Pura Vida: Unfinished Sympathy.

How can you have a day without a night?

The morning’s rain had fallen and the early afternoon sun was resolutely returning it to the clear sky. A brilliant blue butterfly flopped through the open window, casting off its shadow as it crossed the room’s threshold. It landed on a weighty manuscript, open at the middle. The paper was thick, textured and faded in a way suggesting great age. The script was elegant and measured, yet even a fluent reader of spanish might have had difficulty deciphering its context from the extravagant loops and tangents that overflowed into adjacent words and lines. Throughout the text words and phrases were crossed out, replaced, in the same handwriting, between the lines and in the margins by alternative expressions, making it even harder to read. The original text was faded but distinct, while the marginalia were various darker shades of black, sometimes dark blue. It seemed it had been revised on many occasions during its lifetime.
The manuscript, on which the butterfly now rested, flexing its azure wings, sat in the middle of a large oak table, otherwise unadorned save for a black box sitting in the corner. Lying in front of the box was a small stack of photographs. The table was of a kind oine might describe as a kitchen table, were it not in a room that was clearly not a kitchen. On two other tables, and on the shelves that lined all the walls of the small room, were sprawled and stacked all kinds of books, scrolls, folios, codices and manuscripts. Many were bound in fine leather, red, gold and black, many were bound by vellum or parchment, while many were unbound, tied with red or gold cord, as the one on the table. Most were clearly of some antiquity, yet despite the absence of any protection from the elements – the window had been open, as usual, during the morning’s downpour and the late afternoon sun would soon be streaming into the room – they were exquisitely preserved.
Above the open the manuscript a white Montblanc pen, embellished only by a black opal at its apex, hung suspended in the air, seemingly poised for writing. The butterfly took wing as the pen arced toward the page and, as it did, its support, hitherto unseen, became starkly visible. The hand was thin, its skin deeply tanned, tight to the bone. Well manicured nails glinted in the dark of the room, as if reflecting light that was not there, and tiny hairs on the hand’s surface illuminated themselves with crystal clarity. A sleeve of white, sheer silk hung loose from the arm, brushing the paper’s surface as the pen slowly drew a line through ‘abrazo chozas‘, replacing it with ‘incinero hogares‘ in the tight space above. Through the arm and the hand, the page’s text was quite clearly readable.
The arm retreated, the pen resumed its point of suspension and a red light blinked on the black box. A photograph slid out from a slit in the box and flopped onto the stack. It was of a town square, in the background a grand hotel in front of which huddled small groups of people talking, taking photos. In the center, apparently the focus of the photo was a man in his forties wearing a white linen shirt, black pants and sandals, walking across the square away from the hotel. His attention seemed drawn to a spot on his left shoulder.

