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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

1. Siren Indruck NSFW, Duck is hauling supplies for the small town of Kepler on a tiny boat. Due to dangerous storms, Duck takes a longer but safer and less traversed route. He doesn’t know he’ll be passing through a Siren’s territory. A siren who is looking for a strong and sturdy mate

Here you go!

Duck never tells anyone what he finds on the beach that day.

He’s fourteen, looking for useful flotsam and jetsam tossed onto the sand by an ongoing storm. What he finds is an empty boat and a merman, silvery tail impaled with a spear in a piece of driftwood. Each time he tries to free himself, he winces and is unable to pull the weapon from his body. When he sees Duck, his red eyes widen and he bares sharp teeth in a hiss.

“It’s okay” the boy kneels in the bloody sand, “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Or, uh, this’ll hurt for a sec, but it’ll be better than tryin to ease it out bit by bit.” He grabs the end of the fishing spear and pulls. The merman shrieks, quickly clamping his hands across his mouth as Duck pulls his handkerchief from his pocket to bandage the wound.

“There, you should be able to-”

The creature is gone with a whip of his tail, sliding down the sand and into the waves. As Duck stands, a strange song floats from the foam for the briefest instant. A seasoned sailor can tell a siren from a normal mer on sight; Duck has never been to sea. It’s weeks later that he wonders what events resulted in the wounded siren and an empty boat.

-------------------------------

Any other day, Duck would put off this run until the black clouds no longer hung over the horizon. But the supply run last week didn’t come, so the isolated, coastal town of Kepler is running low on, among other things, the medicine needed to treat an illness spreading from house to house. He could put this off until tomorrow, but he won’t sleep well tonight if he does.

The boat loaded, he starts out to sea under unfriendly skies. Today is a day to follow the coastline and then circle Greenbriar Island to reach Kepler, rather than trying for a straight shot. It’ll double his travel time, but it’s far safer in a storm and no one but a few locals know how to navigate it. Duck takes this route once or twice most years. This summer alone he’s had to take it six times, with today making a seventh. The abnormal number of storms weighs on the minds of coastal residents. Duck tries not to obsess over it, given that it’s solidly out of his control and there’s no use fussing over wind and rain; there’s only getting through them.

Halfway through his journey, a rogue swell catches the underside of the boat and drags it along a rock, springing a leak in the hull. He ties off on a thin spire of stone, clambering onto a rock to try and repair the damage. It’s not a big leak, but it’ll be trouble if he lets it go.

As he’s laying awkwardly with water lapping up his legs, a human head rises from the water a few feet from him. Silver hair, red eyes and, when it smiles, very sharp teeth. Harmless mermaids have teeth much like his own, which means he’s alone in the ocean with a fucking siren.

Duck’s learned many things since that day on the beach; how a song can paralyze a man better than poison, how the bite marks on the skin of certain bodies that wash ashore are called siren kisses

The siren begins swimming closer. Duck sighs, “If you’re gonna drown and eat me, can you do it on the way back?”

Red eyes blink, confused, but the siren stays where he is.

“If I don’t make it to Kepler, lotta folks’ll get sick, some will even die. And I don’t think you got much use for medicine and canned food.”

The siren shakes his head.

“Glad you understand.” Duck finishes his repairs under watchful eyes. At one point, the siren swims all the way to the rock Duck is perched on, resting his chin on his hands, as if enjoying the view.

Duck scrambles back into the boat the moment he’s done, but no cold fingers try for his ankles and no splash announces something lunging upwards after him. A cautious glance as he starts the engine finds the siren sitting on the rock, silver-blue tail still half in the water. When he notices Duck looking, he waves.

The rest of the journey goes as planned, the relief on folks faces when Duck docks worth the peril. When he reaches the siren’s territory on his return, no song tempts him. A lithe shape keeps pace with the boat, fin breaking the surface now and then. When he hits open water, the siren turns back, disappearing from view.

-----------------------

There are sex dreams, and then there’s whatever the fuck Duck is having right now. Fingers stroke his hair, cling to his shoulders. Kisses coat his face and a voice whispers his name as the speaker offers themself to him again and again. He sees himself tangled with a man, face always just out of focus, who spreads his legs and lips so Duck can sink himself into the heat of his body. The dream is endless and he doesn’t care, doesn’t ever want to wake up.

