16 August 2010
19 July 2010
Greenwich, meantime
Today I left my hotel in Earl's Court with an invitation to visit an old mate from Master Practitioner training, Rabiyah Patel. Rabi and her husband Nigel, her brother Farid, and her adorable baby son Nour, live in a lovely apartment in Greeenwich, overlooking the Thames, just west of the Cutty Sark, a 141-year-old clipper ship - the last-built merchant sailing vessel, the only remaining tea-clipper - that some arsehole tried and failed to burn three years ago.
16 July 2010
Alarums and Excursions
Ask anyone who knows me—I hate alarm clocks. I’ll do almost anything to avoid having to wake up to any sort of buzzing or beeping. Sometimes “anything” includes getting to work late, but don’t tell my boss.
In England, though, one is much more likely to wake up to church bells. Every city has a cathedral, and every village, town and market town has at least one church. Sizeable towns and cities have sizeable numbers of them, and that means that you’d have to be pretty far off the beaten path not to hear church bells announcing every hour of the day, and specialized bells for canonical hours, to call the faithful to prayer. As I’m not faithful, I don’t know one of these tunes from another, except to say, “Oh, it’s that one. Nice.”
The executive flat where I’m staying on this trip to Leicester has about four times more space than my hotel room at the Travelodge, where I stayed week before last, about six times more than my London hotel room between trips, a kitchen, a leather couch, a huge television, and Leicester Cathedral. Well, the latter’s not actually in the flat, but just a little way outside where I can see and hear it, and by hearing, know the time.
Bells have a certain authority that mere clocks lack. Let’s face it: your kitchen clock can say one thing, your oven clock another, and your bedroom clock something unlike either. One can quibble with a clock, but bells are another matter; they leave no doubt what o’ the clock it is. They give the clock a voice. And they give a tired traveller a buzzless, beepless way to wake up in time to get to her seminar.
So today was the first day of Chris Hall’s three-day seminar on “The Paradoxical Nature of Change” at the lovely old Ramada Jarvis Hotel here in good old Leicester, wherein our heroine learned that problems are paradoxes, and “stuckness” is a result of not knowing how to resolve them via a sort of unified field. Golly. Wonder what I’ll learn on day two?
15 July 2010
Life for the Win
As I’ve been restricting my running about to save what’s left of my feet, I’ve no exciting tourist photos to build a story around. But the other night on the BBC I encountered this story, which I hope you’ll enjoy.
In October of last year, Richard Rudd was riding his motorcycle past a filling station near Kidderminster, Worcestershire, when a car exiting the station struck him and threw him 20 feet. Rudd, 42 and the divorced father of two teenage daughters, could initially move his limbs, but a post-operative infection caused his organs to begin shutting down, and he went into a coma. When he emerged, he was completely paralyzed.
He was moved to a special neuro-intensive care unit at Addenbroke Hospital in Cambridge, where doctors determined that the damage to Richard’s lower brainstem was such that he would never recover movement in his body, or the ability to speak, or even to breathe on his own. His father and his children agreed that Richard himself would not want to live in that condition.
They related stories of Richard saying things like “If anything like that happens to me, I don’t want to go on.” Richard’s father said he felt that keeping his son alive would be “like playing God.” There was “no way in a million years” Richard would want to live in these circumstances. It seemed pretty clear that if Richard had thought to draw up a living will, it would have included a provision to withdraw care at this point.
The family’s consent to take Richard off the ventilator having been given, it was now up to the doctors in the unit to come to a decision. There seemed to be a general agreement that there was no point to keeping a man alive who wouldn’t want to be under these conditions. But Professor David Menon, a leading expert in treating brain injuries, and the creator of the neuro-intensive care unit, felt there was still some input missing. Richard’s.
He went to visit Richard, shortly before the time scheduled for shutting down the respirator and removing the tubes that fed oxygen to his brain. He asked Richard if he would move his eyes to the left. Richard did, then to the right on Menon’s second request. A BBC film crew was present, and caught the expression on Menon’s fact that seemed to say “This changes everything.” Richard performed those eye movements over and over at Menon’s request, but was unable to respond to a more complex suggestion that involved holding on to an instruction over time.
Menon determined that Richard was not capable of giving a meaningful answer to the question of whether he wanted to live…yet. His responsiveness hinted at higher brain function still intact. He decided to wait for the final life-or-death decision until Richard himself might have a chance to weigh in.
