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Dodos In Rehab: What’s Effective Therapy (part three)

So what do I mean by Dodos? Those familiar with decades-old arguments within the Balkan states of psychotherapy know the meaning of this allusion to Alice In Wonderful. It has something to do with games in which there are no winners. Lewis Carroll’s absurdist Dodo bird declares, “Everyone has won, and all must have prizes.” With respect to psychotherapy or mental health treatment in community settings, the Dodo bird theory posited that outcome studies for different therapies are surprisingly equivalent, or that patients were as likely to manifest positive change without receiving any kind of mental health treatment at all.

This was the conclusion of Singer and Luborsky (1975), among others. You’d think this would lend itself to less territorial disputes among professionals; less competitiveness or fewer tiresome pronouncements about what works with consumers of mental health treatment, and what doesn’t. Well, you’d think that, but you’d be wrong. I wasn’t a psychotherapist in the 70s or 80s, so I wasn’t around for the supposed arrogance of that generation’s psychoanalytic patriarchs. I work in a state containing some 30,000 licensed Marriage and Family Therapists (compared to a third less just five years ago!), which doesn’t include the thousands of other therapists operating under other licenses, or at a pre-licensed level. Waiting lists? Maybe a few therapists have ’em–those at the top of the food chain. But these days there are plenty of options for the consumer, and the consumer base demands access to care for a diverse population with diverse means. Managed care companies, who are the brokers of this access, demand concrete evidence of what is effective: behavioral change, a medical model’s reduction in symptoms, externally observed–a teleological framework. Hence the DSM and the ubiquity of reductionist thinking.

In my book, Working Through Rehab: An Inside Look at Adolescent Drug Treatment, I chronicle my observations of this trend, among others, during my own career in community mental health from the mid-nineties to the end of the last decade, roughly. The trend away from psychoanalytically-derived models is apparent in the rhetoric of providers, program directors, glib administrators–those who pronounce the efficacy of cognitively-based models, and implicitly decry as “alternative” that which has been subject to a lesser volume of affirming research. The passages in my book that depict training scenarios in which psychoanalytic models are mocked: those are real. Trainers really do say things like “we’re not here to do Freud stuff” to clucks of amusement from sycophantic listeners who don’t know any better. The bullet points of their presentations really do assert the greater effectiveness of their chosen models, without even bothering to explore the confounding factors in such research, despite the glaring obviousness of those factors.

On one level, I don’t begrudge the advocates of CBT and other short-term treatment models. Their methods do indeed lend themselves to quantifiable measures, and those looking for a threshold of care that addresses short-term goals deserve to find providers who specialize in implementing short term models, with a focus on present-day stressors and needs as well as a philosophy that draws as much attention to a person’s strengths as it does their deficits. This, after all, is the promise of the latterly heralded strength-based movement, now prominent in schools, special needs programs, and among social workers and in community mental health settings. In these respects, I’d say that shorter term models of mental health treatment have done more to reach more people in the community, though in my opinion, the potential (and precedent) exists for the strength-based model to be integrated with a psychodynamic focus across all levels of care, as long as care is taken not to allow excitable positive thinking to obscure painful realities.

The spirit of the Dodo bird pronouncement is one of humility and mystery: a statement of not knowing that should prevail whenever the subject is the meaning of an individual’s life. There are plenty of perspectives vying for attention at the treatment planning table, and if the need for cohesion is why diversity of thought must be contained, then so be it. Those who find themselves in the right places at the right times can pick their models, the colleagues that will echo them, and be in charge for the time being. But such victories of timing should not hoodwink the public at large: the disengenuous pronouncements of those making sales pitches in this business will whither sooner or later, and those looking for more than what short term psychotherapy models have to offer will at some point stop coming back, to paraphrase a popular saying. The parallels with society’s food debate are apparent: principals of supermarket chains might credibly argue that their products cost less; that they are accessible to a wider range of people with various levels of income; that they feed more people. There is a faction of organic farmers in mix, now asking, “yes, but are you feeding them well?”

