newyorker--2020-01-27--The Pitfalls and the Potential of the New Minimalism

The new literature of minimalism is full of stressful advice .
Pack up all your possessions , unpack things only as needed , give away everything that ’ s still packed after a month .
Or wake up early , pick up every item you own , and consider whether or not it sparks joy .
See if you can wear just thirty-three items of clothing for three months .
Know that it ’ s possible to live abundantly with only a hundred possessions .
Don ’ t organize—purge .
Digitize your photos .
Get rid of the things you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ apartment .
Think constantly about what will enable you to live the best life possible .
Never buy anything on sale .
Recently , I spent a few months absorbing the new minimalist gospel , beginning with Marie Kondo , the celebrity decluttering guru , whose book “ The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up ” has sold more than ten million copies , and whose stance can seem twee but is rooted in Shinto tradition : having fewer possessions allows us to care for those possessions as if they had souls .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ryan Nicodemus , who call themselves the Minimalists and , under that name , run a blog , publish books , and host a podcast that is downloaded as many as three million times a month .
I read the blog Be More with Less , which is written by Courtney Carver , who came to minimalism after being given a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis and views the practice as a pathway to love and self-care .
Also on my syllabus were the books “ Essentialism : The Disciplined Pursuit of Less , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ minimalism is a habit of highly effective people ; “ The More of Less : Finding the Life You Want Under Everything You Own , ” by Joshua Becker , a former pastor who wants his readers to free up their time and money for charitable causes ; and “ Goodbye , Things : The New Japanese Minimalism , ” by Fumio Sasaki , who writes with winning self-deprecation , admitting that his simple life style might make him seem like a loser .
As I waded through this course of study , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ irradiated in the microwave : I was trapped , unpleasantly , but a cleansing fire was beginning to rage within .
I Kondoed my sock drawer , tenderly unravelling lumpy balls of wool and cotton and laying each pair flat .
I made daily pilgrimages to Goodwill .
When I went home to Texas for the holidays , I entered my parents ’ apartment as a whirling dervish of minimalist self-satisfaction , hectoring them to toss out their kitchen doodads and excess Tupperware .
Within hours of arrival , I had filled six @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ See ?
!
” I howled , irritating myself and everyone around me .
“ You get rid of the things you don ’ t need so that you can focus on the things you do !
” I sounded , I imagine , like many of the converts to what might be considered the latest wave in an intermittent American impulse .
In 1977 , the social scientists Duane Elgin and Arnold Mitchell observed that , for several years , “ the popular press has paid occasional attention to stories @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Elgin and Mitchell believed that this smattering of articles reflected a social movement that could bring about a “ major transformation of traditional American values.
” They called the movement “ voluntary simplicity , ” and saw it as a potential solution not only to “ growing social malaise ” but also to ecological destruction and the “ unmanageable scale and complexity of institutions.
” They believed that a few million people were practicing full voluntary simplicity , and that as much as half the U.S. population was sympathetic to it .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ VS , ” they wrote that as many as a third of all Americans might be converted to the simple life by the year 2000 .
That didn ’ t happen .
But , in 2008 , the housing crisis and the banking collapse exposed the fantasy of easy acquisition as humiliating and destructive ; for many people , it became newly necessary and desirable to learn to rely on less .
It is tempting to interpret the new minimalism as a kind of cultural aftershock of that financial disruption , and perhaps @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , at the same time that Kondo and her cohort have popularized a form of material humility , minimalism has become an increasingly aspirational and deluxe way of life .
The hashtag # minimalism pulls up more than seventeen million photos on Instagram ; many of the top posts depict high-end interior spaces .
Last April , Kim Kardashian West appeared in a Vogue video walking through her sixty-million-dollar California mansion , a stark , blank , monochromatic palace that she described as a “ minimal monastery.
” Less is more attractive when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ money , and minimalism is easily transformed from a philosophy of intentional restraint into an aesthetic language through which to assert a form of walled-off luxury—a self-centered and competitive impulse that is not so different from the acquisitive attitude that minimalism purports to reject .
It is rarely acknowledged , by either the life-hack-minded authors or the proponents of minimalist design , that many people have minimalism forced upon them by circumstances that render impossible a serene , jewel-box life style .
Nor do they mention that poverty and trauma can make frivolous @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a burden .
Many of today ’ s gurus maintain that minimalism can be useful no matter one ’ s income , but the audience they target is implicitly affluent—the pitch is never about making do with less because you have no choice .
Millburn and Nicodemus frequently describe their past lives as spiritually empty twentysomethings with six-figure incomes .
McKeown pitches his insights at people who have a surplus of options as a consequence of success .
Kondo recently launched an online store , suggesting that the left hand might declutter while @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tuning fork .
