#she's just missing the whimsy i fear. or it's another word but i cannot think of it

[loetise]

she's actually kind of identical to my allie sim

[comrade-meow]

This is a transcript of a speech by developmental biologist Dr Emma Hilton delivered on 29 November 2020 for the ‘Feminist Academics Talk Back!’ meeting. This talk was originally published by womentalkback.org

Sex denialists have captured existing journals We are dealing with a new religion

Thank you for the invitation to speak today, as a feminist academic fighting back.

As ever, let’s begin with a story. And, trust me, by the end of this talk, you’re going to know a lot more about creationism that you expected:

1. In the 1920s, in concert with many other American states, the Tennessee House of Representatives passed the Butler Act, making it illegal for state public schools to: “teach any theory that denies the Story of the Divine Creation of man as taught in the Bible.” In other words, banning schools from teaching the theory of evolution.

Three months later, Tennessee science teacher John Scopes was on trial, charged with teaching the theory of evolution, a crime he was ultimately found guilty of. He was fined £71 – about £1064 in today’s money – so it could have been an expensive affair for him, had he not got off on a really boring administrative technicality.

Yet, despite the evidence against him and his own confession, he was an innocent man. Scopes was not guilty of teaching the theory of evolution. He admitted to a crime he had not committed. He even coached his students in their testimonies against him. So why would he admit to this wrongdoing of which he was entirely innocent? Why would he contrive apparent guilt? In protest. In protest against a law he viewed as fundamentally incompatible with the pursuit of scientific truth.

2. The history of creationism and education laws in the US is turbulent and often opaquely legalese, especially for those of us unfamiliar with US law. Some of the methods of the wider creationist movement, however, will be immediately recognisable as they are employed by a new movement, one which seeks to erase another scientific truth, the fact of sex.

Method 1. The framing of human classifications, whether it’s species or sex, as “arbitrary”. This leads to the premise that such phenomena are “social constructs” that need not exist if we chose to reject them. That truth must be relative and consensual. Never mind that these “arbitrary” classifications appear to be surprisingly similar classifications across all cultures and civilisations.

It also necessarily spotlights tricky boundary cases – not really a personal problem for the long-dead evolutionary missing links, but a very real problem in the modern world for people whose sex is atypical and who are constantly invoked, even fetishized, as “not males” or “not females” to prove sex classification is somehow no more than human whimsy.

People with DSDs have complex and often traumatic medical histories, perhaps struggling to understand their bodies, and they deserve more respect than to be casually and thoughtlessly used as a postemodernist “gotcha” by the very people so horribly triggered by a pronoun.

Method 2. The distortion of science and the development of sciencey language to create a veneer of academic rigour. Creationists invented “irreducible complexity” and “specified complexity” while Sex denialists try to beat people over the head with their dazzling arrays of “bimodal distributions arranged in n-dimensional space”.

Creationists, unable to publish in mainstream science journals because they weren’t producing, well, science, established their own journals. “Journals”. Sex denialists have captured existing journals – albeit limited to more newsy ones and to occasional editorials and blogs about gender (which is not sex), about how developmental biology is soooo complicated (which does not mean sex is complicated – I mean, the internal combustion engine is complicated but cars still fundamentally go forwards or backwards), about how discussing the biology of sex is mean (OK, good luck with that at your doctor’s surgery). Many such blogs and articles are written by scientists who simultaneously deny sex to their social media audience while writing academic papers about how female fruitflies make shells for their eggs (no matter how queer they are), about the development of ovaries or testes in fish and about how males make sperm.

The current editor-in-chief at Nature, the first female to hold this position, studied sex determination in worms for her PhD, and she now presides over a journal with an editorial policy to insert disclaimers about the binary nature of sex into spotlight features about research on, for example, different death rates in male and female cystic fibrosis patients.

The authors of the studies are not prevaricating or handwaving about sex, but the editorial team is “bending the knee”. I used to research a genetic disorder that was male-lethal – that is, male human babies died early in gestation. I’d love to know if this disclaimer would be applied there.

Method 3. Debate strategies like The Gish Gallop. This method is named for Duane Gish, who is a prominent creationist. What it boils down to is: throw any old argument, regardless of its validity, in quick succession at your opponent and then claim any dismissal or missed response or even hesitation in response as a score for your side. In Twitter parlance, we know this as “sealioning”, in political propaganda as the “firehose of falsehood”, although Wikipedia also suggests that it is covered by the term “bullshit”. So, what about intersex people? what about this article? what about an XY person with a uterus? what about the fa’afafine? what about that article? look at this pretty picture. what about what about whataboutery what about clownfish? The aim is not to discuss or debate, it is to force submission from frustration or exhaustion.