* Luborsky, L., Singer, B. (1975) Comparative studies of psychotherapy. Archives of General Psychiatry, 32, 995-1008.

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Dodos In Rehab: What’s Effective Therapy (part two)

Shedler’s comprehensive research informs us that psychodynamic practices are not only effective, but arguably more so than its rival models. The effect sizes he reports following numerous meta analyses are consistently higher than those attributed to cognitive behavioral therapy, and furthermore, the effect sizes linked to psychodynamic approaches increase over time; that is, from short-term follow up studies to longer-term follow up studies. This suggests that in-depth psychodynamic therapy sets in motion a set of changes for people that acquire momentum over time, and are ongoing.

Yet these findings don’t speak to the issues that I presented to that frozen audience in the community mental health setting–that audience, comprised as it was with overworked souls more typcially compelled to hear rote trainings in which smug pedogogues pitch bullet-pointed treatment manuals: the evidence-based droning about quantifying treatment goals and codifying methods. The irony, Shedler asserts, is that many who work under the banner of CBT actually practice methods at least derived from psychoanalysis. In my book, Working Through Rehab: An Inside Look at Adolescent Drug Treatment, I allude to this curious trend. Writing anecdotally, I reference several terms, like “splitting”, “denial”, “failure to thrive”, and “containment”, which are used regularly in settings purportedly driven by a CBT philosophy, but which have a psychoanalytic pedigree. Shedler implies that many practitioners are unwittingly using psychodynamic language and methods; which sounds a bit like rock musicians who aren’t aware of the blues roots of their craft. He cites a study by Ablon and Jones (1998), who interviewed experts in CBT and psychoanalysis, asking them to define their models such that use of objective tools like the so-called Q-sort assessment (blind raters, listening to audio tapes of sessions, tracking specific interventions) could be understood. The psychoanalytic experts cast the umbrella psychodynamic process as follows: allowing for an unstructured dialogue, the identification of recurrent themes, linking feeling states to past experiences, and giving attention to intrapsychic defenses, and to “unacceptable” feelings. I can see in my mind the disdainful head shakes of those who think this a waste of time; something only the privileged might pay for. The CBT experts in the study emphasized a more specific focus in therapy–a process actively structured by therapists taking on didactic, teacher-like roles. They give advice, discuss goals, and focus generally on current life stressors or (in the case of those mandated into tx.), objectives assigned externally: far more popular with industry onlookers looking to streamline methodology.

But get this: the investigators measured therapist adherence to models without regard to what therapists believed they were applying: Beck’s treatment model, apparently. Upon reading verbatim transcripts, investigators of this study tracked the following variables: quality of therapeutic alliance; addressing cognitive distortions by patients; patients’ experience of emotion; gaining awareness from previously implicit meanings and feelings. The thing is, only one of these variables truly belongs to the canon of cognitive behavioral therapy–addressing cognitive distortions. Therapeutic alliance and the importance of establishing therapeutic alliance is a concept that has been written about in psychoanalytic literature for decades. Implicit process? Practically synonymous with the unconscious. And BTW: only one of these variables, focus on cognitive distortions, was associated with poorer treatment outcomes. Oops! Regarding the ambiguous term “experiencing”, there is a fascinating breakdown of meaning by researchers: Shedler refers to the experiencing of feelings to distinguish it from a defensive expression of feeling, or an absence of feeling. A person can, for example, be speaking of him or herself and their life, and be doing so truthfully, but also intellectually; that is, without emotion. Also, a person can be speaking emotionally, but focused upon external phenomena, and thus be blocked from learning how events relate to self. The premises of psychodynamic treatment call for people to integrate thought and emotion, reflect upon self and other, and to recognize needs and viewpoints of self and other in such a manner that holds each in equilibrium–neither subordinate to the other, ultimately.