Today ’ s minimalism , with its focus on self-improvement , feels oddly dominated by a logic of accumulation .
Less is always more , or “ more , more , more , ” as Millburn and Nicodemus write : “ more time , more passion , more experiences , more growth , more contribution , more contentment—and more freedom.
” “ The Longing for Less : Living with Minimalism , ” a new book by the journalist and critic Kyle Chayka , arrives not as an addition to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it .
Chayka aims to find something deeper within the tradition than an Instagram-friendly aesthetic and the “ saccharine and predigested ” advice of self-help literature .
Writing in search of the things that popular minimalism sweeps out of the frame—the void , transience , messiness , uncertainty—he surveys minimalist figures in art , music , and philosophy , searching for a “ minimalism of ideas rather than things.
” Along the way , he offers sharp critiques of thing-oriented minimalism .
The sleek , simple devices produced by Apple , which encourage @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by tapping and swiping on pocket-size screens , rely on a hidden “ maximalist assemblage , ” Chayka writes : “ server farms absorbing massive amounts of electricity , Chinese factories where workers die by suicide , devastated mud pit mines that produce tin.
” Also , he points out , the glass walls in Apple ’ s headquarters were marked with Post-it notes to keep employees from smacking into them , like birds .
Later in the book , Chayka examines Philip Johnson ’ s Glass House—a startling , transparent box in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ beauty manifests a “ megalomaniacal possessiveness ” over both the surrounding landscape and the experience of anyone who enters .
This sort of aestheticized emptiness , Chayka argues , is “ not particularly radical ; it might even be conservative , ” given its reliance on control and exclusion .
Plus , the ceiling leaked when it rained .

The new literature of minimalism is full of stressful advice. Pack up all your possessions, unpack things only as needed, give away everything that’s still packed after a month. Or wake up early, pick up every item you own, and consider whether or not it sparks joy. See if you can wear just thirty-three items of clothing for three months. Know that it’s possible to live abundantly with only a hundred possessions. Don’t organize—purge. Digitize your photos. Get rid of the things you bought to impress people. Downsize your apartment. Think constantly about what will enable you to live the best life possible. Never buy anything on sale.
Recently, I spent a few months absorbing the new minimalist gospel, beginning with Marie Kondo, the celebrity decluttering guru, whose book “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up” has sold more than ten million copies, and whose stance can seem twee but is rooted in Shinto tradition: having fewer possessions allows us to care for those possessions as if they had souls. I also turned to Joshua Fields Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus, who call themselves the Minimalists and, under that name, run a blog, publish books, and host a podcast that is downloaded as many as three million times a month. I read the blog Be More with Less, which is written by Courtney Carver, who came to minimalism after being given a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis and views the practice as a pathway to love and self-care. Also on my syllabus were the books “Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less,” by Greg McKeown, for whom minimalism is a habit of highly effective people; “The More of Less: Finding the Life You Want Under Everything You Own,” by Joshua Becker, a former pastor who wants his readers to free up their time and money for charitable causes; and “Goodbye, Things: The New Japanese Minimalism,” by Fumio Sasaki, who writes with winning self-deprecation, admitting that his simple life style might make him seem like a loser.
As I waded through this course of study, I felt like a dirty sponge being irradiated in the microwave: I was trapped, unpleasantly, but a cleansing fire was beginning to rage within. I Kondoed my sock drawer, tenderly unravelling lumpy balls of wool and cotton and laying each pair flat. I made daily pilgrimages to Goodwill. When I went home to Texas for the holidays, I entered my parents’ apartment as a whirling dervish of minimalist self-satisfaction, hectoring them to toss out their kitchen doodads and excess Tupperware. Within hours of arrival, I had filled six large trash bags with clothes to donate. “See?!” I howled, irritating myself and everyone around me. “You get rid of the things you don’t need so that you can focus on the things you do! ”
I sounded, I imagine, like many of the converts to what might be considered the latest wave in an intermittent American impulse. In 1977, the social scientists Duane Elgin and Arnold Mitchell observed that, for several years, “the popular press has paid occasional attention to stories of people returning to the simple life.” Elgin and Mitchell believed that this smattering of articles reflected a social movement that could bring about a “major transformation of traditional American values.” They called the movement “voluntary simplicity,” and saw it as a potential solution not only to “growing social malaise” but also to ecological destruction and the “unmanageable scale and complexity of institutions.” They believed that a few million people were practicing full voluntary simplicity, and that as much as half the U.S. population was sympathetic to it. Estimating the “maximum plausible growth of VS,” they wrote that as many as a third of all Americans might be converted to the simple life by the year 2000.