Method 4. The reification of humans as separate from not just monkeys but the rest of the living world. The special pleading for special descriptions that frame humans as the chosen ones, such that the same process of making new individuals, common to humans and asparagus, an observation I chose because it seems superficially silly – it could have been spinach – requires its own description, one that accounts for gender identity.

3. In the Scopes trial, which saw discussion of whether Eve was actually created from Adam’s rib and ruminations on where Cain got his wife, Scopes was defended by a legal group who had begun scouting for a test case subject as soon as the Tennessee ban was enacted. This legal group claimed to advocate for:

“Freedom of speech for ideas from the most extreme left such as anarchists and socialists, to the most extreme right including the Ku Klux Klan, Henry Ford, and others who would now be considered more toward the Fascist end of the spectrum.”

The legal group so keen to defend the right to speak the truth, in this case a fundamental, observable scientific truth? The American Civil Liberties Union, a group whose modern day social media presence promotes nonsense like:

“The notion of biological sex was developed for the exclusive purpose of being weaponized against people.”

and

“Sex and gender are different words for the same thing [that is] a set of politically and socially contingent notions of embodied and expressed identity.”

and shares articles asserting that biological sex is rooted in white supremacy.

Since the Scopes case, the ACLU have fought against many US laws preventing, or at least compromising, the teaching of evolution. I cannot process the irony of a group of people historically and consistently prepared to robustly defend the truth of evolution while now denying one of the most important biological foundations of evolution.

4. How do we fight this current craze of sex denialism? A major blow for creationism teaching was delivered in 1986 while the US Supreme Court were considering a Louisiana state law requiring creationism to be taught alongside evolution. The Louisiana law was struck down, in part influenced by the expert opinions, submitted to the court, of scientists who put aside their individual and, as one of them has since described “often violent” differences on Theory X and Experiment Y, to present a unified defence of scientific truth over religious belief. 76 Nobel laureates, 17 state academies of science and a handful of scientific organisations all got behind this single cause, and made a very real change.

Support for creationism has slowly ebbed away and the US is in a much more sensible position these days, although I still meet the occasional student from a Southern state who didn’t learn about evolution until college.

Sadly, one of the Nobel laureates has highlighted how unusual this collective response was and that he could not imagine any other issue that would receive the same groundswell of community support. Although he forged his career listening out for the Big Bang, so maybe I need to go through the list and find the biologists.

Part of the problem petitioning biologists to speak out is not necessarily fear of being cancelled or whatever, but simple lack of awareness of the issue, or incredulity that it is being taken remotely seriously. I’ve been working on a legal document and was discussing with a colleague about my efforts to find a citation for the statement, “there are two sexes, male and female”. He laughed at the idea that this would require a citation, told me to check a textbook, then realised that this statement is so simple that it would not even be included in a textbook.

And he’s right. I can find chapters in textbooks and hundreds of academic papers dedicated to how males and females are made, how they develop, how they differ, yet very few that feel the need to preface any of this with the statement “There are two sexes, male and female”. It is apparently something that biologists do not think needs to be said.

But of course, I think they are wrong, and that we live in a time where it does need to be said, where some aspects of society are being restructured around a scientific untruth, and where females will suffer.

Without recognition of and language to describe our anatomy, and the experiences that stem from that anatomy, mostly uninvited, we can neither detect nor measure things like rates of violence against women, the medical experiences, the social experiences of women and girls.

And, as for creationism, the reality of sex perhaps needs to be said by those with scientific authority, in unambiguous terms. Otherwise, we are living in a society that tolerates nonsense like there is no such thing as male or female, that differences evident to our own eyes are not real, that anatomies readily observable and existing in monkey and man alike do not actually exist. I’m sure this last assertion has the full support of the creationist community. And perhaps, as for creationism, a true tipping point will be tested when it is our children being taught these scientific untruths, or worse, when it is illegal to say different.

5. At the end of his trial, the only words Scopes uttered in court were these:

“Your honor, I feel that I have been convicted of violating an unjust statute. I will continue in the future, as I have in the past, to oppose this law in any way I can. Any other action would be in violation of my ideal of academic freedom—that is, to teach the truth as guaranteed in our constitution, of personal and religious freedom.”

I do not exaggerate when I say we are dealing with a new type of religion, a new form of creationism and a new assault on scientific truth. I also do not exaggerate when I say it may take a high profile court case to rebalance the public discourse around sex. There is only so far letters and opinion articles can go.

Two things I predict: 1. It will not be defended by the ACLU, and 2. With the recent proposals on hate speech law, it will probably involve a Scottish John Scopes, who finds themself in front of a judge for the seditious crime of discussing the sex life of asparagus at their dinner table.