These were among the things I hoped to stir in my patients/clients when I worked in community mental health. They were the variables of treatment success I suggested to newer therapists as I later became a clinical supervisor. Roughly, and anecdotally speaking, these were the outcomes that were clearly sought by the consumers of all this dross we call therapy.

* Ablon, J., Jones, E. (1998) How expert clinicians’ prototypes of an ideal treatment correlate with outcome in psychodynamic and cognitive behavioral therapy. Psychotherapy Research, 9, 71-83.

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Dodos In Rehab: What’s Effective Therapy (part one)

Not that long ago I was speaking to a group of practitioners in a community mental health setting, posing a series of challenges designed to tease out what biases exist regarding the above question: what makes for a positive therapeutic outcome, and how do we know who’s doing what kind of therapy?

“How many of you consider that you are practicing evidence-based methods?” A dominant percentage in the room raised their hands, uncertainly in some cases. “How many consider yourselves CBT or solution-focused therapists?”, implying a chestnut belief in mental health circles: Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, or models similar to it, are the scientifically-based, empirically supported models of psychotherapeutic care. Roughly the same proportion of practitioners raised their hands after the second question. I then asked the audience to consider factors in outcome studies: time frames for follow up (were outcome measures made within 48 hours of treatment completion? 2 years? five?) What was the method of data collection (clinician assessment? participant self-report?) How did researchers determine what methods were actually being used in psychotherapy sessions? Among the practitioners, there was a smattering of speculations, but none knew definitively how the pronouncement “evidence-base” was being arrived at. I further asked if any in the room made audio tape recordings of their sessions, or made verbatim transcripts of sessions and then submitted them for scrutiny of methods. No one raised their hand. Someone shrugged and called out, “who does that?” I admitted that few did, but then asked one more volley of questions: given that mental health treatment is a confidential undertaking, and the likelihood that few psychotherapists subject their methods to rigorous scrutiny, how is it that researchers know who is doing what kind of therapy? I pointed my finger at my audience: how would they know you are CBT therapists?

The commonplace belief that psychodynamic models of therapy are not effective, or that pronouncements as to its efficacy are not grounded in science, is getting debunked. Meta-analyses of studies are accumulating, presenting effect sizes of close to or above 1.0 (this refers to a standard deviation above a normal distribution, and .8 is considered a large effect). This is the reporting of Jonathan Shedler, whose famous article in the March 2010 edition of American Psychologist is changing minds in professional circles. He is one of many sources quoted in my own non-fiction book, Working Through Rehab: An Inside Look at Adolescent Drug Treatment. I worked in this business for fifteen years, originally under the supervision of professionals who frequently spoke in psychodynamic terms, affording me a rich, comprehensive lens through which I could work with and understand my clients in long-term residential care. Over time this influence was eroded, as shorter term models, with their myopic treatment goals, and sometimes insipid criteria for change (example objective: “reduce instances of tearfulness from 8 out of 10 occasions to 5”), increasingly impinged upon the treatment culture. Imagination, thoughtfulness, even common sense was being squeezed out, in favor of a supposedly utilitarian approach that presented common denominators for care. A reductionist assessment of symptoms, based largely upon Aaron Beck’s depression inventories, prevailed as the means by which treatment progress, and thereafter effective outcomes, were measured. Meanwhile, within the dusty crevices of program operations manuals, there existed old articulations of purpose that aimed for an implicitly internal process, the “core” experiences of the suffering individual in treatment.