As Kit walked across Plaza de Santa Ana, the water that had hung in the air all day, casting a heavy shroud over the city, started to coalesce and fall from the sky in large drops. The few tourists dotting the small square snapped their cameras and cell phones at the grand hotel where the bullfighters stayed, the old theater where once-great actors took the stage and the cervezeria where a great writer once drank. Pausing at the signs of rain, they looked skywards and deliberated whether to join Hemingway's ghost or retire to their hotels for shelter. Kit headed for a once familiar haunt.
He placed his book on the metallic bar and ordered a drink. The barman placed a green bottle and a glass in front of him and resumed his one-sided conversation with the other customer, sitting at the other end of the bar. The topic of conversation - monologue, really - was the big game coming up on Saturday. It was not so much about who would win, but about how many goals Athletico would crush Real by and who would score them. Times had certainly changed, thought Kit. Real's domination of cross-town Athletico, and every other team in La Liga, had surely been perpetual. As the barman revelled in this change in fottballing fortunes, the other patron stared at the ice melting, slowly yellowing the last drops of liquid in his glass, as beads of sweat dripped slowly down his face. His name was Arturo and he used to have season tickets at the Bernebeu, Real’s own theater of dreams. Over the years he had negotiated himself into one of the best seats in the stadium, just in front of the president's box. Other regulars in this section of the stadium would greet him and ask his opinion of the latest line up or Real's game plan. During a Champions League game against Inter Milan, Arturo was so impressed by Inter's young, speedy striker that he turned and yelled towards the president, "This guy's got some talent, Senor Presidente, you should buy him!" Sure enough, next season the prodigy was suited in Real's famous white strip, scoring goals the likes of which hadn't been seen on the hallowed ground for many a year. Of course Arturo did not shirk the credit afforded him by his fellow Real fans and his reputation as a tactical visionary blossomed. On one occasion the legendary Raul, retired for some years and carrying a reputation rivalling that of Di Stefano before him, shouted out from quite a few rows away; "Hey Arturo, 4-4-2 or 4-5-1 against Depor next week?" "Even you fared better with a partner, Maestro - 4-4-2, of course!" Arturo had replied, bringing smiles and nods of approval all round. It seemed he had the ear of the entire Real family. But now Arturo went to games no longer and no one listened to him. Now he listened, or feigned listening, to his barman's tabloid sports column regurgitation. And that was just fine with him, as long as he continued to serve him.
Kit looked around the small bar. It was much as he remembered from his previous trip to Madrid, which surprised him, having seen it before only from the depths of a mojito-fuelled haze in the midst of a crowd of late night revellers. Beautifully tiled walls, scenes of bullfighters majestically dispatching their ferocious, unnaturally large quarry in shades of ochre and red, were trimmed ornately by brilliant blue and yellow patterned tiles. Wooden stairs led up to an even smaller room, served by a bar about the size of a subway ticket kiosk where he had spent many a night-time hour before.
Today he had taken the afternoon off from the conference he was attending "At the Crossroads of Molecular Biology and Psychiatry: How do we pave the road ahead?". The afternoon session promised a discussion of signaling pathway and gene expression aberrations in schizophrenia. But two and a half days spent in the company of the "elite" of the emerging molecular psychiatry field had exposed him to more than enough delusional grandeur and paranoia. Instead he'd walked to the Prado, not for the full tour but to revisit some of the highlights of his previous visit to the museum, some five years ago. Lingering in front of the Garden Of Earthly Delights any remaining feelings of guilt about skipping the afternoon's session soon disappeared. The depiction of the garden of Eden on one side of the tryptich, hell on the other and in the middle some kind of terrestial mish-mash of the two, the corruption of human desires and needs born of original sin, left him in no doubt that Bosch, some five hundred years previous, was as familiar with the workings of the schizophrenic mind as his esteemed colleagues. Leaving the museum he had wandered the narrow, grey streets, now and then coming across a tapas bar or cerveceria he remembered from before. He would have stopped for his favorite pimientos de Padron in one of them had they not been closed. Though siesta was no longer widely practiced, its influence persisted, the city dragging its past through the current.
Lighting a cigarette, Kit picked up his paperback and continued reading. Benny Profane was still hunting alligators in the New York sewer system. Kit smiled at that.
“Uno ottro Perrier?” asked the barman, barely disguising his disapproval.
“No ….. gracias. Una Chivas Regal, por favor.” replied Kit.
“Ah, yse”, the barman’s demeanor visibly improving, “With ice?”
“Si.” replied Kit in his best spanish.
Kit put out his cigarette, closed the book, picked up the glass and walked over to the other end of the bar. He placed the glass in front of Arturo, nudging aside his empty one and whispered “Viva Real!”. Arturo looked up, startled. A flicker of recognition passed between their eyes, though they’d clearly never met before, a fleeting glimmer of understanding lightening Arturo’s face before the shadow cast itself again.
Outside people were emerging from their temporary shelters as the downpour subsided. Kit turned to the right and started making his way towards the heart of Madrid, the center of Spain.