Dr Emma Hilton is a developmental biologist studying aspects of human genetic diseases, and her current research focuses on a congenital motor neurone disease affecting the genitourinary tract, and on respiratory dysfunction in cystic fibrosis. She teaches reproduction, genes, inheritance and genetic disorders. Emma has a special interest in fairness in female sports. A strong advocate for women and girls, Emma tweets as @FondofBeetles.

[cheshirequeenwithoutaheart]

what's the story, morning glory?

iron coats the inside of her mouth. it's only slightly less disturbing than the feeling of petals clinging to the back of her teeth, the back of her throat.

the temple of the air spirit is no place to be coughing up petals mangled and bloody; that’s why she’d coughed them outside, black and purple mingling together. one flower for someone too lost in their own self pity and doubt, another for someone lost to the world for centuries.

how many more blooms will start to grow inside, she wonders?

briony pauses in the middle of a room, halfway through stepping over a fallen column, and stares at the statue.

on the one hand, it’s so far removed from what the spirit of air actually looked like that it’s funny (for one thing, he was not that tall, nor was he that...chiselled. gods she almost wants to make a drinking game of it). on the other hand, it’s close enough to what her dear friend looked like that the flowers shift at the back of her throat.

there’s magic in the air, and for so many years she turned her back on places filled with magic (every temple dedicated to every spirit; she turns away and looks at the people who forgot her, but who she forgives where she cannot forgive her kin), but it’s a comfort to her this once; like a hug from a much loved friend.

she wonders, perhaps a little absently, how she’ll wake him up. if the sound of columns falling in his temple wouldn’t do the trick, the voice of an ex-spirit surely won’t either.

but then she never was an ex-spirit to him, so she’ll just have to make it work.

her throat itches.

no one has spoken the given name of the spirit of air in years, perhaps since he went into his slumber. at least they haven’t in his temple.

fewer still have ever spoken the name he chose for himself.

she stops at the foot of the statue, looks at the face that is only similar to her friend’s face because she knows who it’s meant to be, and speaks.

“caelestis,” she sounds out the word slowly, her voice quiet and rough.

there’s a shift in the air, like something (or someone) is stirring.

...she waits for a moment, but there’s no further indication that anyone heard her. well, apart from a load of dust.

“you can’t expect me to say your name three time, caelestis. i thought you were above that kind of nonsense.” the air stirs again, just slightly, and if briony were the type to see that as him being present, she’d think he was watching in amusement.

she isn’t, but the point is the same.

“caelestis,” she says the word differently, in a sing song voice, and waits.

he doesn’t know how long he spent asleep, dreaming dreams that ran together and had an air of whimsy even he couldn’t connect with.

it’s hard to believe, he knows! he is the air and the wind and all that comes with that, but he much prefers being a playful breeze to a raging gale.

then again, it doesn’t surprise him. those he saw in his dreams were poor shades for the real beings that existed outside of his head. they couldn’t hope to imitate pyrrhos’ lack of talent with words, or kelda and her inability to keep her many hands still, or even darling pen and her collected nature.

distantly, he knows he’s slept for far longer than he originally intended. it wasn’t like he was heading into this long sleep with a set time-plan but, still, he intended to awaken far earlier than whatever year he finds himself in now.

he hopes, whatever this year is like, that his dear friends are still around. he’s missed them, and again, dreams are poor substitutes for the ones you love.

hearing his name spoken had jolted him, if not awake then into awareness. he wants to see if whoever said his name once will say it again.

they do, in a voice that rings with faint amusement and even more faint exasperation. they speak in familiar tones, like an old friend.

he opens his eyes.

mint and pink hair that he knew to be very soft (and hopes it still is), eyes a shade of blue to rival the sky and his own eyes; the black coat is new, but the bow on her chest… that is familiar.

she says his name again, and he smiles brightly like the youth he appears to be.

for who else should awaken him from his slumber, but his darling friend?

in a spring breeze, caelestis appears in the flesh for the first time in… centuries. his temple is a little worse for wear, although that damn statue remains intact (he’s flattered they thought him to be taller than he is, but he much prefers his boyish good looks to the sharp edges and harsh lines they chose to show him with), but that is to be expected and easily fixed.

he doesn’t care about the temple, anyway. all he cares about is the woman standing in front of him with a slight smile on her face.