Saltwater in his lungs renders that desire useless. He snaps back to consciousness as another wave hits him; he’s up to his neck in the cove below his house.

“The fuck?” It’s only his footprints visible in the moonlight in the sand, so no one dumped him here.

“Oh dear.”

“Jesus!” Duck stumbles back as glowing eyes peer around a rock. It’s the siren from yesterday, swimming purposefully as Duck wades backwards.

“Look, uh, when I said I wanted you to wait to eat me, I wasn’t bein serious. Or, uh, I was, but I meant I didn’t want to be eaten ever, not just then. It was a, uh, a joke.”

“I am aware.” The siren stops as Duck topples on his ass in the shallow water, “and I am sorry. I, ah, I did not mean to lure you from your bed. I was not aware my mindless singing was enough to wake you. In most futures, you slept until dawn.”

“Uh huh, sure, because sirens are known to just serenade folks without wanting to drown ‘em.”

“We do it more often than you might think.” The siren sighs, “I came here to keep you safe, and succeeded only in making you afraid.”

Duck, having scooted inelegantly onto dry land, watches the tan upper body of the siren sag. It’s awkward, a word not associated with this kind of mer. That suggests he’s telling the truth.

“You gonna tell me why you’re playin watchdog at my house?”

The siren chirps, intrigued, “In all but one future you told me to go away.”

“That’d just leave me with more questions. And so far, you ain’t done anythin other’n watch me; if you say this was an accident, I’m willin to hear you out.”

“Wonderful!” The siren claps his hands together and the tip of his tail flips out of the water. Then he clears his throat and recites, “I am known as Indrid Cold. As you noticed, I am a siren. I am also a gifted seer, artist, and lifeguard when humans are unconscious and thus will not try to kill me for rescuing them. I am an excellent fisher, and well-liked and/or feared by the larger creatures of this coastline. This is why I think I would be an excellent mate.”

“O-kay. Did you call me out here to practice your personals ad?” Duck smirks, charmed by Indrids earnest tone.

“This is not practice. I did a great deal of that earlier today. This is my formal declaration that I would very much like you to be my mate.”

“Ma--hold on.” The images from his near-fatal dream return, “were you singin’ to hit on me?”

Indrid crosses his arms, “For the last time, that song was not for you. It was about you, because I was daydreaming and my formless melody unintentionally conveyed the contents of said daydream into your mind.”

“So everythin in it, all that wild fuckin stuff, that’s stuff you wanna do with me?”

A nod, accompanied by a flash of white light under the water.

“Why?”

“Because you are strong, and handsome, and capable on the water. I watched your futures yesterday and today and saw you are kind as well, well-liked by other humans but a little lonely at night. You are very nice to that small land-otter that lives in your house.”

“You mean the cat?”

“That’s the word! Yes, you are nice to your cat. You are not brash or cruel, and you look so very nice without a shirt. I...I like you, Duck. You are everything I want in a mate.”

“Feel like I might be missin’ some gills and fins.” He jokes to cover the fact he’s scanning his mind and body for the same dreamy lull he felt during the song. What he finds in it’s place is his ego purring from praise and wondering exactly what a siren would do for his mate.

“There is no rule that says I must choose only my own kind for such activities. I, ah, I know it is strange, given how little we know of each other, but I thought that, ah, since humans will have casual sex with each other maybe we could, or, ah, that is…” He’s watching Duck with such unconcealed hope that the human almost joins him in the water.

“Indrid, I’m real flattered. But I’d be a damn fool if I didn’t point out this feels like a fuckin trap. Pretty easy for you to drag me to my death once we’re, uh, in the middle of things. Not that I’m sayin you would.” He adds when the sirens smile dims.

“A sensible concern. May I join you on land for a moment? There is something I want to show you.”

Duck pats the sand beside him, eyes following the ripples of Indrid’s tail as he swims, slithers, and slides onto the beach. It reminds Duck of an oarfish, though when Indrid spies him looking the scales flash deep purple.

“Look there” Indrid points toward the end of the silver ribbon of scales; a round, white scar stares up at Duck. The details of a day over two decades in the past return to him.

“You’re the siren I found when I was a kid.”