He put down the pen and closed the manuscript. The front page bore the work’s title and underneath a sketch of a man’s arm upon which rested a collared falcon. Circling this were the words ‘EX TENEBRIS SPERO LUCEM’.
A bright blue paper origami crane now sat on the black box, from which another photo slid. The man in the white shirt and black pants was walking away from the camera. In the background loomed the fountain and the crowds of Puerta del Sol. He picked up the photo and his thin lips materialized, twisting into a smile of recognition, and whispered “Take care, Dr. Thompson, not to fly too close”

They think it's over ...... It is now!

It seems like just a few weeks ago - in fact it was five - that the world sat agog in front of its TV set, awaiting the kick off of FIFA World Cup 2006. It was the hosts, Germany, who got the ball rolling, against the minnows– albeit minnows protected by conservation statutes - of Costa Rica. Despite plucky resistance, the German machine soon overcame the Ticos, rolling to a comfortable 4-2 win. The Germans went on to coast comfortably through the group phase, while Costa Rica regained their composure to follow them through in second place.

Elsewhere in group play, England allayed the concerns of their supporters about Wayne’s foot, Stevie’s back and David’s coiffeur to qualify easily for the knockout stage. In the “Group of Death” Serbia and Montenegro shocked the football world as their stellar defence unexpectedly declared independence from the midfield, just minutes before the kickoff of their first game against Holland. Nonetheless, S&M dominated the submissive Orangemen to claim an emphatic victory; “Serbian Group of Death Squad Squashes Orange” the tabloids would yell the next day. In the Group of Near Death, the Czech Republic, their coach fresh off coaching Hogwarts to its fifth consecutive quidditch title, quickly picked up three wins and strolled through to the knockouts. Team USA followed them, their strategy of pre-emptive strikes against their opponents’ goal before kickoff paying high dividends. Elsewhere favorites failed to deliver as Spain and Porugal made it 0-for-Iberia, french joy de vivre fizzled as they saw déjà vu and failed to progress, while the Italians couldn’t even buy their way out of the group phase.

As the knockout phases progressed rivalries were renewed. The showdown between USA and Mexico saw the americans employ defensive tactics with the mexican strikers repeatedly coming up against a defensive wall, only to be called back for offsides each time they broke through. Not surprisingly the encounter ended in stalemate, with the US, predictably prevailing in the penalty shoot out. England and Argentina resumed their long running vendetta, with the divine digits of Argentina's Messi deciding the issue in dubious fashion. Meanwhile the confidence of the plucky Ticos soared as they mashed the Swedes, bounced the Czechs and then humbled the mighty Brazilians in the semi-finals.

Finally the scene was set for the grand finale, a repeat of the opening libretto; Costa Rica v. Germany, the guardians of the rain forest against the gargantuans of the Black Forest. As kickoff approached, Ticomania spread, the supporters of ousted countries staying on to cheer on the Ticos. The dutch fans, a splash of orange in grey Berlin, sang "Do you know the way to San Jose?" to the rhythm of the brazilian samba drummers. The english fans drank warm Imperial cerveza by the liter, while the french fans, who noone knew had been there to start with, gleefully tucked in to rice and beans and plantains.

But, soon after the kick off, it seemed the german juggernaut would continue its teutonic roll, with two goals from their center forward putting the men in black and white up 2-0 at the half - it seemed the Ticos had been klosed out. But they bounced back, scoring twice to send the game into overtime. A thunderous strike from Wanchope's boot thudded against the crossbar and bounced down behind the line - 3-2! With seconds to go and legs failing, Paulo completed his hat trick, thumping the ball into the back of the net. It was all over. Costa Rica 4 - Germany 2!

Costa Rica, and the world outside Germany with it, celebrated. The streets of Alajuela rang with "Hallejula!" And, around the world, on the lips of the followers of the beautiful game was the beautiful phrase from the beautiful country.

Pura Vida!

Not dead yet.

Reports of my cyber-demise greatly exagerrated. But, still, thanks for stopping by and commenting after all this time, P.
Posting to resume here soon with Pura Vida.
Really.