Menon put a speech therapist on the case, who interviewed the family for Richard’s likes and dislikes, and facts about his life. She came to his bedside every day with a list of 23 questions to which he could answer yes or no by moving his eyes to the left or right—questions that included tests of long- and short-term memory. Every day for three weeks, she asked the same questions and got the same answers. Sometimes after the questions, she'd have a conversation with him. Richard passed all tests easily. At no time did anyone ask him about withdrawing care. It wasn’t yet time for that question. Menon wanted to give Richard time to consider his life as it was now.
What Richard had been experiencing since waking from his coma is what doctors are now calling “Locked-in Syndrome.” The patient’s total paralysis and inability to speak are much the same as in vegetative states, but as demonstrated by the recent case in Belgium of a man who reported having been conscious during a 23-year vegetative state, locked-in patients are awake and aware, although unable to communicate. David Menon had demonstrated that the nerves controlling the muscles that moved his eyes—located higher up on the brainstem than the worst of the injury—were still intact and responsive to Richard’s will. He had given Richard Rudd a way to communicate with the outside world.
Once Professor Menon was convinced that Richard was capable of understanding his condition and prognosis, and of considering the question of his own future, he began to have that talk, and ask those questions. Three times on separate occasions, he asked Richard if, under the circumstances which he now understood, he wanted to live. Three times Richard answered yes.
The photo below was taken in March of this year, five months after Richard Rudd’s motorcycle accident. He had, by this time, learned to move his head an inch in either direction. He had also recovered the use of some of the muscles in his face, allowing him to smile.
Richard’s case has inflamed renewed debate over living wills, which are legally binding documents. A spokesman for a group opposing the use of living wills says: “This case shows the weakness of giving legal force to documents which, by their very nature, can never cover every possibility.” And no matter where you come down on the subject, you might agree that there’s a difference between an imagined future and a tangible present.
David Menon puts it this way.“There may sometimes be differences between what a patient declares when he is fit and healthy, and what he feels when he is the one in the hospital bed.” Richard Rudd is living proof of that.
12 July 2010
Manhunt
As events of the trip so far would be of little interest to non-Jedis, I thought I'd tell you a true story, as I watched it unfold on TV. This was going on for most of my first week in England, and I thought you might find it interesting:
Suicide by Cop?
The situation seemed custom-made for “suicide by cop,” but for a few things: Moat took no hostages, provoked no armed police, and did not go to ground to make a last stand. He disappeared into the wooded rural area surrounding Rothbury, helped by friends in the area and occasional forays into empty houses. One family reported someone had broken into their house while they were away, took some food, and slept in a bed. Despite the ubiquitous police presence in Rothbury, it took police three hours to respond.“You’re better off dead.”
09 February 2010
The Churchfitters
When one is invited to a musical event at the Garboldisham Village Hall (and if one is me, which might be even less of a shared experience), one might be forgiven for wondering if one is in for a long, long, evening. I left Seattle last month with just such an invitation in hand, fresh from experiencing The. Worst. Live. Band. In. Seattle – possibly in all creation, so I may have been more concerned than I would have been otherwise.
Carolyn White, John Thurgood and I arrived in Garboldisham at a quarter to seven on a Saturday night in late January, and had no problem finding good seats towards the front of the hall. In fact there were so few people in evidence that we feared the acts would be playing to a sparse audience. We soon learned we had arrived an hour early due to misinformation in the local paper, and by a quarter to eight, every seat had been claimed, and the bar was doing a good business in Old Chimneys Ale, a local brew.
The opening band was a husband-and-wife duo at least the equal of T.W.L.B.I.S. They sang original but indifferently-composed-and-written songs, and while she could sing and he could play, she was so enamored of her own style and so in her own head during her performance that she did sing-along numbers flourished up with her own vocal meanderings that had the audience totally unsure where to go next. Good singers have rapport with the people they’re singing to; this woman, despite having a lovely voice, was not a good singer, in my opinion, at least as humble as the one in paragraph one. By the time they’d left the stage I had grown even more concerned with what I was going to hear for the next 90 minutes.
But history is not prophecy, and neither is the quality of the first act. The Churchfitters had me in the palms of their hands from the opening chords of the opening number. The spine of their music sounds like very solid and proficient Irish trad, but onto that they build every possible rock-blues-folk sound and more, including a bit of Breton flavor, and playing a staggering number of instruments, including hand-built bass viols and bass guitars created by Boris, the bass player, who might have come straight from an audition for an Addams Family revival.