“Indeed. I remember you by your eyes, though your face has some echoes of that day in it’s curves. You saved my life, showed me mercy when I expected none. Sirens do not forget a favor, and we do not kill those who once spared us. I will never harm you, even if you turn me away tonight. You will be safe, whether that is in my arms or merely in my territory.”

Duck avoids the stranger sides of life by the sea, citing a lifelong incompatibility with the weird. Turns out all he needed to find his exception to that rule is a handsome siren looking at him like he set the tides in motion.

The human runs a finger up the sirens tail, sparks of purple and pale blue light igniting in it’s wake.

“Didn’t know y’all changed colors.” He pets Indrid’s hip and the whole tail lights up this time.

“I am a deep-sea siren by birth, we use light to communicate emotions.”

“Mind, uh, loopin me in on the conversation?”

“Purple means desire. It’s a common color in mating displays.” Indrid watches Duck’s hand glide along his scales, and a burst of pale blue reflects across their faces.

“And that one?”

“Submission.” Indrid murmurs, “it is, ah, not the most desirable color to show. My kind value strength and power; enjoying the opposite is an invitation to mockery.” The siren’s eyes stay downcast, even when Duck smooths silver hair from his face.

“Now, I like to joke as much as the next fella, but that don’t seem like somethin to tease about.”

“No?” Indrid’s gaze flicks onto Duck the instant before the man straddles him. Duck doesn’t even have to push him onto his back; he goes instantly, hands flat on the sand and tail twitching excitedly in the shallows.

“No. Seems to me a sweet thing like you oughta be takin care of.”

Indrid snickers, “That is not usually an adjective one uses for meAHahnn” he arches as Duck tugs his hair.

“Let’s get one thing straight, sugar; I decide what you get called. I wanna call you the most perfect creature in the sea, I will. And if I wanna call you a needy little mer who’s good for nothin but gettin fucked into the sand, you’re gonna nod and say ‘yes.’ Understood?”

The blue light flashing up his tail brightens, “Y-yes but, but why do you call me sugar? That is a food.”

Duck giggles, leans down to brush their noses together, “It’s a nickname, call you it because you’re sweet and I can’t wait to get my fill of you.”

“Ohhhh, I see.”

“You wanna see somethin else?”

“Very much soOH, oh goodness.” Indrid gasps as Duck forces his gaze towards his cock attempting to free itself from his boxers. He grinds on the supple muscle of his tail to take the pressure off, chuckles when the siren whines and tries to kiss his chest.

“Since you’re the only siren I’d ever even consider fuckin-” Duck pauses as Indrid moans loudly, digging his fingers into the sand, “you gotta show me how to go about it.”

“If, if you just continue as you are a little higher upyes, yes right there” He rolls his hips, purrs with such a blissful expression that Duck is powerless to do anything but kiss him. His affection grows when he notices Indrid clearly restraining his kisses so as not to catch Duck’s mouth or tongue with his sharp teeth. The last guy he fucked shoved his tongue down his throat without any build-up or finesse, and now all he can think is if only Indrid had made his feelings know sooner, Duck could have done away with shitty human dates and had an obedient, eager mer instead.

“Mmmmm” Indrid licks his lips, runs his fingers up Duck’s sides, “kissing is nice. It is not something sirens often indulge in, so my chances to do it are few and far between.”

“Ain’t that a shame” Duck kisses the corners of his mouth, “lips like these were made to be kissed sore.”

Indrid purrs, wiggling his tail, and Duck looks down to see a slit opening where his clothed cock has been rubbing.

“Huh. Kinda figured you had-”

“-I have both this and an appendage below it much like your own.”

“Handy.” Duck, in no mood to climb off the purring, otherworldly man, eases the waistband of his damp boxers just under his balls.

“This, uh, this ain’t gonna actually create a, I mean, I don’t wanna accidentally-”

“Nono, there is no chance of procreation”

“And you’ll be okay with so little of you in the water?”

“Yesyes I will be fine.” Indrid tugs at his hips, bucks his own into the air in frustration.

“Just checkin’ oh, oh fuck” Indrid is tight and ridged around his dick as it slides in, “fuckin christ, no wonder sailors’ll crash into rocks at the offerin of fuckin a siren, wait, fuck, that was probably rude.”