That didn’t happen. But, in 2008, the housing crisis and the banking collapse exposed the fantasy of easy acquisition as humiliating and destructive; for many people, it became newly necessary and desirable to learn to rely on less. It is tempting to interpret the new minimalism as a kind of cultural aftershock of that financial disruption, and perhaps it is, in part. But, at the same time that Kondo and her cohort have popularized a form of material humility, minimalism has become an increasingly aspirational and deluxe way of life. The hashtag #minimalism pulls up more than seventeen million photos on Instagram; many of the top posts depict high-end interior spaces. Last April, Kim Kardashian West appeared in a Vogue video walking through her sixty-million-dollar California mansion, a stark, blank, monochromatic palace that she described as a “minimal monastery.” Less is more attractive when you’ve got a lot of money, and minimalism is easily transformed from a philosophy of intentional restraint into an aesthetic language through which to assert a form of walled-off luxury—a self-centered and competitive impulse that is not so different from the acquisitive attitude that minimalism purports to reject.
It is rarely acknowledged, by either the life-hack-minded authors or the proponents of minimalist design, that many people have minimalism forced upon them by circumstances that render impossible a serene, jewel-box life style. Nor do they mention that poverty and trauma can make frivolous possessions seem like a lifeline rather than a burden. Many of today’s gurus maintain that minimalism can be useful no matter one’s income, but the audience they target is implicitly affluent—the pitch is never about making do with less because you have no choice. Millburn and Nicodemus frequently describe their past lives as spiritually empty twentysomethings with six-figure incomes. McKeown pitches his insights at people who have a surplus of options as a consequence of success. Kondo recently launched an online store, suggesting that the left hand might declutter while the right hand buys a seventy-five-dollar rose-quartz tuning fork. Today’s minimalism, with its focus on self-improvement, feels oddly dominated by a logic of accumulation. Less is always more, or “more, more, more,” as Millburn and Nicodemus write: “more time, more passion, more experiences, more growth, more contribution, more contentment—and more freedom.”
“The Longing for Less: Living with Minimalism,” a new book by the journalist and critic Kyle Chayka, arrives not as an addition to the minimalist canon but as a corrective to it. Chayka aims to find something deeper within the tradition than an Instagram-friendly aesthetic and the “saccharine and predigested” advice of self-help literature. Writing in search of the things that popular minimalism sweeps out of the frame—the void, transience, messiness, uncertainty—he surveys minimalist figures in art, music, and philosophy, searching for a “minimalism of ideas rather than things.”
Along the way, he offers sharp critiques of thing-oriented minimalism. The sleek, simple devices produced by Apple, which encourage us to seamlessly glide through the day by tapping and swiping on pocket-size screens, rely on a hidden “maximalist assemblage,” Chayka writes: “server farms absorbing massive amounts of electricity, Chinese factories where workers die by suicide, devastated mud pit mines that produce tin.” Also, he points out, the glass walls in Apple’s headquarters were marked with Post-it notes to keep employees from smacking into them, like birds. Later in the book, Chayka examines Philip Johnson’s Glass House—a startling, transparent box in New Canaan, Connecticut—and concludes that its beauty manifests a “megalomaniacal possessiveness” over both the surrounding landscape and the experience of anyone who enters. This sort of aestheticized emptiness, Chayka argues, is “not particularly radical; it might even be conservative,” given its reliance on control and exclusion. Plus, the ceiling leaked when it rained.
More beguiling to Chayka are artists who have no interest in directing the lives of others. He writes about Agnes Martin—who considered herself an Abstract Expressionist but whose poised, transcendent paintings have been claimed for Minimalism—and Walter De Maria, whose installation “The New York Earth Room,” a field of dirt in a mostly empty white space, has been quietly confounding people in SoHo since 1977. He visits Donald Judd’s “100 Untitled Works in Mill Aluminum,” in Marfa, Texas, which defies any attempt to ascribe emotional meaning to it—the aluminum boxes are “just there,” Chayka writes, “empty of content except for the sheer fact of their physical presence, obdurate and silent, explaining nothing and with nothing to explain.” Such a sculpture might sound “deathly boring, more math problem than artwork,” but, as you walk through the exhibit, with the desert sun setting the silvery containers alight, they become a “constant affirmation of the simple possibility of sensation.” Elsewhere in the book, he writes about the philosopher Keiji Nishitani, who described ikebana, the Japanese art of flower arranging, as a practice that links beauty to ephemerality and death.


newyorker--2020-01-27--The Magical Thinking of “The Goop Lab”

The Magical Thinking of “The Goop Lab”

In the cover story of the February issue of Harper ’ s Bazaar , Gwyneth Paltrow—photographed wearing a Tom Ford fuchsia “ anatomical breastplate ” —announced , not for the first time , that she will “ literally never ” star in a film again .