In my book I make considerable reference to the work of Fonagy and Bateman (2008) whose mentalization-based treatment model (a psychoanalytically-derived technique) has yielded enormously positive results. At 5 year follow ups, 87% of patients who originally presenting with psychiatric symptoms and measures of social functioning consistent with Borderline Personality Disorder dx. continue to present criteria for the diagnosis, compared to 13% of those patients who received Fonagy and Bateman’s psychodynamic treatment. The centerpiece of Fonagy’s model is this concept of mentalization: the ability to experience another’s mind; to mentalize. Attachment research and decades of clinical observation has revealed the significant problems of those who present for care in community mental health care settings: poor impulse control, low self esteem, lack of empathy, or sensitivity for others’ needs and feelings; the inability to soothe uncomfortable feeling states–the aggregate of deficits that culminate in self destructive, anti-social attitudes and behaviors; drug abuse. Utilizing an index designated as SWAP (Shedler-Westin Assessment Procedure, available at http://www.SWAPassessment.org), Jonathan Shedler coalesces some of the factors that yield positive treatment outcomes from a broader, in-depth perspective: increased capacity for sensitivity; attention to others’ needs and feelings; recognizing others viewpoints, even when feelings run high; healthy use of humor, knowledge of consequences of behavior; linking of feeling states to past experiences; the ability to soothe negative affect (w/out substances). All this constitutes an attempt to operationalize mental health, via clinician report; a means of assessing mental health not just from the absence of symptoms as delineated by past or present versions of the DSM, but by the presence of capacities, strengths and resources that are internal.

* Bateman and Fonagy (2008) An 8-year follow up of patients treated for Borderline Personality Disorder: Mentalization-based treatment versus treatment as usual. American Journal of Psychiatry, 165, 631-638.

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Sprawling, muddled and hard to follow

Consider the following beta elements: Hitchcock, Bolinas, fire, towering infernos, The Wizard of Oz, terrorism, telecommunications, and Birnum Wood. A meaningless collection of terms? Maybe…that’s what you’d think upon a quick read through of my novel, Crystal From The Hills. My “sprawling”, “muddled” brainchild was written intermittently over the last three years, and is currently receiving a smattering of appreciation, interspersed with triage-like criticisms, some valid and useful, some merely indicative of a drive-by reading. It’s early days yet. Mostly there is silence and the resounding feel of indifference. As with Weed, my villain, there is an overriding absence.

It’s to be expected. I’m not sure what kind of readership I’m aiming for, except for one of fantasy: an ardent following that reads things over and over again, ever searching for nuance. One review suggested a Joycean or Proust-admiring following–wrong. A book of minutia? The word implies triviality, or meaninglessness. I guess Wilfred Bion’s concept of beta elements doesn’t register for average readers; it doesn’t resonate. What do I mean? you may wonder…may wonder. Well, here goes, again: in drama, as in life, there is repetition; repetition that reveals. That’s basic Freud. The paraphenalia of society serve as microcosms of existence, illustrating the unconscious while it fills out the canvas of life. Chris Leavitt’s life is a canvas of elements, speaking in code and then blended into an inchoate mass. Alfred Hitchcock was a fan of psychoanalysis, which informs the themes of CFTH; the same is true of the many motion picture references contained in the novel. Other examples: Macbeth was a man who denied reality, and who failed to understand clues. Fires are part of the back-story of the protagonist, while towering infernos and terrorism now fuel the paranoia of American culture. Texting, e-mail, and the ubiquity of cell phones may dominate as mediums of communication, but it is ancient oral traditions that will whisper truths and pass them along, perhaps especially in small towns in West Marin County, where cell phone towers don’t exist still. Bolinas: the Luddite enclave. May the best grass roots movements of the future be born amongst your wooded seclusion. Within the mass of elements there is order and meaning, and for the attentive observer (as in reader), there is a pattern; an internal logic that ultimately should not baffle. Thus, events unfold in a manner that should feel familiar, perhaps like deja vu. There is a sense of things congealing with centripetal urgency (oops! careful Graeme–that’s a lot of syllables you’re stacking there.)

I guess not everyone will see things as I see them. That, after all, is the point of Crystal From The Hills. Take, for example, a climax of sex in CFTH (not the only climax). A critic has complained that a sexual episode between Chris and his girlfriend Jill–a clumsy grapple and possible rape–retroactively colors their relationship. My response: this passage is foreshadowed about once every ten pages of the novel without actually revealing the event (of course, I’m doing that here). Colors the relationship? The protagonist is guilt-ridden yet avoidant; Jill? she is conflicted: contemptuous and shamefaced, yet uncertain in her revenge. The explicit revealing towards the end is matched by the undercurrent that develops over the course of the narrative. The unconscious in which I place faith enables the reader to find logic and continuity in the unfolding. Meanwhile, the psychologically-minded know that the traumatized take their time, forget and distort, and even when finding clarity, they gauge the safety of those poised to hear their secrets. Is it safe to let you know what’s really been happening? How far have you made it into the novel? Are you ready to hear what its characters really have to say?