“celeste,” she breathes out and his smile grows even brighter. to hear his true name from her makes him feel comforted in a way no one else could make that word sound, but there’s something much better about hearing his preferred name.

saying his name is easy, she thinks, especially if it causes him to beam like that. even if it agitates those flowers that bloom inside of her for him.

considering how the flowers reacted to seeing his statue, which still looks so very different from his true form, she doesn’t know how she didn’t see the sudden movement of petals and blood up her throat and into her mouth coming.

that smile changes into a frown of concern when she hunches over, heavy coughs rattling her frame and tainting the air with the smell of iron and…

and flowers.

he surges forward just in time to catch her as she tips forward, crashing into his chest with a lack of grace that worries far more than it amuses, and guides her to lie on the ground with her head against his shoulder.

her hands are stained with blood, her blood, and dark petals cling to the red liquid; he looks over to where she was standing, sees a bundle of flowers in disarray, though whether it was from her stumble forward or from the coughing is hard to say.

celeste looks at her face again. there’s blood on her lips and a few petals clinging to the sides of her mouth. he brushes them away, touch far more delicate than he thinks the old her would have appreciated but.

she’s still smiling, even if it’s a slight one and her eyes are half closed.

“now, who could my darling pen have fallen for in the years i was away? who could have caused those flowers to bloom inside you, pen?” he tries to make his voice light and playful, but his concern can’t be hidden.

“that nickname doesn’t work, you know. briony is my name now,” her voice is soft, calm, peaceful. it’s at odds with the disrupted rhythm of his heart and the fear in his eyes.

“i’ll think of a new nickname later, dearest. after you answer my question.”

“of course you will,” her smile grows ever so slightly, before fading away. “as for the question, it’s-”

a coughing fit interrupts her, flowers forcing their way from her throat to her mouth and out into the open. they fall onto the marble floor with the slightest sound, dark purple petals catching her eye before heavy eyelids force her to stop looking at them.

they catch celeste’s eye too.

“you know, i might have to start hating morning glories if they’re…” he trails off for a moment, she wonders if that pout he used to get when he was thinking hard about something is on his face but she can’t open her eyes, before finishing his sentence, “hurting you.”

celeste looks down at briony, her head now partially turned to face towards him but her eyes heavily shut. she looks almost like a doll; he wishes she didn’t.

“how odd, that you would be coughing up my favorite flowers.”

“it isn’t… odd… if you think…” her voice is so quiet that he’s almost certain he’s missed parts of her words. he stares at the morning glories.

“who are you in love with, dearest bri?” he asks again, tries to keep a teasing smile on his face though she can’t see it.

“who do you think?” she asks in return, her eyes fluttering open. briony stares at him, an eyebrow raised. he admits that teasing her probably wasn’t in his best interests.

“with you coughing up full flowers in my presence, and my favourites at that? why, i almost think you’re in love with little old me.”

he realises, belatedly, that trying to hide the beating in his chest with a teasing smile whilst she’s pressed close enough to feel it isn’t his smartest plan.

“always were too clever for you own good, dear celeste,” she smiles an almost dreamy smile, and closes her eyes again.

“you like that i am clever,” he retorts, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head.

“and if i said i do?”

“i’d say i like that you’re clever too.”

[kristen-lockhart-blog]

Book Review of “(Im)Proper Nouns” by Donna Sparrowhawk

https://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=2534067513341256&id=135308913217140&__tn__=K-R

Kristen Lockhart (Im)Proper Nouns By Donna Sparrowhawk Book Review

In the collection of poems, (Im)Proper Nouns, poet Donna Sparrowhawk utilizes an effortless flow and rhythm within and between her poems. Some of my favorite literary tools she uses throughout her poems are imagery and metaphors. Her collection is split into three sections, that are the nouns persons, places, and things. The poems within each section complement each other nicely as well as the three sections to form the whole collection. Sparrowhawk’s themes and imagery gives insight to a well-rounded and fulfilling life so far as well as holds hope for a fulfilling life to come. In the section titled Persons, Sparrowhawk has an array of poems, some dedicated to someone by use of their name, others with a more metaphorical title. The poem “Even Now I Listen,” is a pretty straight forward poem about the speaker’s dad. I really appreciate the glimpse into the speaker’s relationship with her father growing up. She hones in on the relationship between her and her father through her diction and metaphors.

“I know what tone you would use Soft, sliding your words under The door of my pain-induced silence.” I like the imagery that this stanza creates. I imagine a teenage daughter distraught and not wanting to talk to anyone, but her dad is the one who can truly reach her in these times. As if gently whispering through the crack of her door or sliding a letter with some heartbreak advice on it. In the last stanza, the speaker is reminiscing on times when her father could give her advice in person.

“Would you lift your eyes to mine and gently with your Fatherly tenderness, sweep the hair fallen in my eyes Remind me

To lessen fear…love more.”