The degree of sheer musicianship would have been impressive by itself, but the band is also practiced and tight and innovative and original and FUN. Though becoming better known all the time in the UK and France, they are not a worldwide phenomenon…yet.
The astounding live experience of The Churchfitters is not to be replicated in an audio-only medium, so have a butcher's at this. You can also listen to a wide variety of album tracks on their website, and if that prompts you to buy a CD and tell a friend, so much the better. On the way out the door I told Boris, “I’d go around the world to see you guys again.” I hope their fame grows and grows, so I won’t have to travel quite that far.
08 February 2010
Return to Elysium
Above: Size really, really doesn't matter.
Some of you may remember my fond tales of the Elysee Hotel in Bayswater and its two-person lift (luggage not included). Believe me, you haven’t heard them all, but that’s as it should be. Suffice it to say those anchors are still in place, and I remain quite fond of it, even though they enlarged the lift.
Ye olde Elysee been somewhat modernized since my last visit, with wireless access in the public areas, and the addition of some tiny garret rooms on the fourth (fifth) floor. I booked one of these “compact singles,” expecting it to be a hole in the wall into which I could insert myself and my bags, and to my delight it turned out to be a charming and nicely-appointed little space with a nice view of the street, where a light snow is falling. There’s a TV on the wall at the foot of the bed, and they’ve even managed to find space for a desk. The bathroom is predictably tiny, but quite nice. After living 12 months in a 6x12x10, this roughly 8x7x7 space seems quite livable, at least for three days.
Last night I walked out and bought a supper to eat in my room. I passed places I’d eaten and shopped and done my laundry in, and in the process reminded myself how much I sometimes miss dear old London. That said, I’ll be happy to get back to my life and my people and my projects, none of which are here.
I’ll be off with Dev Agarwal and Terri Trimble tonight, to the streets around Waterloo Station, to find a good curry.
07 February 2010
This is Your Brain in Leicester
Leicester used to be the place from which I caught a train to Hinckley. I spent so much time in Hinckley during 2008 that I developed a fondness not only for that place and its wide variety of cheap curries, but for the unprepossessing railway platforms of Leicester. One incident in particular stands out: I had just come on a Sunday night from enjoying a leisurely coach journey from Hinckley, necessitated by engineering works on the railway. The journey was so leisurely, in fact, that when I arrived on the platform I’d missed the last train to London.
I remember well the compassion of the Midland Mainline employee as she regarded me with head cocked in disbelief: “The LAST train to LONDON left TEN MINUTES AGO!” as if I alone in all the land had not memorized the timetable. I had to find a hotel room.
Now in those days I was living in London on £400 a month, something many people, including my friends at Her Majesty’s Customs and Immigration, thought was impossible. And I was living well, eating three meals and a TV time snack in a comfy room in a nice neighborhood. But even with what help my loved ones could give, the travel demands of my training were hard on the budget. Rent included utilities, so everything I had left after the landlady came around on Monday for 80% of my weekly budget was divided into a) food and b) everything else. Everything else often included a monthly rail journey to Hinckley for my Master Practitioner training.
So when I found myself facing taking the cost of a Leicester hotel room out of the bank, you might imagine my dismay. A lovely taxi driver drove me to a hotel quite near the rail station, where I negotiated a rate that made me feel a little better, and all was well, as usually happens, does it not?
So now Salad’s trainings are being held in Leicester, where I was for the past week. I had no internet connection worthy of the name, hence the lateness of this post. So I’ll say that Leicester was a great place to spend a week, that Carluccio’s and Mem’Saab offer a great menu for the price, and that the U.S. needs more pie shops. I ate most of my lunches and a couple of dinners from Urban Pie, and a fellow delegate, seeing me tuck in to my pie and mash, said “Oh, that’s so ENGLISH!” And so it was. And so was she; I was the only Yank in the room aside from our trainer.
Christina Hall has got to be one of the most amazing trainers in the world, and that sentiment was echoed by several delegates who had taken NLP trainer training with others at the top of the field, including from Bandler and Grinder themselves. The training was spectacular. When she’s through with me in July I ought to be able to teach any subject with a lot more skill and a lot more understanding of the learning process; when this is done I may actually have earned my “Jedi Master” title. I made new friends and continued old friendships, and made new understandings from previously-acquired knowledge, and ate lots of pies and mash. What else could one ask?