“I will let it slide” Indrid teases, the end of his tail curling around Duck’s left ankle, “on account of your body is so lovely I would beach myself and die gasping on your doorstep for a chance to touch it.”

“No need for that. All you gotta do is wait here like a good little mer and I’ll fuck you as much as you want.” The slit pulses as Duck slowly fucks in and out, and he knows he’ll have to throw out all his fleshlights after this because nothing will ever compare to the deliciously alien feeling of Indrid around his dick.

“Do, do not joke about such things.” Indrid whimpers, clinging to his shoulders.

“I ain’t. You wanted a mate, right?”

“Yes, you, so very badly.”

“Well, you got one, and you feel so goddamn good on my cock I ain’t inclined to let you swim off and be someone else’s.”

“I do not want to, I only want you, please, please let me stay.”

Duck stills his hims and the siren writhes as he leans down. The human cups his cheek, “I want you to stay, ‘Drid. I wanna get to know you. Long as you promise you ain’t gonna fuck me unless you want to, and not because you’re scared I’ll turn you loose.”

“I promise.” Indrid initiates the kiss this time, purring when Duck takes his time kissing back.

“Good. Now that we got that cleared up” Duck sits up, “be a good mate and take what I give you.” He fucks in as hard as he dares, dives back down to kiss Indrid’s lips and throat as the mer’s cock emerges. Duck finds he can grind his ass along the twisting shaft at the same time he drives his own into Indrid’s body, resulting in a wail of pleasure and teeth sinking into his shoulder.

“Fuck!”

“Sorry!” Indrid squeaks, hiding his face in Duck’s neck, “it, it is a reflex-”

Duck yanks his head back to his shoulder, near the first mark, and holds it down, “Do it again.”

Indrid trills and pain lights up Duck’s body, the perfect counterpoint to the pleasure coursing through him with each roll of their bodies. The siren chirps and moans, nips his arms and ears, slides his tail along his legs as his cock pumps frantically against his ass.

“That’s it sweet thing, cum for me while I fuck you. Show me just what my mate is for.” Duck bites Indrid’s neck and cum splatters the backs of his thighs as Indrid’s repetitions of his name drown out the noise of the waves. Duck’s orgasm follows fast, sweeps through him like the crescendo of a song carried on the night air.

Duck stays buried in him well after he’s finished, mind already conjuring images of tying Indrid down in shallow water and keeping his cock warm all day.

“Duck?”

“Yeah, sugar?”

“I, ah, I need to get back in the water.”

“Oh shit, yeah, sure.” He pulls out, tosses his sea-soaked boxers up the beach as Indrid slides into the sea. Duck wades in, stopping where it’s waist deep as the siren swims lazily circles around him.

“Such a perfect mate.”

“Glad you still think so.”

Indrid curls up to him, rubbing their cheeks together, “Thank you for indulging me. Do...do you wish me to come back tomorrow? Or to stay tonight? There are no other mers between here and my territory, so there is no reason I cannot count this stretch as mine.”

Duck kisses one of the hickeys blooming on tan skin, “How’s about you stay the night. We got some things to talk about. And, if you’re real good, I might let you fuck me when we’re done.”

Indrid grins, “My dearest one, I believe we have a deal.”

----------------------------------------------

Nowadays, if you ever go near Kepler and the surrounding islands, you may hear people talk about Duck Newton, beloved native son, skilled park ranger, and the only man receive siren kisses and live to tell the tale.

#indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #mermaid au #siren au #monster march #monster boyfriend

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disabilitythinking · 5 years

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The Disability Alphabet: A Is For ...

This is the first installment of a blog series that should run from now until the end of 2019. It’s called “The Disability Alphabet.” Twice a month, I will examine important words used in the disability community, in alphabetical order starting with A, and continuing through Z. But first, a few procedural notes:

I will be using a four-part structure to explore each term: Definitions, Common Uses, Problems & Misunderstandings, and Suggestions. The last will be my own thoughts on how we can best use the term, including any suggestions for changing how and when we use it.

This is an exploration of words, which is not quite the same thing as the things themselves. So for instance, I will explore the word “ableism,” but I won’t discuss at length what ableism means to me, what it does to people in society, or why it’s important.