How could empty days spent emoting compare to the constant spiritual high of building a multipronged , culturally influential “ wellness ” empire , in a sun-choked office in Santa Monica ?
Don ’ t call Paltrow an actor ; she is an entrepreneur .
She founded her life-style company , Goop , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Reported to be worth around two hundred and fifty million dollars , it has spawned a Web site , multiple stores , a magazine , a podcast , cookbooks—and now a slick six-episode series , “ The Goop Lab , ” for Netflix , that is either the apex or the nadir of infotainment : irresistibly self-aware and personality-obsessed .
Paltrow likes to recall some advice she received in the early days of her venture : that the most successful Internet companies have names featuring double “ o ” s .
“ Goop @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s initials , it is ditzy , one antic letter from being dirty , and onomatopoeic .
The double “ o ” also activates warm memories of Oprah .
As the face of Goop , Paltrow has a slightly sardonic , cool-girl authority , but “ The Goop Lab ” suggests that she , too , is attempting to inspire the kind of unwavering trust we have in Oprah , even when we suspect that the book or the doctor Oprah recommends is not to be trusted .
Paltrow , the daughter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s story , and her race isn ’ t on her side .
But the woman just sold out of a seventy-five-dollar candle called This Smells Like My Vagina—are you not entertained ?
She is an interesting guru , because much of her mythology depends on being hated—for being too rich , too blond , too happy to promote the latest trend .
Like Kim Kardashian West , but for a different tribe , Paltrow does not hide from what Taffy Brodesser-Akner has called the “ cultural ambivalence ” she inspires ; instead @ @ @ @ @ @ @ does Goop sell ?
Its physical inventory may include thousand-dollar cardigans , purses embroidered with the names of dead rappers , crystals cut from pink and green rock , sachets of pulverized herbs that , when steeped , promise to alleviate an array of ills , but its real offering is something more ineffable : what Paltrow calls , on “ The Goop Lab , ” “ optimization of self.
” “ We ’ re here one time , one life , ” she tells her employees as they sit around a boardroom @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ How can we really , like , milk the shit out of this ?
” The rampant spread of wellness culture , dusted with feminist messaging , answers real needs sometimes simply by asserting that they ’ re legitimate .
You are overworked , your skin is sallow , your humors are out of whack .
Goop , at its core a sophisticated advertising apparatus , often disseminates useful advice ; it also has a way of making any advice look potentially useful .
In 2018 , ten county prosecutors in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ watchdog , Truth in Advertising , compiled a report detailing fifty dubious health claims made on the Goop Web site .
The most famous involved eggs made of jade and quartz that were advertised as preventing uterine prolapse when inserted into the vagina .
Goop paid a hundred and forty-five thousand dollars in fines and had to offer refunds .
The promotional images for “ The Goop Lab , ” which feature a grinning Paltrow floating in a pink vulva , are a funny nod to the brand ’ s controversial status .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , “ The following series is designed to entertain and inform—not provide medical advice.
” ) Like other celebrity vanity projects—Beyoncé ’ s “ Life Is But a Dream ” comes to mind— “ The Goop Lab ” is a documentary in name only .
Executive-produced by Paltrow , it is propaganda for the Goop company and for its ideas of magical thinking .
Every living thing and inanimate object is lit as if from within—or through the Instagram Paris filter .
Paltrow ’ s young , mostly female employees are preternaturally attractive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sexualities , ethnicities , and temperaments .
Montages shot in what we are presumably meant to refer to as “ the lab ” show them busily brainstorming , typing , and meeting—but never too busily ; this is , after all , a healthy workplace culture , an office so clean and so bright that no one would want to leave it .
The boss is most often seen draped over a rose-colored couch , forefinger and thumb forming an “ L ” on her temple .
Beside her is Elise Loehnen , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chief content officer and Paltrow ’ s personal consigliere and sometime foil .
( “ What could possibly be wrong with you ?
” Loehnen asks Paltrow , mimicking her critics .
“ You have everything !
” ) Together they interview experts , often characters familiar to followers of Goop , who tend to form a dyad : one is usually an alternative health practitioner , and the other is a licensed professional , there to buttress the practitioner ’ s claims .
In the first episode , “ The Healing Trip @ @ @ @ @ @ @ attained while taking MDMA “ once in Mexico.
” Of course , she could not possibly ingest any drugs on her own show , but she can deploy her employees , or “ Goopers , ” as satellites for the Goop mission .
Loehnen is fully on board , ready to display her fealty by flying , with Paltrow ’ s assistant , Kevin Keating , and two other team members , to Jamaica for a psychedelic mushroom-tea ceremony .