She is admittedly fearful and doubtful of something throughout this poem. Perhaps, felt she was not ready to take on some things in her life without her father always being right there with her. All she has is these memories and can only imagine the advice that her father could give her now. Because of the vulnerability, I feel like this poem is a lovely and intimate glimpse into the speaker and maybe even the poet’s life. Moreover, in the poem “Not Quite a Sonnet for Susan on Her Sixtieth Birthday,” Sparrowhawk has a very compelling free form as well as great diction to portray the speaker’s feelings towards “Susan.” The poet reflects on her own use of form in which she originally intended a sonnet that actually became a free form poem.

“I tried to write you a sonnet for your birthday… abab cdcd efef gg but the fact of the matter is you are definitely free verse and otherwise and wise.”

She admittedly switches gears from a sonnet form to a free form. Moreover, I like the analogy of comparing her friend, Susan, to a free form poem herself. As well as the wordplay in “…you are definitely free, verse and otherwise, and wise.” Moreover, she utilizes lots of little comments inside of parentheses throughout the poem.

“extraordinarily fun deliciously irreverent outlandishly chi-ful (and I love it that you know what that means)”

The use of her parenthetical inserts creates more intimacy between her and the friend receiving this gift. She adds some fun, witty inside jokes and personality. And the way she describes Susan; the words she uses, “extraordinary, deliciously irreverent.” She is describing a deep admiration of everything that makes Susan the way she is. While keeping few elements of a sonnet throughout the piece, the author iterates that her Susan cannot be described in any one form. She reminisces on the first time they met recalls specific details with her imagery and describes the instant connection the friends had. I love the final line of the poem, comparing Susan to a child, having the same whimsy and wonder as a newly Sixty year old woman. And ending the poem on an ellipse as to say that her and Susan’s friendship and story is far from over. Much like in the poem about her father, the speaker creates an intimacy between not only her and the person the poem is dedicated to, but also her and the reader. She does so through the use of parentheses, her imagery in describing her memories, and her witty metaphors. The first poem in the “Places” section of the book is one of my favorites called, “Musings on a Train.” I find the setting of this poem so refreshing. She truly captures what it is to feel like you are in the story itself with this poem. “I glance out as sheep newly shorn And young, bolt as the train Whistles, and the old ewes lazily graze, Ignoring the fray.”

I am fortunate to have ridden on a train in England as well, especially as someone who lives in Florida with very few, if any, passenger trains. This poem describes to calm whimsy of riding on a train traveling past hills and grassy fields. A quite relatable stanza in this piece, is as follows:

“I doze in strange comfortable discomfort Drifting in and out, nestled against my Ferdinand’s Jacket, crumpled on the table under my head.”

Though, not all readers might have had the experience of riding a train, the images she creates can certainly come to life in the reader’s imagination. I particularly love the phrase, “comfortable discomfort,” to describe falling asleep on a train. Again, maybe not all readers would know this as exactly as described, but I feel like the sensation of trying to fall asleep on a bus or car even, can be a strangely calming scenario in a not quite so comfortable vessel. Especially if you are riding in said vehicle with a loved one. The scene described in this poem is that of a comfortable, daily event that is intimate between the speaker and a loved one. Sparrowhawk’s imagery allows the readers a glimpse into the speaker’s life because of her descriptions of this sweet life. Another one of my absolute favorite pieces is “Ballad of Equeurdreville.” Sparrowhawk’s effortless rhyme scheme creates a hilariously witty and whimsical story in this poem. I love how while reading this poem the reader gets a scene laid out in front of them of this funny banter between a traveling couple.

“My, what a pleasant urban walk! said he As she dodged the biker […] I’m sure my mate said repast was just beyond this hill A lovely place for dinner, in lovely Equeurdreville.

Why, yes, my love! cooed she to he Somewhat loudly over the roar of the passing lorry.”

From the very first line, the setting is being described as “urban” and disruptive with the biker needing to be dodged, as well as the “roar of the passing lorry.” Yet, the positive attitudes of this couple is already creating a humorous build up.

“I fear a restaurant I will never see, said he. Her reply reassuringly whispered, perhaps more a shrill— Do you think we’ll ever bloody find this Equeurdreville?”

“[…] I dare say one can look from here to eternity, said he. But no sign, no hope of food, nor drink—no, nada, nil In this, this, uh…lovely…Equeurdreville.”

The couple have a shift in attitude the longer it takes for them to find this restaurant. I particularly love the last line of that stanza; it makes it seem like a sassy narrator is reading this poem aloud to the reader. “Oh my, said she. Oh my, indeed, said he As they walked and pondered what was the key Don’t know, said she, but make out a Will Next time you suggest to me Equeurdreville!”