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Crystal takes it on the chin

Pardon the deflection. Actually, it’s me that’s taking the hits, the most important ones from sources yet to be revealed. But I’ll tell you what they’re saying, and why it stings.

I’ve asked people to put their thoughts down in writing so that I can track feedback. With Crystal From The Hills I’ve given them 140,000 words, or thereabouts. I’m getting about 250 back, on average–not that they should write more–but it isn’t fair is it? Where’s the balance? The triage of my not-so-picaresque (according to my harshest critics) yarn has yielded some of the following: words like “muddled”, “unwieldy” (referring to prose), and “not making sense”. With respect to certain elements, such as those calling for psychological terms, a passing knowledge of psychoanalysis, I’d agree that a perceptive, though not necessarily learned reading is required if one is to fully appreciate my tale of trauma, disordered identity, and social conscience.

Action? This brings me to the biggest complaint: what’s happening? some ask. Or worse, where’s the happy ending? Where’s the hope? What am I doing? I wonder: d’ya think I’m gettin’ the wrong people to read my stuff. D’ya think? I know. Try not to be defensive, right? These people are telling me what’s out there; what the average reader is looking for. Do I want you, average reader? do I need you?

Apparently, but maybe I can help…just a bit. Just a nudge, a hint here and there to clue you in as to what I’m doing, and why? Please.

So, first of all, with respect to my much maligned “flurries” of exposition, with respect to workplaces, memories related to fire, make-overs, terrorism, ruminations on women’s opinions, telecommunications: it’s all necessary. It’s all a story, the aggregate of these fragments. Believe me, I worked hard to make all these pieces add up and lodge in the reader’s mind. They are referenced circularly, but not repetitively, and the story of CFTH–it’s plot–runs alongside this collage of reality. Sorry, fans of the unfettered narrative flow, if I’m making life difficult.

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Working In Rehab: a numbers game

Check this out: Do you like numbers? Ok, here’s a few statistics: according to the Treatment Episode Data Set (TEDS) report, as published online by the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA), almost 2 million people were admitted for substance abuse treatment in 2010 across the United States, and just over 2 million people were admitted for the same problem in 2009. These are the most recent years for which such statistics exist. The average number treated over the five years prior to this was between 1.8 and 1.9 million people per year, admitted to just over 13,000 facilities licensed or certified to treat individuals for substance abuse. According to the same data tables, between 7 and 8 percent of these admissions—again, on average—are kids. By kids, I mean ages 12-17, and most of these kids are between 15 and 17. That’s about 150,000 teens per year entering programs, in outpatient or inpatient settings—rehab, as the shorthand goes—for the treatment of substance abuse. And by the way, substance abuse is only one of many problems these kids have. This is the kind of information you’ll find in my forthcoming book about drug rehab and teens, due out soon–though, don’t be misled: my book won’t be dominated by numbers. In fact, you’ll see (I hope) that it takes a skeptical view in general of the application of numbers to my profession.