I will try for the most part to take on terms that have special meaning and uses within the disability community. While words like “justice,” “health,” and “freedom” certainly have particular meanings for disabled people, they are a little too generic for this project. On the other hand, I may examine some general social justice terms, like “intersectionality” and “oppression,” becaus they are frequently misunderstood, and because they are used in specific ways in disability discourse.

These are going to be my personal explorations, based on my own limited research, but mainly my own experiences, ideas, and feelings. I will probably not cover every possible aspect of every word.

Feel free to add your own ideas, or disagreements, in the comments below.

And so we begin with …

Ableism

Definitions

Dictionary.com: “noun 1. discrimination against disabled people.”

Wikipedia: “ … discrimination and social prejudice against people with disabilities. Ableism characterizes persons as defined by their disabilities and as inferior to the non-disabled. On this basis, people are assigned or denied certain perceived abilities, skills, or character orientations.”

Common Uses

The most obvious use of the word “ableism” is to give a name to a broad range of discriminatory experiences people with all kinds of disabilities share to some degree. But the word has other, more specific functions too:

It distinguishes the disability experience from the more generic experience of “discrimination” or “prejudice” that can be applied to anyone, including non-disabled people.

It suggests some connection or similarity with other forms of discrimination that people may be more familiar with, such as racism.

By giving disability discrimination a distinct name, the word “ableism” takes the experience out of the category of mere misunderstanding and social rudeness, and places it more firmly in the category of damaging and urgent social ills.

Problems and Misunderstandings

At times, “ableism” is too general a word. There are too many different kinds of ableism. Each kind is serious, but often calls for different responses. Referring to such a wide range of experiences simply as “ableism” tends to over-simplify the way we think about it and deal with it.

I have tried a few times on this blog to map out the different kinds of ableism I have noticed. There’s a good summary of my thoughts here: Disputing “Ableism”. Roughly speaking, I tend to think in terms of three main kinds of ableism:

Well-meaning ableism

Systemic ableism

Asshole ableism

Your mileage, of course, may vary.

I think it’s also useful to separate “systemic” ableism … the ableism embedded and laws, policies, and practices … from interpersonal ableism … which is about the way people treat each other personally in regard to disability.

Another slight problem with “ableism” is that there are still people who hear the word and immediately think it’s “made up” for “political purposes.” I think what they mean is that they believe the term was coined with a specific rhetorical goal in mind. That’s probably true! But the same is true of a lot of words that are far more common and universally accepted than “ableism.”

In this run through the disability alphabet, I think we will find that people have fundamentally different beliefs about language that are distinct and separate from their political views. People seem to be hard wired one way or another. They either view language as an flexible and adaptable tool of communication and persuasion, or they cling to words as guardians of unchanging reality. And how people think about language affects how open they are to new words and new uses of language … something that has been essential in the evolution of disability culture and thought.

Finally, the way “ableism” borrows so directly on the meanings and rhetorical power of “racism” is, (to use another word we’ll need to explore at some point), problematic. Comparisons between ableism and racism do violence to the real-life experience of racism, and in any case the similarities are pretty limited. Both are systems of prejudice, but the similarities end there. On the other hand, “ableism” now has almost enough life and meaning of its own to stand alone, without needing to draw on that connection with racism or any other “ism.”

[Additional note: Squarespace underlines every time I type “ableism,” indicating that it doesn’t recognize it as a word. It may not be a new word to disabled people or the disability community, but it’s apparently new enough to be marked as a misspelling].

Suggestions

Despite all of the difficulties of “ableism,” there’s no better word available to describe and categorize the experience of disability discrimination and structural oppression. I use it. Still, whenever possible, I modify it, clarifying which kind of ableism I am talking talking about in any given situation.

Also, I try to use the word “ableism” describe, not to de-legitimize or shame. Calling someone or something “ableist” does not, to me, write them off. It’s not even a condemnation to me. At most it’s a criticism, more often an observation. I’m not suggesting shying away from the potential power of the word as a way to call out reprehensible behavior. I am suggesting that using the word with a bit of thought and nuance can make it more powerful and useful in the long run.

Advocacy

Definitions

Dictionary.com: “noun 1. the act of pleading for, supporting, or recommending; active espousal.”

