from Mondays in January 2002

Monday January 7th, 2002
Of the flowers that bloomed in my living room:

The first four flowers out of the bulb were spectacular. Red lush shimmering fuzzy iridescence.
Born for the holidays and growing so large they nearly toppled the whole plant.

The second crop are smaller more modest, looking into the bell at the deep blood red it is less sparkling but deeper, more pure, more true, suddenly a rush of loyalty, suddenly a sense of the stalwart second comer, the slow learner, the one more cautious, less appreciated. But deeper and more still and marking me for life.

After the death of the first and the quieting down of my house, the second one pours a long drink into my soul and finds the bottom. The second one fills me with a sense of everlasting continuity and in the half light of a gray afternoon, the second one needs only this small amount of light to display its color. The economy of it shivers my bones.

I was there when the priest asked: Have you something specific to confess, or would you like a general absolution? He kissed a bit of cloth. He said: Go in peace.
I confess I don’t know the name of my boss.

Monday January 14th, 2002
In the early days of my diagnosis, I could pick myself up with chopsticks. I meant nothing. It was hard to pinch enough flesh to get the needle in, the insulin formed mosquito bites when the needle landed vertically within layers of skin rather than beneath the skin where there should have been fat.

Enroute to Providence I am in the air, fear, sweat, heartbeat, turbulence, dropping, like drops in blood sugar. Fear of flying is about the laws of air, gravity, space, metal fatigue; over worked, overzealous, over time and the American way. And too much insulin.

The policeman drove the long way from one town to another with his suspect in the murder of a child in the backseat. It wasn’t supposed to be an opportunity for confession, by law it was no interview, but they drove through snow-covered countryside and the policeman talked about burial. They call it the Christian burial speech, you can read about it in the manual of interrogation techniques. The suspect, in the absence of his lawyer, told the policeman where to find the body.

I didn’t know what my boss meant, I knew the words, I heard them, I was confused about meaning. I read about confessions and how they are compelled.

Monday January 21st, 2002
Still sitting where you left me, I can’t move an inch. There’s a body of work, there’s a book here and some water and if it’s alright I’ll be here until you get back.

If I tried to get up nothing would happen anyway and the dread of trying and failing is more than the dread of stillness, of stasis, of calm, empty, naked, nothing.

The pile on my desk grows, there are several empty notebooks. Dust has settled undisturbed.
The radiator starts with a slow release and then the banging at the back of the building. Because someone got up and did something there is now a building here and a heating system and stairs and lights and outside there are roads and the whole city system.

In the last hours the spirit breaks the human being will say whatever it takes to make it stop. The interrogation creates the confession.

Have you heard about the woman in the northern suburbs who was hit in the face by a chunk of flying wood when a tree that was hit by lightning last night exploded? It broke her jaw and knocked out three of her teeth.

I thought I saw lightning last night but I stayed away from the window.

Monday January 28th, 2002
Each day something small, a little more.
I don’t know if it can be called progress. It moves forward, in time.
Yesterday, with a small child we tested over and over the laws of physics.
The night before we sat and tested how long we could talk about it before we got up to do it.
We found we could replace the doing completely with the talking.
All through the day we worked our shoulders against the birds.
They’ve huddled so often on the sill that we can never break the habit.
It’ll be wings and cooing and piles of shit forever.
And we inside this building flapping our arms.
Coming home last night, it was first gear all the way.

I confess that:
1) [T]he purpose for the interrogation is not to find out whether the suspect committed the crime but, rather, to determine what caused the suspect to commit it;
2) [I] express high confidence in the suspect’s guilt;
3) [I] attempt to prevent the suspect from verbalizing denials by maintaining a monologue urging the suspect to listen;
4) [I] falsely tell the suspect about evidence implicating him in the commission of the crime;
5) [I] move physically close to the suspect to maintain his attention and interest.

List is from C. Brian Jayne and Joseph P. Buckley, “Criminal Interrogation Techniques on Trial,” The Prosecutor (fall 1991); 23-32.