“ This is a sacrament , ” the instructor says , “ so @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the mushroom.
” We watch as the employees trip .
Overcome by memories of past losses , two of them cry hysterically , while Loehnen naps on a yoga mat .
The team emerges clear-eyed , forever changed .
“ The Goop Lab , ” lowbrow TV with high production values , is the most unsettling kind of sponcon—the soulful kind .
Wim Hof , a popular healer who , following the death of his wife , came to believe in the salutary benefits of breathing exercises and immersion in freezing water , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” A bodywork expert asks several employees to lie down on massage tables , and then , like a puppeteer , pulls at the air above them as they writhe , moan , and weep .
In every episode , the skeptics are converted , and the believers are reaffirmed .
If “ intuiting ” and “ energy fields ” are not your bag , you were never going to be swayed by “ The Goop Lab ” —although I confess that , after watching , I did take one , brief , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ therapies might be put off by the show ’ s efficient portrayals of “ healing ” —breathing exercises on the grass , for instance , that lead to instantaneous catharsis .
The show ’ s queasiest , most Oprah-y moments involve the testimonies of regular people , meaning people who would likely never read or buy anything from Goop .
They are filmed , styled and dressed like Goopers , sitting alone , on designer chairs , with the white lab in the background .
An Iraq War veteran who for years suffered @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eliminated his suicidal ideation .
A man diagnosed with Guillain-Barré syndrome claims that the cold-water therapy restored his full range of movement ; he can now do a split .
And yet , when “ The Goop Lab ” winks at its own absurdity viewers are in more danger of being entertained , even moved .
“ The Pleasure Is Ours , ” an episode about female orgasms , is great TV and genuinely educational , largely thanks to the charismatic and rightly militant ninety-year-old sex educator Betty Dodson , who , since @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for women determined to find sexual satisfaction , in which she requires that they study their own and one another ’ s vulvae .
( “ We used to say that a woman had to learn how to ‘ run the fuck , ’ ” she says . )
The episode comes with its own exposure therapy , in the form of a montage of photographs featuring vulvae .
Later , Dodson assists a colleague as she demonstrates the “ rock and roll ” masturbation technique .
I ’ d never seen a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , with such lack of fetishism .
For a moment , I was thoroughly Gooped .
♦

In the cover story of the February issue of Harper’s Bazaar, Gwyneth Paltrow—photographed wearing a Tom Ford fuchsia “anatomical breastplate”—announced, not for the first time, that she will “literally never” star in a film again. How could empty days spent emoting compare to the constant spiritual high of building a multipronged, culturally influential “wellness” empire, in a sun-choked office in Santa Monica? Don’t call Paltrow an actor; she is an entrepreneur. She founded her life-style company, Goop, in 2008, as a recommendations newsletter. Reported to be worth around two hundred and fifty million dollars, it has spawned a Web site, multiple stores, a magazine, a podcast, cookbooks—and now a slick six-episode series, “The Goop Lab,” for Netflix, that is either the apex or the nadir of infotainment: irresistibly self-aware and personality-obsessed.
Paltrow likes to recall some advice she received in the early days of her venture: that the most successful Internet companies have names featuring double “o”s. “Goop” is perfect. Cradled by Paltrow’s initials, it is ditzy, one antic letter from being dirty, and onomatopoeic. The double “o” also activates warm memories of Oprah. As the face of Goop, Paltrow has a slightly sardonic, cool-girl authority, but “The Goop Lab” suggests that she, too, is attempting to inspire the kind of unwavering trust we have in Oprah, even when we suspect that the book or the doctor Oprah recommends is not to be trusted. Paltrow, the daughter of Hollywood stars, lacks Oprah’s story, and her race isn’t on her side. But the woman just sold out of a seventy-five-dollar candle called This Smells Like My Vagina—are you not entertained? She is an interesting guru, because much of her mythology depends on being hated—for being too rich, too blond, too happy to promote the latest trend. Like Kim Kardashian West, but for a different tribe, Paltrow does not hide from what Taffy Brodesser-Akner has called the “cultural ambivalence” she inspires; instead, she has marshalled it.