Wikipedia: “Advocacy is an activity by an individual or group which aims to influence decisions within political, economic, and social systems and institutions. Advocacy can include many activities that a person or organization undertakes including media campaigns, public speaking, commissioning and publishing research or conducting exit poll or the filing of an amicus brief. Lobbying (often by lobby groups) is a form of advocacy where a direct approach is made to legislators on an issue which plays a significant role in modern politics.[1] Research has started to address how advocacy groups in the United States[2] and Canada[3] are using social media to facilitate civic engagement and collective action.”

Common Uses

In the world of disability, advocacy generally refers to any effort by an individual or a group to get something they want from some kind of institution … from a service agency, government office, employer, company, cultural institution, etc. When people with disabilities speak for themselves in order to get something they need or bring about some kind of change, we call it advocacy.

Problems and Misunderstandings

Like “ableism,” “advocacy” probably covers too many different activities. In current use the term encompasses both individual efforts aimed at personal gains, and group efforts to achieve broader systemic change. It covers asking your employer for extra time off or a raised desk. It also covers campaigning for health care reform and fighting attacks on the Americans with Disabilities Act. While all of these are related, they are also, obviously, quite different.

The term “advocacy” has also gradually become institutionalized. It is now sometimes used cynically to give the appearance of empowering disabled people, when in fact some activities labeled “advocacy” are really just dressed-up counseling or socializing. It’s a little too easy for an organization to say it does “advocacy” without really doing any.

Suggestions

I think we should start talking and writing about two related but separate things: advocacy and activism.

Activism

Definitions

Dictionary.com: “noun 1. the doctrine or practice of vigorous action or involvement as a means of achieving political or other goals, sometimes by demonstrations, protests, etc.”

Wikipedia: “Activism consists of efforts to promote, impede, direct, or intervene in social, political, economic, or environmental reform with the desire to make changes in society. Forms of activism range from writing letters to newspapers, petitioning elected officials, running or contributing to a political campaign, preferential patronage (or boycott) of businesses, and demonstrative forms of activism like rallies, street marches, strikes, sit-ins, or hunger strikes.”

Common Uses

“Activism” generally refers to organized, group activities aimed at making some kind of legal or social change. It includes everything from lobbying, letter-writing, and other “within the system” efforts to demonstrations, protests, and civil disobedience.

It seems like “activism” hasn’t been used as much in the past to describe these activities done by people with disabilities focusing on disability issues. “Advocacy” and sometimes “systems advocacy” has been the more common term. I don’t know why. Maybe because until fairly recently, most disability activism has been either run or heavily influenced by people and organizations that spoke the language of social work rather than politics. Maybe “advocacy” is a more comfortable linguistic fit for people who are unfamiliar or uncomfortable with politics.

But lately it seems like “activism” is being used more often by people in the disability community. After years struggling to find a word for the thing we do when we cooperate as a group to bring about social change for disabled people, it seems like we’ve finally started to realize that “activism” describes it quite well and quite simply. We don’t need to make up a special word for it. The right word has been there all along.

Problems and Misunderstandings

I don’t really see any problem with using the word “activism” in the disability context. I haven’t heard anyone complain that it mislabels what they are doing. Nor have I heard anyone assert that “advocacy” is a better term.

The only possible drawback to “activism” is that it might turn people off if they have a strong aversion to any kind of social or political activity. There certainly are lots of people in the disability community who don’t enjoy or appreciate “activism.” Yet, I’ve never noticed any aversion to the word itself.

Suggestions

So how about it? Let’s use “advocacy” when we talk about individual efforts, and “activism” when we talk about working together on broader goals. Who’s with me?

Next in The Disability Alphabet: B is for … Barrers and Benefits.

#Alphabet #Words

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georgeinmalawi · 7 years

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Dedza, Mzuzu

22.1.17

As we squeezed into two of the three tiny seats in row 2 on the “Big Bus” to Dedza, the ample man in the third offered me the Saturday “Nation”, one of the Malawi dailys. Reading it was much like other issues: descriptions of government officials being dismissed or investigated for corruption, tales of young girls in villages having to perform sexual favors for their chiefs or aid workers in order to get their ration of food, etc. I thought I’d write about that but as we got off the bus, it turns out he gave me the paper before he’d read it, so I returned it to him and don’t have it as a reference.