You see, my profession, that of a therapist, is about making a personal connection with people. I know that sounds like sanguine bullshit, but unlike the average entrepreneur, I’m not selling a product alongside a transient interaction that purports to represent commitment. I’m talking about a solid idea that’s quietly being marginalized in the business of mental health services: it’s the relationship(s) that heal. Not so, according to the larger systems in charge: hospitals, insurance companies; managed care. For them, it’s about “quantifiable” aims, that which can be tracked in terms of symptoms, so-called “scales”, tests of one sort or another. Go to a program, especially a hospital based program and you’ll hear the mantra: tests, tests, we must do tests. Later there will be estimates, both of prognosis, and of the money involved. It’s a reductionist process. Why? Because those paying say so, that’s why. They’ve even enlisted scientists to this cause. By scientists I mean researchers of mental health, people scrambling to publish studies whose findings will rubber stamp the proposed treatment approaches. The process here is tautological: find that which confirms efficacy of the pre-ordained standards. Make it understood that the most cost-effective approaches are the best. Proselytize use of those models that are the easiest to train to the growing numbers of fledgling professionals who are eager for jobs and at best secondarily concerned as to what they’re teaching.

How do I know people like me are looking for jobs? If you don’t believe me, believe a ph.d. Hey, that rhymes. In a report for the California department of Mental Health in 2009, John Shea indicated that positions for social workers, marriage and family therapists, and other counselors would grow by 22%, 21%, and 33% respectively (projected until 2016). His report indicated that over 22,000 people held MFT licenses at that time. That number now stands at over 33,000 according to department statistics. Whoa, that’s growth for you. I wonder if the jobs will run out. At what point does the Board of Behavioral Sciences start making its licensing exams harder to pass, thus titrating the numbers coming into the field. There. That’s a token for those who may wonder who I am to say what’s happening in the business of drug treatment. My question back: who do I need to be?

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Fragments resembling accidents

In writing a story about accidents and trauma, I had the challenge of insinuating these themes into all areas of the narrative. I had to. Victims don’t have a choice. The memories of events are there for them everyday, in every waking moment, even disturbing the somnolent ones–encoded in the insignificant details of life. I sought to embed these elements into my characters, both central and supporting, but somehow let ’em leak out. There are leaks in Crystal From The Hills, my tale of an itinerant drug addict and trauma victim wandering the milieu of Oakland after falling down its idyllic hills. An accident. Chris Leavitt never meant to hurt anyone. He doesn’t mean to trigger the phobic response of those who understandably associate the sounds of ringtones and doorbells with disaster. He doesn’t intend to stir a chill in those who crave truth but are surrounded by secrets and liars. Accidents happen. That’s what people once said to Chris, trying to make him feel better. Feeling better: it never made him better. Observe a few revealing fragments:

“Have you spoken to your mother recently?”

“No,” Chris answered, suddenly robotic.

“She understands more than you think.”

“I don’t want to talk to her.”

Aunt Jenny held a napkin to her mouth, suggesting an emergent revulsion. She quickly eyed Magdalena, who was hovering about the table, not quite waiting upon them; seemingly undecided as to her role. Jenny nodded, uttered hints about forthcoming stacks of clothing including all that Chris had brought with him. Between them they communicated a solution: an ironing board. Old clothes of his ought to be unearthed from the guest room closet, she also directed.

The angelic, chiming sound of the doorbell stirred them all out of this quiet, embarrassed arranging. Magdalena shot a glance in the direction of the front door, as though the sound were one that triggered old, traumatizing memories. Fleetingly, Chris noticed her wide-eyed bearing and speculated that it was borne of full-moon nights when doors were knocked upon, delivering bad news, illness and violent death—or accidental death—of prodigal loved ones. Aunt Jenny, startled, gaped expectantly at her obedient servant.

“I wonder who that could be,” she said, surprised. Magdalena marched dutifully and solemnly to the door, whispering in Spanish some ominous imprecations. Aunt Jenny turned her puzzled, yet vaguely inquiring expression towards Chris. Shrugging, he suspended his fork over his half-eaten omelet, and indulged a nameless foreboding. He looked down upon his food, upon the raped shreds of congealed egg and frayed greens. What an accident this all resembles, he thought.