What does Goop sell? Its physical inventory may include thousand-dollar cardigans, purses embroidered with the names of dead rappers, crystals cut from pink and green rock, sachets of pulverized herbs that, when steeped, promise to alleviate an array of ills, but its real offering is something more ineffable: what Paltrow calls, on “The Goop Lab,” “optimization of self.” “We’re here one time, one life,” she tells her employees as they sit around a boardroom table in the series’ opening sequence. “How can we really, like, milk the shit out of this?” The rampant spread of wellness culture, dusted with feminist messaging, answers real needs sometimes simply by asserting that they’re legitimate. You are overworked, your skin is sallow, your humors are out of whack. Goop, at its core a sophisticated advertising apparatus, often disseminates useful advice; it also has a way of making any advice look potentially useful. In 2018, ten county prosecutors in California sued the company after a consumer watchdog, Truth in Advertising, compiled a report detailing fifty dubious health claims made on the Goop Web site. The most famous involved eggs made of jade and quartz that were advertised as preventing uterine prolapse when inserted into the vagina. Goop paid a hundred and forty-five thousand dollars in fines and had to offer refunds. The promotional images for “The Goop Lab,” which feature a grinning Paltrow floating in a pink vulva, are a funny nod to the brand’s controversial status. (A disclaimer prefacing each episode reads, “The following series is designed to entertain and inform—not provide medical advice.”)
Like other celebrity vanity projects—Beyoncé’s “Life Is But a Dream” comes to mind—“The Goop Lab” is a documentary in name only. Executive-produced by Paltrow, it is propaganda for the Goop company and for its ideas of magical thinking. Every living thing and inanimate object is lit as if from within—or through the Instagram Paris filter. Paltrow’s young, mostly female employees are preternaturally attractive, a well-apportioned mixture of races, sexualities, ethnicities, and temperaments. Montages shot in what we are presumably meant to refer to as “the lab” show them busily brainstorming, typing, and meeting—but never too busily; this is, after all, a healthy workplace culture, an office so clean and so bright that no one would want to leave it.
The boss is most often seen draped over a rose-colored couch, forefinger and thumb forming an “L” on her temple. Beside her is Elise Loehnen, Goop’s competent, oddly affectless chief content officer and Paltrow’s personal consigliere and sometime foil. (“What could possibly be wrong with you?” Loehnen asks Paltrow, mimicking her critics. “You have everything!”) Together they interview experts, often characters familiar to followers of Goop, who tend to form a dyad: one is usually an alternative health practitioner, and the other is a licensed professional, there to buttress the practitioner’s claims. In the first episode, “The Healing Trip,” Paltrow recalls the clarity she attained while taking MDMA “once in Mexico.” Of course, she could not possibly ingest any drugs on her own show, but she can deploy her employees, or “Goopers,” as satellites for the Goop mission. Loehnen is fully on board, ready to display her fealty by flying, with Paltrow’s assistant, Kevin Keating, and two other team members, to Jamaica for a psychedelic mushroom-tea ceremony. “This is a sacrament,” the instructor says, “so we can be with the spirit of the mushroom.” We watch as the employees trip. Overcome by memories of past losses, two of them cry hysterically, while Loehnen naps on a yoga mat. The team emerges clear-eyed, forever changed.
“The Goop Lab,” lowbrow TV with high production values, is the most unsettling kind of sponcon—the soulful kind. Wim Hof, a popular healer who, following the death of his wife, came to believe in the salutary benefits of breathing exercises and immersion in freezing water, teaches a group of Goopers “snowga.” A bodywork expert asks several employees to lie down on massage tables, and then, like a puppeteer, pulls at the air above them as they writhe, moan, and weep. In every episode, the skeptics are converted, and the believers are reaffirmed.
If “intuiting” and “energy fields” are not your bag, you were never going to be swayed by “The Goop Lab”—although I confess that, after watching, I did take one, brief, ice-cold shower. True believers in alternative therapies might be put off by the show’s efficient portrayals of “healing”—breathing exercises on the grass, for instance, that lead to instantaneous catharsis. The show’s queasiest, most Oprah-y moments involve the testimonies of regular people, meaning people who would likely never read or buy anything from Goop. They are filmed, styled and dressed like Goopers, sitting alone, on designer chairs, with the white lab in the background. An Iraq War veteran who for years suffered from P.T.S.D. reports that MDMA therapy eliminated his suicidal ideation. A man diagnosed with Guillain-Barré syndrome claims that the cold-water therapy restored his full range of movement; he can now do a split.
And yet, when “The Goop Lab” winks at its own absurdity viewers are in more danger of being entertained, even moved. “The Pleasure Is Ours,” an episode about female orgasms, is great TV and genuinely educational, largely thanks to the charismatic and rightly militant ninety-year-old sex educator Betty Dodson, who, since the seventies, has led group workshops for women determined to find sexual satisfaction, in which she requires that they study their own and one another’s vulvae. (“We used to say that a woman had to learn how to ‘run the fuck,’ ” she says.) The episode comes with its own exposure therapy, in the form of a montage of photographs featuring vulvae. Later, Dodson assists a colleague as she demonstrates the “rock and roll” masturbation technique. I’d never seen a woman coming to orgasm filmed that way, with such lack of fetishism. For a moment, I was thoroughly Gooped. ♦


newyorker--2020-01-27--Hello, 911?, by Samantha Irby

Hello, 911?, by Samantha Irby

Hello , 911 ?