Dedza Pottery is a very large compound 5 km outside the town of Dedza. It has been around for decades and the potters make lovely and whimsical stoneware pottery. There is a lodge and restaurant, as well, and Linda and I spent two nights there before I headed north to Mzuzu to teach some child psychiatry to clinical officers and nursing students at St. John of God College and to learn about their remarkable (by reputation) programs for the mentally unwell, the addicted, and mentally retarded (Learning Disabled) children. Linda will return to Blantyre to teach this week.

The Pottery is in a lovely setting, surrounded by lawns and flowers and trees and, beyond the property, hills. We happily walked here after the 3 ½ hour bus ride and the countryside became increasingly beautiful, always shockingly green and punctuated with small (800-1200ft) mountains. The area has been clear cut but there has been an active reforestation project here for 10 years and the young pine forests soften the rocky slopes of the hills. We climbed to the top of Dedza Mountain with a guide; the view of all the undulating greenery below was refreshing after the plastic trash and deforestation in a lot of the South.

During the past week before leaving Blantyre, I evaluated a man, 50yo, who was lying on the concrete floor of the clinic for a couple of hours, screaming. We were very busy and after briefly assessing that he wasn’t perishing, I left him to his several friends and family members and worked my way down the list of patients who had signed in earlier than he. When his family finally carried him in to see me, as he apparently couldn’t walk, it was quickly clear that he didn’t have a functional psychiatric illness but was delirious. Why? It turns out he has been HIV positive for some years, although his family had not been told. I needed to get him back to the ED where he could have a lumbar puncture to look for signs of infection and be admitted to the hospital for definitive treatment of his HIV/AIDS and whatever secondary infection might be consuming his brain. He’d been in the ED the night before and they, seeing he was deranged, sent him to Room 6 (Psychiatry Clinic) to be seen the following day. We really need to do an in-service with the staff there about distinguishing delirium from schizophrenia or mania, as this happens not infrequently and it delays critical treatment considerably.

Room 6 received two consultation requests. One was for a woman, 42yo who’d had pre-eclampsia and who’d given birth to her 6th child and gone home, only to become disoriented, confused, mute and not taking food or fluids after 3 days. She tried to harm her child, as well. After two more days the family brought her back to the hospital where she was found to have extremely high blood pressure. Treated with two antihypertensives, she, astoundingly, completely cleared and was discharged by the time I went to see her. [It has been wild in clinic this week, with an extra patient load, two of the three nurses out, no residents present, and only one psychiatrist, me. As a result, I was late to get to the consultations.] From reading the consultation request I thought she had a post-partum psychosis but it turns out she had eclampsia psychosis without a seizure, also known as “Donkin psychosis”. I have never heard of it but looked it up online.

After I found her bed empty (She was only in hospital for 2 days before she recovered.), I tried to locate her medical record. The ward clerk pulled out two large cardboard boxes full of loose papers and proceeded to go through them, finally pulling out 3 pieces stapled together with her name on them. That is how the records are delivered to Central Record Storage. Electronic medical records would be wonderful, except there are no computers and often no electricity.

The other consultation request, whom I also didn’t see, was a 16 yo boy with epilepsy who had a fit and fell into a cooking fire. He was about to have an above-the-elbow amputation of one forearm and hand because he had so badly burned the nerves and tendons that they were irreparable. He’ll be seen by the other psychiatrist who is now back in town from holiday.

I’m having a new sign painted for our clinic, on my dime. Our current one says, “Room 6 Psych”. It is written, as the other signs in the hospital are written, with red letters on a white field, but it must have been painted in place because the red paint is dripping. It looks like an invitation to a horror movie. Mine will have the same regulation color scheme but will be allowed to lie horizontally until it is dry and will say, “Room 6 Mental Health”. The director of the hospital, when I said I would pay for it, was happy to approve it. Tiny steps.

My trip to Mzuzu was an eye opener of what is possible. The further north you travel in Malawi, the less congested it becomes. There are many fewer people per square kilometer in the north and, consequently, there are still beautiful standing forests. Of course, there are the denuded hills but a vigorous reforestation project has been underway. When the government shut it down a few years ago, however, some disgruntled employees set fire to great swaths of pine trees, killing them. I guess if desperate and hopeless and angry enough we all will foul our own nest.