The final stanza after the couple had finished their long awaited meal in Equeurdreville, we get the final round of witty commentary. The poem ends on a silly joke as well, adding to the fun nature of the rest of the poem. This poem reminded me of the whimsical ways of rhyming of Dr. Seuss. This poem is different from the other poems in the collection due to its playful theme. Yet it still holds the particular style especially when it comes to Sparrowhawk’s romantic diction and intimacy between characters. The contrast in playfulness from this poem compared to more mature themes in other poems, as well as her consistent rhyming scheme shows how talented and versatile Sparrowhawk is with her writing. Finally, in the section “Things,” there is a poem entitled, “Twilight,” that has just more of that calming scenery that Sparrowhawk paints.

“It’s that time of day again… The light, in its fade Softens… Well, softens Everything.”

This opening stanza creates such a lovely setting with just a few simple phrases, which is magical. I also love the third stanza continues with this serene imagery and the fourth begins to introduce another theme into this poem.

“I wonder if the fox Will make his appearance tonight Now that you, Not I, Are absent.

“I’ve missed you today I should have been with you today, But, painfully I really couldn’t Because we You and I Know how to love.” The speaker is describing beautiful scenery yet is lonely or missing her loved one. Yet, I gather this is the type of missing someone when they are just out for the day, perhaps at work.

“I know you are on your Way back to me now.

Warm soup is waiting And music, and me,

The words can wait.”

The lines of her poetry feel comfortable and familiar. Sparrowhawk has been able to take sorrow in her poems such as this one and spin it around into hope. This entire collection of poems by Donna Sparrowhawk reflects on a life filled with beauty and love for these persons, places, and things. She uses wonderous imagery and metaphors to describe these loved ones and locations in such intimate detail. The warmth, wit and charm in her words are the ties that carry over and connect all her poems in this collection, (Im)Proper Nouns.

[bisongrass]

Mar 28, 2020

I have been meaning to write more, but it feels hard to find the time. Even though -- judging by social media, anyway -- it looks like people have nothing BUT time, I’m still working, and in the hours when I’m not working, I’m usually cooking, eating, exercising or talking on the phone. 

My need to be connected -- I think I can go so far as to say our need to be connected -- was acute following the lockdown. I had a keen urgency to see people, to talk to people, a feeling I thought of as “missing” (as in “I miss them!”), but “missing” seems to carry some connotation of a length of time passing. This was a sudden missing. We were thrown into a world devoid of familiar, known systems, rhythms, and routines, a disorienting happenstance at any time, but then, on top of that, we no longer had our usual of matrix of social connections. We sought out phone calls and videoconferencing, but the phone calls were intimate -- voices from the dark; ear to mouth, mouth to ear -- and the video group chats were beset by minor technological infelicities (people’s video freezing or suddenly becoming inaudible, dropped connections, the impossibility of any group splintering into organic subconversations, the peculiar awkwardness of having nothing else to look at than other people’s faces, even during the normally occurring conversational pauses). I was thrown instantly into a kind of mourning. 

Before this pandemic, I was already someone who was needy for any physical touch -- I loved having my hair cut just for the way that my stylist would ruffle and tweak my hair while she worked. I loved the quick press of a hello hug, the small arm grab accompanying a good piece of gossip, hands-on yoga adjustments, etc. You could say I was an aficinado. Even to sit with someone and not touch them, that was a kind of contact, less tangible, but something like a sixth sense constituted of proximity and close watching, a kind of immersion in the person’s essence. To have this, all this, removed, to say nothing of the possibility of other kinds of touch, was a severe deprivation. I was reminded of a conversation with my therapist about Harlow’s Monkeys -- those newborn monkeys who, having to choose between a wire mother which provided milk, and a fuzzy, warm inanimate mother, chose the fuzzy mother. Such is the importance of touch. What we have now with Skype and Zoom and so on is the wire mother of socialization. I eat the food I cook -- I have never cooked more in my life -- but also alone. My refrigerator is another wire mother.

It’s been cloudy for days and days. On some days, when I am working from home and I’m staring out the window, I feel like I am living in my own lung, dim and grey and filled with an atmosphere that is entirely mine. Sometimes the low constant pulse of anxiety and the loneliness cause me to feel lightheaded. I think, what if I have an anxiety attack? If I have an anxiety attack, I will pass out in my house, and I will come to in my house. No one will be the wiser. That makes me think I will not have an anxiety attack. Although I do come close one day. I am helped by leaving the house and going for a long walk.

At times, I feel a kind of psychological drifting or unmooring. Imagine a clod of something amorphous, like wet clay. Normally, every social transaction I have pushes up against me, giving me contours, letting me know the shape of my Self. Now, I am this shapeless form that is drifting through space. I feel vaporous, lightly fizzy. I write in order to give myself some shape.