There ’ s a middle-aged dad standing next to the yogurts in Trader Joe ’ s actively strumming a guitar and trying to make meaningful eye contact with every harried person trying to get a box of Pastry Pups on a dismal Saturday afternoon , and everyone other than me seems to be maintaining a relaxed and happy exterior despite the fact that this is terribly embarrassing and he is singing Bob Marley .
Please get me out of here .
All I wanted was a bag of reasonably priced shelled nuts sold to me by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a faded Hawaiian shirt .
Is that really too much to fucking ask ?
Hello , 911 ?
I am the first person at this party .
Hello , 911 ?
I ’ ve been lying awake for an hour each night for the past eight months , reliving a two-second awkward experience I had in front of a casual acquaintance three years ago .
Hello , 911 ?
Is some invisible force going to push me down this flight of stairs ?
Hello , 911 ?
I was watching that show “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and these two characters were riding in a car and having a passionate conversation , and dude turned to lady and I was gripped with what can only be described as stomach-churning panic as my entire body clenched in anticipation of the car jumping the curb and crashing through the plate-glass window of a laundromat , because the dude took his eyes entirely off the road for at least twelve seconds .
When was the first movie made ?
1888 ?
And , after all those years of practice , people still @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in a moving car ?
The driver ’ s eyes need to be on the Toyota in front of him , Oprah Winfrey .
I ’ m going to have a fucking stroke .
Hello , 911 ?
This takeout place doesn ’ t have online ordering .
Hello , 911 ?
Which line is moving faster , the one I ’ m in or that other line , and do you think I should switch ?
Does it matter ?
It ’ s not like I have anywhere to be , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my organs are going to burst out of my skin .
I can ’ t prove it , but I think this line is moving incrementally slower .
Why does that make me feel like I ’ m losing a race ?
Should I just stay where I am , or do you think it ’ s O.K .
if I ease over to Lane 8 in a way that silently telegraphs to the checkout girl , “ I ’ m not mad , just having an inexplicable panic attack , please ignore @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that other line , will the Target gods smite me by throwing a clearance-rack shirt with a missing price tag into that lady ’ s cart ?
Why did I even come here ?
Hello , 911 ?
What if I fall asleep on this bus ?
Hello , 911 ?
That lady caught me taking a selfie and walked away before I could convincingly pretend to be holding my phone at this angle for some other reason .
Hello , 911 ?
It ’ s eleven-thirty at night and I ’ ve @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tomorrow morning at nine-thirty .
I set my alarm for eight .
That should give me plenty of time , right ?
Google Maps says it ’ s probably going to take seventeen minutes to get there from my hotel , barring any major traffic , but what if the Lyft driver is late ?
Alternatively , what if the doorman can ’ t find a cab ?
I ’ m planning to go down at nine .
Does that leave enough time for me to get eggs from room service ?
But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Should I risk it ?
It ’ s midnight now and I think I ’ ll be hungry in the morning , but what if I ’ m not ?
Then I ’ m stuck waiting for eggs I don ’ t want .
Maybe I should set my alarm for eight-thirty .
I definitely want to sleep off this Xanax , but does that give me enough time to take an actual crevice-cleaning , hair-washing shower ?
Should I be honest about who I really am as a person and factor in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s twelve-thirty , but to be safe I ’ m going to set the alarm for seven-thirty .
Should I attempt to impress these people with eye makeup , or do they not care because they are serious businesspersons ?
Let me just go ahead and set my phone for 6:55 , so I have plenty of time to contour and blend ( i.e.
, totally fuck it up and wipe it all off while crying ) .
Since I ’ m up , it wouldn ’ t hurt to iron my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t hide my legs under a table .
Why does everyone want to “ meet ” on couches these days ?
An electric chair would be more relaxing .
Wait a minute—it ’ s already one o ’ clock ?
!
Hello , 911 ?
My friend just left me a voice mail .
Hello , 911 ?
My brain is a prison , and anxiety is the warden .
I am besieged by an undeniable urge to peel off my skin like the layers of an onion until death claims me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ embrace , and I know it took me a long time to finally call and I ’ m not a hundred per cent sure that this qualifies as an emergency , but I think I ’ ve reached my limit and I might need some help .