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Disconnect/Reject

My novel, Crytal From The Hills, is looking for a place to live. Give it a home, readers. Or give it an agent, or this blog a directory. Otherwise, it might become a rejected story of rejection, about a guy named Chris Leavitt who’s left home, looking for a place to stay in the aftermath of an accident, a disappearance, a trauma, and a mystery–the novel’s pitch. Irony? Actually no–it might be apt, this quiet response, this absence of yours. You see, this is a tale of disconnection/rejection; disconnects and rejects; relationships with the absent highlighted by absent relationships with the present. Longings: dream about longings, why don’t you. I thought about all this when I started this thing three years ago. That’s planning, I say. That’s contrivance, some might think. Anyway, I sought feedback. Really. I made calls, wrote e-mails, did what you’re supposed to do–I connected, and asked what others thought. But phone calls get dropped, and e-mails sometimes land in junk. Sorry, says the world: we didn’t get that.

Here’s another passage from CFTH:

“So, what are you gonna do after you check your phone.” Chris thought for a moment that she was mocking him, referring to his phone task like it was his major chore of the morning. Jill flung her purse on her bed—the only major piece of furniture in the unit—and stepped over to a desk to check messages on her land line. Almost simultaneously she pulled out her IPhone and began checking its messages; multitasking, like she was showing how it was done. To her left was a several square foot space she’d created against a wall. She gestured towards it, indicating several of Chris’ belongings. Chris had already moved in, it seemed like; he’d colonized her space with his motley collection of goods, things he’d once thought he couldn’t live without: a backpack made of hemp; a Nick Drake CD sticking out the top. Inside, there were several smaller items, such as another Ziploc bag, filled with Percocets. There was an IPhone that had been “blown up” several times, such that its memory was now full. Taking up the most space was an oft-malfunctioning laptop and a seeming trail of electronic dependency: wires, cords, stray flash drives. Somewhere in the backpack were a toothbrush, a bottle of arnica gel, and a thin squib of a soap-bar. His clothes, which included two shirts, a spare pair of jeans and one extra pair of socks, were strewn in a pile, looked aged and stiff. Chris appeared to be aiming for a staleness wherein some items would soon be able to stand by themselves, encrusted with dirt, dust, the curled up lint that hovers above tufts of carpet.
It all came back to him now, the minutes he and Weed had spent here the night of the accident. Chris and Jill had one argument that night amid the flurry of plans and excitement. To her he’d seemed manic—spun, in all likelihood, despite his subsequent denials. Weed stood in the background, grinning, watching them bicker, and staring at Jill especially. Greasy strands of hair stuck out from beneath his baseball cap. They actually looked like weeds, thought Jill, catching sight of him. Chris had a poster of James Dean which he’d plucked from a tube that he wanted to place next to the bed. Jill vetoed the plan, said it didn’t go with anything. Chris stared in protest at the sparsely decorated walls of her apartment, and appealed vainly for “logic” on the matter. Jill was having none of it, either the poster, or the premise. Logic? She’d swat that notion away easily enough. But the real issue, the underlying divide, was something else. She didn’t want him to feel at home.

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In broad daylight

The darkness of the city: in broad daylight. Jill Evans, Chris Leavitt’s nominal girlfriend in Crystal From The Hills, schools him earlier in the story, about his arrogance and naivite. It’s naive to wander the streets of West Oakland, patronizing the locals, imagining he is free and safe. She envies him. Women, I think, envy (and thus are irritated by) carefree young men who take for granted their advantages. And so, the next passage, a pre-climactic wake-up call for the similarly traumatized Jill, is foreshadowed, like all of the events of the story. It’s just a matter of what gets noticed really. For all Jill’s faux streetwise warnings, not to mention Chris’ obsession with Shadows, who used to follow him only at night, it is Jill who is caught off guard, thinking she is immune.