Haiku vaccine.

foxy: "Happy six months' anniversary."
cali: "What? Oh yeah, that. Thanks."
foxy: "Now, if you were still going to those meetings you could've got a token."
cali: "And I could've told everyone how, if it wasn't for them 'just being there', I wouldn't have made it 'one day at a time' to be there to accept the token."
foxy: "And the higher power - don't forget the higher power."
cali: "Right, can't forget the higher power. Or should that be Higher Power?"
foxy: "So are you going to celebrate?"
cali: "Could do, except I haven't really learned how to do that without .... y'know? Maybe we'll go see V for Vendetta - watching someone blow up Parliament seems as good a way to celebrate as any."
foxy: "Six months alcohol-free, two months nicotine-free and one month SSRI-free. Good thing you've still got your memories, otherwise you'd pretty much be running on a brand new brain. Kinda like that Steve Martin movie."
cali: "The Jerk?"
foxy: "I was thinking more along the lines of "The Man with Two Brains" but that'll work too. So, are you going to post on the blog again?"
cali: "Yeah, I'll post something in the next few days. Least I can do to thank the haiku poets."
foxy: "What is a haiku anyway?"
brad: "Its a style of japanese poetry consisting three lines of five, seven and five phonetic units."
foxy: "Hey, Brad, how's it going? Thought you were doing the Mr. and Mrs. Smith thing in Italy this weekend."
brad: "Nah, the press were all over it like pesto over gnocchi."
cali: "And you were all over my TV screen this morning;
BRAD 72
PITT 66
brad: "Yeah I watched that game, couldn't decide who to root for. Anyway, Angelina didn't want the wedding the same weekend as Milosevic's funeral."
foxy: "I can see that. Apparently his daughter already wants him dug up and reburied in Montenegro."
cali: "How about they dig up and rebury the motherfucker several thousand times. In the same fucking grave."
foxy: "He's kind of down on tyrants today. Anyway, Brad, I've got something for you."
brad: "Serial killer with deadly sin MO systematically murders hollywood movie stars partying on a movie set?"
foxy: "First rule of Ocean's Se7en is never talk about Ocean's Se7en? No, not that one, you'll like this one."
brad: "Okay, where is it?"
foxy: "Stay tuned to this spot."
cali: "Just be very, very patient....."

Never trust a scientist. Or an alcoholic.

Foxy: "Whatcha reading there?"
Cali: "Its an essay in PLoS Medicine explaining why most published research findings are false."
Foxy: "Wow. What's it called?"
Cali: "'Why most published research findings are false.'"
Foxy: "And why are they?"
Cali: "Well, the guy reduces it down to a pretty simple relationship between positive predictive value, error rate and bias; PPV = ([1 − β] R+uβR )/( R+ α − β R+u−uα +uβR )"
Foxy: "What?"
Cali: "PPV = ([1 − β] R+uβR )/( R+ α − β R+u−uα +uβR )"
Foxy: "And, umm, what does that mean?"
Cali: "I've got no fucking idea. But, still, are you surprised?"
Foxy: "That more than half of all published science is wrong? Not really. Most scientists use blind faith as a benchmark, arrogance as their guide and follow trends with all the awareness of a fourteen year old girl walking into Abercrombie and Fitch. No, not really surprised."
Cali: "Of course publication, or numbers of publications, are the currency of scientific careers, so its not likely to change. Maybe if those who regularly publish results later proven to be false were to face some kind of consequence?"
Foxy: "Yeah, make em appear on Oprah; 'I feel duped'. Did you see Frey last week? Looked like someone had sprinkled coke on his cornflakes."
Cali: "But she didn't ask the question that really needed answering - if he told a million little lies about his past life and relationships, did he also lie about the road to his recovery? Did he really travel it alone, without the twelve steps and a serenity prayer to his higher power? Inquiring alcoholic minds need to know."
Foxy: "A few persuasive words from the associates of his friend Leonard might be a more effective way to the truth. Another trip to the dentist's chair maybe?"
Cali: "Couldn't be much more painful than Oprah's couch. Who can you trust these days though?"
Tom: "Me! Me! Trust me!"
Foxy: "Oh for fucksake. Did you let him in?"
Cali: "No, he must have been hiding in the closet. So you're here to tell us the Truth, Tom?"
Tom: "You can't handle the truth!"
Foxy: "That wasn't you Tom, that was Jack shouting at you. And, no offence Tom, but you're no Jack."
Tom: "I'm no Jack, I'm Tom! I'm Tom!"
Cali: "Jesus. Can you get him off the couch and back into the closet? I'm off for a drink."
Foxy: "You quit drinking, remember?"
Cali: "Whatever. Maybe I was lying ....."

