her words.

Ethel tried to find out more, but Rita suddenly stood and waved, as if she recognized someone in the crowd, and dived into a particularly noisy wave and disappeared.

Ethel sighed and then gathered up her things and melted into a similar eddy going another direction. Despite her weight, she seemed frail and aged. Her movements were no longer fluid, her gait was unbalanced and she hobbled with a decided limp. But as she disappeared, her eyes brushed mine -by mistake, I thought at first, but when I remembered it later, I wondered if it had just been habit. A desperate plea for another friend –however temporary.