34. The fridge

Since moving into the new apartment in the Mission, I have not seen eye to eye with our fridge.

Let me state from the outset that I love American fridges. I love their burnished aluminium bulk. I love their twin doors, like a Wild West saloon. I love the way that they remind me of the tremendous optimism of this country - two cars in every garage, more food than you can eat, tanned limbs and soda fountains and the beach boys, and the belief that there is more than enough for everyone. Yes it was naive and conformist and repressive and frequently untrue, but it must have been wonderful too.

I also love the ice dispensing facility of the modern American fridge. No more fiddly trays left unfilled. And the crushed ice, so useful for making cocktails! If you have ever tried crushing ice manually, you will know what a joy that facility is.

So, I was disappointed to discover, on the day of our Halloween party, that the ice making machine appeared not to work. On closer investigation, I saw that the drawer which ought to have been full of ice cubes was in fact filled by one solid block of ice. I tried to remove the drawer. I had to drag the fridge out from its wooden housing to open the swing door fully in order to gain access to the drawer. Having removed the drawer, I held it under the hot tap for 20 minutes so that the hot water could melt the block of ice. I alternately scalded and froze my fingers, but no matter, the goal was noble.

The process was also educational: it provided me with a visual image of the melting of a glacier. The rivers of hot water formed little boreholes in the surface of the ice, eventually converging in subterranean streams and undermining the integrity of the frozen mass until it finally broke into small pieces.

I replaced the empty drawer and checked on it periodically. The cubes of ice which were coming out of the ice-maker were misshapen. I fiddled around with the mechanism, pushing here and prodding there. I began to obsess, checking the drawer every hour. I didn't understand the mechanism. Why were the cubes only half formed?

Maybe the flow of water to the freezer was insufficient? With much effort, I dragged the fridge all the way out of its surrounding wooden housing. I saw, amongst the dust and fur balls and disintegrating organic matter, that the fridge had been standing on the water feed pipe, reducing the flow. I managed to pull out the water feed pipe, then I pushed the fridge back in.

Confident of success, and desirous of confirmation, I checked the ice drawer at least every half an hour. NO IMPROVEMENT!

Again I pulled and prodded at the mechanism. Still nothing.

What's more, having removed the pipe from under the back of the fridge, it now tilted back at a very unsatisfactory angle. In fact, when both doors are open, it looks as if the fridge is leaning back to hawk up a throatful of phlegm prior to spitting it at whatever sad, fridge-light-illumined figure happens to be standing in front. The interior of this fridge, once a place of cool and calm abundance, has morphed into the mocking maw of my nemesis.

G and I have tried placing a plank of wood behind the fridge and then tipping it forward so that the back will be lifted by resting on the plank. However, the wooden housing means that we can't tip the fridge forward sufficiently.

I am saddened by these developments.

Last night, I resolved to try one more time. I meditated a little, then I opened the ice drawer. I allowed my fingers to wander over the mechanism. Like a zen master, I did not try to guide them. With radiance pure and simple, I allowed them to feel their way. When they encountered resistance, I allowed it to pass through consciousness and then to evaporate like a soap sud or a thought formed by the illusion of selfhood. Eventually, and with my fingers almost frostbitten, I was rewarded. The warmth of my fingers had melted a tiny piece of ice and freed up a part which, up until that point, I had thought was fixed. I moved it and it clicked satisfactorily into place. Then I went to bed.

After a few minutes, the ice machine starting to produce an irritating, clucking sound. Was this the equivalent of derisive laughter? Was this mechanical monster mocking me? It certainly stopped me from falling asleep.

And this morning, no ice.

But a haiku:

American fridge -
Bright doors to rich abundance!
My cold sad fingers.

33. The Mission

It has been a long time since my last post, which was about fasting. Well, I did fast for three days, and I didn't die, in case anyone was wondering. Actually, it wasn't all that difficult. Fasting over a three day period was, for me, rather binary: I was either hungry or not - there was not much in between. And when I was hungry, even on day three, it was never much worse than the feeling of having missed breakfast on an ordinary day. The hunger pangs would come every few hours but in between there was respite and, for the most part, I felt pretty normal.

By day three I did find it hard to study - my ability to concentrate was certainly affected. If I had been lying down, I would get a bit of a head-rush when I stood up. I also found it advisable to avoid places where I could see or smell food because they would trigger more aggressive pangs. Interestingly, I also noticed an increased sensitivity in my ability to smell. I walked past a group of girls in North Beach and I am pretty sure that the smell of their perfume was much more intense than normal, and I could detect it from much further away. I was left feeling like Suskind's Grenouille - not a particular role model of mine.

I was in Vancouver when I broke the fast. I celebrated with an evening meal of sushi, then with a brownie from Starbucks and a few slices of maple fudge. This set my heart racing as if I were on speed. It is interesting to see what a powerful effect sugar can have when you are not used to it.

I have now moved into an apartment in the Mission district of San Francisco. I like living here - the sights and smells make me feel as if I am in Central America. There is also a much greater sense of community - I often see Mexicans, Salvadoreans or Guatemalans bumping into each other or hollering at each other across the street. It's also warmer and sunnier than other parts of the city. In fact, the Halloween weekend felt like midsummer. On hot afternoons, there's a group of Mexicans who meet to shoot craps against the wall beside my building. Well, I don't know whether they are actually shooting craps, but I have always wanted to use that expression. In any case, the Mexicans are throwing dice against a wall and taking bets.

I share the ground floor apartment with my friend G. There are a number of steps leading up to the front door. On sunny afternoons, it is a great pleasure to sit on those steps. They remind me of the steps leading up to the old brownstone in Sesame Street. Also, although I am not part of the Latino community here, when I sit on the steps and watch the goings on, I feel that I am not totally divorced from it either. Increasingly, I think it is important to feel some sense of community, even in a small vicarious way.



My flatmate and I decided to throw a Halloween party. On the morning of the party, I still did not have a costume. Fortunately, on the way to buy a breakfast burrito, I walked past a shop on Mission Street which, I think, provides Sunday best outfits for the neighborhood's coolest cats. It certainly does not market itself as a fancy dress shop. However, I found a very satisfactory costume - a peach suit and hat complemented by silky turquoise shirt and tie, and matching turquoise faux-aligator skin shoes:









It did cross my mind that walking around the Mission in my get up might be equivalent to blacking my face with shoe polish and wandering around Harlem - i.e. an error. However, I need not have worried - people openly burst into laughter when they saw me.