It’s not just transactions with friends that shape me. The value of what one Medium writer called “microfriendships” was suddenly laid bare. On the phone this week with a pet store, trying to get a delivery, I ask a woman to describe all the smoked bones she sells so I can choose. “Well, the big knuckle is really big.” “How many fists big?” “I would say three fists big?” “That seems awfully big.” Etc. We laugh together at this spontaneous poetry. 

Sometimes I talk to people who know me well and they say “I worry about you.” The first time I heard it, it made me feel even worse. Should I worry more about myself, I wondered? What did they see, what did they fear? I like wearing a suit of competence even just for myself.                                                                                                                                                                                                        I check on other people who are worth worrying about. One friend, B., a co-worker, is stuck in the basement of his house for two weeks while his wife self-isolates upstairs on a trip back from the States. We both work all day on news stories about the unfolding, ongoing, unfathomable way life has changed and how it may change further. I read headlines about how much the arts industry brings into the economy and has lost this year, I read about clashes in China as people from the same province as Wuhan try to leave its borders, i read about the uptick in domestic violence there, I read about Prince Charles’s health. I’ve incorporated a daily check-in with B., for me as much as for him, usually by text, though we have a long and distracting conversation on the phone one day that I think it good for me, and I hope for him. The next day, as I pass his house on a walk, I see a shock of hair emerging from his alleyway and I cannot believe my extreme good fortune when he appears, exiting by complete coincidence at the same time as I am passing by. I halt and point at him and cross the street to sit on the low wall bordering his front garden, while he stands two metres away, on the path to the house, and we talk for fifteen minutes. How are you, he asks me. Most times when I answer this question, I don’t even find words; I start crying immediately, and what I’m crying at, somehow, is also at how I must seem to the person asking. I am a tragic figure, Woman Living Alone Under Lockdown. 

I say I’m not good, and I feel myself about to cry but I don’t because I’m not sure if it would alarm him. He says, “I’m okay now but I wanted to open a vein this morning.” He’s laughing but I get it. He recommends that I try “FaceWine” with friends but I can’t drink. It is a perfect time to be a drinker, these days. He says, pot? I say, Are you out of your fucking mind? We laugh.

As B. and I are speaking, we notice the people passing by as we talk -- the couple where the man is dressed in sunglasses and surgical mask, the younger woman with an exuberant head of hair chatting loudly and obliviously on her cellphone. Our mutual acknowledgment of these sights -- even my knowing that he is seeing what I am seeing, and that he is possibly wondering if I am thinking what he is thinking -- is a balm to the soul. We laugh together at the cellphone conversation and I say “You see? This is it, this is the stuff! You saw that! You saw it too!” 

Then he has to go back in his basement and interview an economist about the future.

*

Last weekend, I met a friend in High Park. She is furious at the way people have been clustering there, passing each other too close on the paths. She already had an acute sensitivity to people being in her space even before this. Now it’s in overdrive. The day is very cold and I had to bike 30 minutes to be there; she is in running shoes and wishes she had dressed more warmly. We find a baseball diamond that is penned in by a fence and run in. We both charge around, feeling the freedom of knowing no one will come within six feet, no matter how erratically we move. We do cartwheels. A man is walking around the park making an urgent unformed sound.”Uhhhhh,” he says, a kind of loose keening. “Uhhh!” I feel like he is saying something true.

*

Another friend, J., lives nearby. She has had lung cancer and has an autoimmune disease, so the virus is an especial threat to her, but she still walks her dog twice a day. Initially I stopped by her house to see if she needed anything, but she says her neighbours have been looking after her, buying her groceries, etc. I keep checking in with her anyway on the phone, and today she tells me that she thinks this is not much different than her regular life; she says, I think I was already living in self-isolation! She’s not disturbed much at all. I realize I am calling her now for me, for my own sanity. We have a funny kind of chemistry, verging on flirtatious. She takes joy in her own whimsy, laughing at herself in a way I find endearing. She’s been watching these pots of buried begonia stalks in her basement. Every time I call, I get an update on whether she has seen any pink shoots. Not so far.