So, Santa's Really Imaginary?

We returned from the hols spent in the UK. Being my first sober Xmas/New Year for quite a while (!) it was actually more fun than I'd anticipated. Yup, still sober.

While we were there, there was some discussion as to whether the time had come to disabuse my ten year old niece of the notion that Santa Claus (Father Christmas as they call him over there) exists. I think she'll wake up to cruel reality soon enough without anyone forcing it on her. Besides, I merely traded in Santa's sleigh for Tanqueray, so who am I to do the waking. Of course, addiction is not the only sleigh ride from reality that some of us embark on. For instance;

A famous hollywood starlet ranted "There's no such thing as a chemical imbalance!"on morning TV not so long ago. Of course, Tom Cruise also believes that humanity's problems stem from the implantation of negative memories into the souls of our forefathers by extraterrestrial detainees visiting Earth on intergalactic DC-8's. But still, could there be at least a grain of truth in what poor deluded, sexually insecure, couch jumping Tom has to say?



Not according to the Zoloft TV commercial in which a very unhappy blob creature is transformed into a happy one with the aid of this SSRI anti-depressant, a class of drugs pioneered by Prozac, market led by Zoloft and diversified by Paxil. In the Zoloft commercial we're told, with the aid of a diagram of a nerve synapse captioned with the disclaimer that its only a representation (lest we believe its the real thing), that depression may result from a chemical imbalance in the brain and that Zoloft works to correct this imbalance. The commercial confidantly states that "scientists believe that it could be linked with an imbalance of a chemical in the brain called serotonin", a belief founded on a theory proposed about forty years ago.

The fact is, though, there is no actual direct evidence for serotonin imbalance in depression. Scientists can't yet directly measure serotonin levels in the brains of depressed people. Of course they can measure serotonin levels in the brains of dead people, but I'd guess that most people get a bit down just before dying. In fact, the supposed success of SSRI anti-depressants, which boost serotonin by blocking its reuptake at synapses, is itself most often cited as proof of the hypothesis. This is a little like explaining headaches as being the result of aspirin deficiency and is about as good a piece of evidence as finding the cookies and milk eaten on Christmas morning. In fact, one could argue that the additional presence of the carrot, half eaten by reindeers, provides stronger support for Santa's existence.

But, if the drugs work, why should we care whether the pharmaceutical industry markets SSRI's by misrepresenting scientific findings. Well, leaving aside the question of whether or not they do indeed work (in case you're wondering, I've been taking Lexapro for years now), claiming a collective scientific belief legitimizes prescription not only for depression, but apparently for a whole host of other ailments including anxiety, panic, obsessive-compulsive and pre-menstrual dysphoric disorders. Just how such a variety of disorders with widely different behavioral symptoms could all be due to serotonin imbalance is beyond me, though not the FDA's guidelines apparently. Curiously the pharmaceutical companies also market new anti-depressants which don't act via serotonin - Wellbutrin and Edronax, for instance - which perform just as well as SSRI's in trials. To my knowledge their commercials don't claim "scientists don't believe that it could be linked with an imbalance of a chemical in the brain called serotonin".

Ultimately, it seems to me the only difference between the belief systems of kids at Xmas, the pharmaceutical industry and Tom Cruise is that the kids don't ram it down our throats on TV (though they may occasionally jump on the couch).

Still, at least Pfizer doesn't care if we've been naughty or nice.