To cap it off she was jumped on the way home the following morning. Her mistake had been stopping at a light, obeying the rules of the streets, but not those of the street. Leaning back on her bike, Jill took a brisk swig from her water bottle, only to feel a hard thump against her back wheel. As her bottle tumbled away with water spraying from her mouth, Jill felt a strong tug upon her backpack; the force threatened to drag her along the pavement and for a split second she imagined that somehow she’d been ensnared by a passing vehicle. Feet shuffled around her as the bag was torn away. Her assailant turned to throw Jill’s backpack to a partner, the action resembling that of two basketball players executing a fast break. But with his back turned, the first of the two young men was rendered vulnerable. Without a second thought, Jill lunged at him and began wind-milling her arms, surprising herself with her own intensity. Instinctively, she opened up her right hand, and with a scything motion, slashed through his blocking limbs, scratching his face on the way through. The partner ran and faced her. Seeing him face-to-face scuttled assumptions, and reduced him in years. No more than fifteen, she guessed, regarding the gaunt, angry face of the boy. He reached for his back pocket; no small task given that his pants hung halfway to his knees. From the front, a web of denim hung between his legs, placing him at a disadvantage should a chase ensue.

 

 

It was as if she recognized him—not the boy per se—but the type: meaning, the age, the demeanor, the ephemera, and the race: black. She could hurt this boy, she realized. In her current state, that is—she could do real harm. And then she might treat him. In fact, it seemed to her that she had done, on countless occasions. She’d nursed young men like this. She’d dressed their wounds, their grisly knife and gunshot injuries. She’d replaced their bedpans, brought them food, and seen them wince as she’d replaced their catheters. With a look of sheer rage that masked humiliation, the boy brandished a gleaming firearm and dangled it with a fashionably downward arc towards Jill’s face.

            “OK!” she cried breathlessly, and held up her arms in surrender. The boy’s face shook. Looking around, seeing odd witnesses, he appeared to take stock of this moment, and decide what humiliations—past, present, and anticipated—will merit the ultimate retribution. With a deft turn, he then sprung away and disappeared, showcasing an impressive sprint. Later, she estimated that the entire incident had taken less than a minute of her time.

            Unhurt, Jill gathered herself, assessed her apparently undamaged bicycle, and then resumed her journey back to her apartment, though not before remonstrating in the street to no one in particular.

“Really. In broad daylight!” she exclaimed, feeling angry and bewildered at the community she’d chosen to live amongst and help.

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At a loss for words

Listen. Bad things are happening: accidents, enemy action. Dissociation, which leads to a loss of words…silence. My body shook today from the news. It knew more than I did, whoever I am. In Crystal From The Hills, my non-conformist fiction (No heroes, and no love. Sorry) that is destined to live on the outside of literary establishment, characters are at a loss for words and therefore some part of themselves. Perhaps it’s for the best, this mutedness. Memories are diffuse. Trauma has served to conflate past and present, and secrets keep both peace and status quo. Say anything about what’s really happening then you’ve broken the rules: expect to be fired, ostracized; transferred to that job you don’t want, that trivial life you never bargained for. Phones symbolize what’s happening in CFTH. They’ve stopped working or else they’ve disappeared–gone down with the ship, disappeared. In an emergency authorities can shut down the service apparently. That’s right. They can shut you up. But of course phones are just like people, really: easily replaced, I mean. Observe:

Jill was gone: gone from Chris’ presence, mothballed from his mind. Upon reading Sweet’s message, he immediately began texting his reply; his relaxed fingering suggested a fixated pleasure with such toys; a need that had been starved over the last several days. Yet Chris Leavitt thought of his phones as nemeses. They cut out, dropped calls; went silent for no reason, or else they exhibited letters or numbers he hadn’t pressed. This particular one, which he’d left behind at Jill’s place, was the worst offender. It defied him, gave him the silent treatment, and if he’d get his act together, he’d go down to his carrier’s office at some point and ask for a divorce. Negative thinking: he might actually qualify for an upgrade, he then reasoned. Minutes later he was done, having finished his reply to Sweet. He was done for the moment with his deputy phone’s aggravating, petty resistances, and looked up and about the neighborhood. It seemed for an instant that he was lost; that is, without something to do, without a plan, an identity: he was a cipher, he briefly feared: he still felt dead but for the fact that others spoke to him, which, he supposed, proved otherwise.

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