I was late getting off in the morning when I was to meet Amelia, a GHSP volunteer teaching community mental health nursing in Mzuzu. I walked a bit of the 30 minutes to the hospital, realized I wouldn’t make our meeting time of 7:20AM, and jumped on a bike taxi. Basically, a bike with a padded seat over the rear wheel and foot pegs. I had no bike helmet so if Peace Corps had seen me, I’d have been in hot water. It was pretty scary actually but certainly got me to the House of Hospitality quickly.

St. John of God has a standout series of programs: a lovely 26 bed mental hospital on a hill, a separate 30 day inpatient drug and alcohol detox center, and, across town by the College, a truly amazingly comprehensive program for Learning Disabled children and teens. They are starting mental health services for children and adolescents, in addition to the LD program. It was fun teaching the Clinical Officers, although at the end after thanking me, their instructor requested that the next time I would please give a lecture. I quickly said that I have never felt lectures were particularly useful for teaching, favoring a more interactive approach. I then realized that may have been offensive and said that I can certainly focus my remarks more the next time. The Mental Health Nursing students presented 4 different cases that we were able to discuss; they were a lively bunch.

The best part of the experience for me was driving to a small district clinic on the road down to Lake Malawi. It was a brick building sitting in the woods constructed by the community with a slab concrete floor, two rooms, no water or electricity, and window frames without windows. It was packed with people sitting quietly and patiently on benches. The nurse and the village representative made a list of who was there, charts were pulled from the wooden box we brought, and the nurse, the clinical officer, and Amelia all saw patients for 3 ½ hours. Most were established patients, most had chronic mental illness or epilepsy (which is treated by mental health professionals, not neurologists, in the developing world) and required medication adjustment or refills. It was an efficient, humane operation. St. John of God goes to all the district clinics once per month to provide these services. True community mental health. Basic but effective.

The three GHSP nurses working in Mzuzu took great care of me. We ate at Midlands, a really good and inexpensive Indian restaurant, at the chapatti lady’s spot in the midst of the market where two of us had lunch for about a dollar total, and at a couple of wonderful restaurants run by ex-pats in beautiful old houses set in gardens outside the city. There is a great chitenje market and I bought Linda 4 meters of black with electric blue dragonflies, thinking Ken the Tailor could make a stunning cocktail dress with it. We’ll see.

My bus ride back to Blantyre, all 10 hours of it, was entertaining as I chatted with a very interesting man who’d completed medical school at the College of Medicine, hadn’t practiced for reasons I didn’t explore and he didn’t offer, and was now finishing a Masters in Public Health at a university in Durban, SA. He gave me a really good perspective on Malawi’s slide downhill over the past 15 years. Even though the prevalence of HIV is considerably down, the population explosion and the fact that the country cannot feed itself has wreaked havoc on the economy and the environment.

We are going to have to leave our house, I fear. One of the others in our compound was invaded by 6 armed men who stole batteries and other things from the 3 cars parked there. Peace Corps is concerned about our safety, having had some very serious incidents over the years with regular volunteers (mostly people just out of college). We’ve each protested strongly but are also looking at other houses which Peace Corps will have to rent. We feel totally safe here, with bars, gates, guards, alarms, padlocks, and so forth. I’m certainly much more concerned about getting hit on my bike, being in a minibus crash, or being able to exit the house if there is a fire. We love our porch, our view, our spacious dwelling, and the possibilities for a really good garden but are working for an organization and must toe the line.

The inauguration was pathetic. The women’s marches all over the world have been inspiring. It is so sad to see our magnificent democracy, for all its flaws, being led by someone so unsuited to do so. And is he in Putin’s pocket, as it seems? But the mobilization of so many gives some hope. We unfortunately are reaping what we’ve earned by leaving so many poor, unskilled for this economy, and uneducated in the dust. It takes a dose of narcissism to run for president. His tops the heap, however, and will hopefully lead to his collapse soon.

Given all this, I’m going to stay another year. I realized, thinking about it this morning, that if I leave at the end of my contract in June, I’ll feel like I’m going home with my tail between my legs, slinking off. I can’t say I won’t feel the same after two years but at least I can see a few things through that I have begun. The needs are greater than I can ever hope to substantially improve, in a real sense. But I can try to do a bit. I also feel that I have no pressing work drawing me home. It is nice to feel needed here.

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