*

On one of my walks, I remember how, as a teenager, I used to go up to the train tracks behind Dupont Street, and this week, I find a spot where I can sneak up there once again. It’s just as I remember it, that feeling you get when you see the tracks glinting pale in the darkness, leading to some distant vanishing point, the gravel underfoot, the smell of creosote -- a kind of wonderful private expansiveness. I am amazed at how relaxing it feels, immediately, to be away from people. I have a powerful impulse to lie down in the wretched dry weeds at the edge of the gravel, staring up at the sky, listening to the silence. I keep walking for as long as I can before diverting myself back onto Christie Street, next to a Loblaws. The supermarket an instant locus of stress. I think: these tracks will always be there for me. But two days later, I visit again and there is a lot of foot traffic, people alone walking, jogging, couples both socially distancing and not. Last night, I had a nightmare that I was walking by the tracks by myself and a man approached me head on, and I soon understood from his body language that he meant to try something with me, he was a threat in some way to the sanctity of my body. I suppose he is the virus.

*

Last night, my friend T. and D. come visit me, because I am crying all the time, because I can’t bear living alone much more. I want to move in with them, but T. is allergic to dogs and D. has a sister who they also have been seeing. Too many potential vectors. They arrive just after dark and we start walking with the dog, who is overjoyed to see them. The dog is also used to seeing more people, more friends, in her day to day as well. At the corner of Harbord and Manning, we run into S. & R., which is a coincidence that bowls me over. The five of us, in normal times, vacation together, take walks together, and it’s as if some underlying physics has taken over, drawing like together with like. We would never have planned such a socially risky move -- being in a group feels like it invites public shaming -- but we decide to continue, spacing ourselves out widely, moving up and down alleyways. A person on a balcony, seeing us, yells “Good formation,” and I give her my mittened thumbs-up. 

We pass the house of other friends, C. & P. We text to see if they will come to the back door and in moments, C. appears. We stand in a ridiculously large circle and visit. C. and P. have three children and two of them are still too young to know how to entertain themselves. C. is fried but laughing about it. We talk about grocery shopping because we share the same supermarket, which now has a “bouncer” who asks if you’ve been out of the country in the last 14 days or if you have a fever. The line-ups creep up Christie Street and every conscientious Annex shopper arriving with reusable bags now has to leave them outside the store while they shop -- health hazard. C. tells how her husband, P., is so hard-core about no plastic that he carried the items out of the grocery store in his arms in multiple trips, placing them in his children’s wagon to take them home. 

We talk about C. applying for emergency funds because she is a freelance photographer. She’s already got a mortgage deferral. She says they’re in a relatively lucky position, though. C. is Croatian and talk turns to Zagreb, where there was an earthquake in the middle of the lockdown. C. tells about a family she knows with a newborn whose house cracked in half. They had to go collect what they could from the house between tremors. 

We watch a baby raccoon washing itself on the roof of the house and a guy on a bike with his dog rides down the middle of the alleyway. Perhaps annoyed by this sudden gauntlet of humans he needs to pass, he says “What’s all this?” We say, we are watching a raccoon, and he says, oh, cool. Stay safe. Stay safe.

D. says that in Italy, people have been throwing eggs at people walking in groups. Several of us are confused about why you would waste eggs like that. 

Though we stick to alleyways, I still feel guilty on the walk -- guilty when we make each other laugh, guilty for our voices ringing out, guilty for the way that we present an intimidating presence for people who want to avoid human contact. The joy we usually share feels like a sin of some kind, or, at best, a mismatch with the prevailing mood of sternness and judgment. A guy passed us talking on his phone. “I think I just saw a group on a social distancing walk... I think they can hear me saying this... that’s okay.” 

* 

In the middle of the night, I check my phone. K. has posted from India, where she got stuck visiting family while with her parents. She should have been home two weeks ago but now there are no flights out of India. The president, Modi, declared a lockdown that was enforced four hours after it was announced. Cops are harassing people on the streets who are trying to get things like diapers and medications. (K’s mother needs it for her thyroid.) It seems unspeakably sad. I send a message to K. “I am breathing with you.” She writes back, saying “I don’t mean to make anyone feel worse.” She has her own meds she’s going to run out of soon. I can’t let this be my problem, but I don’t know how to responsibly ignore it. A co-worker checked in on me a few days ago by asking “How are you, my empathic friend?” Empathy in this situation feels like an evolutionary disadvantage. I could worry myself to death. K. and both practice tonglen and death meditation. I think she’s got a better handle on it than me. 

*

Today I got my period. I had somehow imagined that that, too, would hit pause. Here it is, though. It ushers in a new phase of exhaustion. I try to co-watch American Gigolo with a friend, over the phone. It’s an amazing artifact, deep 80s, Penthouse aesthetic, palm trees and high-waisted suits, severely unironic dialogue. Forty minutes into the movie, she says, “Are you still there? You’ve been quiet for a while.” I had fallen into a deep, blissful dreamless sleep, while Richard Gere’s toned and hairless chest moved across the screen, dramatically striped with shadows from a Venetian blind.