Hello, 911? There’s a middle-aged dad standing next to the yogurts in Trader Joe’s actively strumming a guitar and trying to make meaningful eye contact with every harried person trying to get a box of Pastry Pups on a dismal Saturday afternoon, and everyone other than me seems to be maintaining a relaxed and happy exterior despite the fact that this is terribly embarrassing and he is singing Bob Marley. Please get me out of here. All I wanted was a bag of reasonably priced shelled nuts sold to me by a relatively attractive retired shoe salesman in a faded Hawaiian shirt. Is that really too much to fucking ask?
Hello, 911? I am the first person at this party.
Hello, 911? I’ve been lying awake for an hour each night for the past eight months, reliving a two-second awkward experience I had in front of a casual acquaintance three years ago.
Hello, 911? Is some invisible force going to push me down this flight of stairs?
Hello, 911? I was watching that show “Greenleaf,” on the Oprah network, and these two characters were riding in a car and having a passionate conversation, and dude turned to lady and I was gripped with what can only be described as stomach-churning panic as my entire body clenched in anticipation of the car jumping the curb and crashing through the plate-glass window of a laundromat, because the dude took his eyes entirely off the road for at least twelve seconds. When was the first movie made? 1888? And, after all those years of practice, people still can’t film a realistic conversation in a moving car? The driver’s eyes need to be on the Toyota in front of him, Oprah Winfrey. I’m going to have a fucking stroke.
Hello, 911? This takeout place doesn’t have online ordering.
Hello, 911? Which line is moving faster, the one I’m in or that other line, and do you think I should switch? Does it matter? It’s not like I have anywhere to be, but just standing here makes me feel like my organs are going to burst out of my skin. I can’t prove it, but I think this line is moving incrementally slower. Why does that make me feel like I’m losing a race? Should I just stay where I am, or do you think it’s O.K. if I ease over to Lane 8 in a way that silently telegraphs to the checkout girl, “I’m not mad, just having an inexplicable panic attack, please ignore me”? If I move to that other line, will the Target gods smite me by throwing a clearance-rack shirt with a missing price tag into that lady’s cart? Why did I even come here?
Hello, 911? What if I fall asleep on this bus?
Hello, 911? That lady caught me taking a selfie and walked away before I could convincingly pretend to be holding my phone at this angle for some other reason.
Hello, 911? It’s eleven-thirty at night and I’ve got an important meeting (LOL) tomorrow morning at nine-thirty. I set my alarm for eight. That should give me plenty of time, right? Google Maps says it’s probably going to take seventeen minutes to get there from my hotel, barring any major traffic, but what if the Lyft driver is late? Alternatively, what if the doorman can’t find a cab? I’m planning to go down at nine. Does that leave enough time for me to get eggs from room service? But they run late sometimes, right? Should I risk it? It’s midnight now and I think I’ll be hungry in the morning, but what if I’m not? Then I’m stuck waiting for eggs I don’t want. Maybe I should set my alarm for eight-thirty. I definitely want to sleep off this Xanax, but does that give me enough time to take an actual crevice-cleaning, hair-washing shower? Should I be honest about who I really am as a person and factor in twenty minutes of bedside-sitting-and-staring-into-space time? It’s twelve-thirty, but to be safe I’m going to set the alarm for seven-thirty. Should I attempt to impress these people with eye makeup, or do they not care because they are serious businesspersons? Let me just go ahead and set my phone for 6:55, so I have plenty of time to contour and blend (i.e., totally fuck it up and wipe it all off while crying). Since I’m up, it wouldn’t hurt to iron my pants, just in case I can’t hide my legs under a table. Why does everyone want to “meet” on couches these days? An electric chair would be more relaxing. Wait a minute—it’s already one o’clock?!
Hello, 911? My friend just left me a voice mail.
Hello, 911? My brain is a prison, and anxiety is the warden. I am besieged by an undeniable urge to peel off my skin like the layers of an onion until death claims me and I find relief in its cool embrace, and I know it took me a long time to finally call and I’m not a hundred per cent sure that this qualifies as an emergency, but I think I’ve reached my limit and I might need some help.
O.K., sure, I’ll hold. ♦


newyorker--2020-01-27--David Rabe on Childhood and Faith

David Rabe on Childhood and Faith

Your story in this week ’ s issue , “ Things We Worried About When I Was Ten , ” is set around the time when you yourself were ten .
Does it draw on your own childhood ?
Everything I ’ ve ever written , even depictions of the most extreme situations—ones that might seem far from my experience—began with something I knew , if only a dream recalled in the morning , or a memory that arose like a dream recalled .
Sometimes impulses or ideas or memories become available only after they ’ ve been put through @ @ @ @ @ @ @ kitchen blender , mashes them into something not quite what they were .
So , in that sense , and probably in a more direct way , too , this particular story connects to my childhood .
The narrator of the story , Danny , is a ten-year-old Catholic boy , who , like his friends , goes to a Catholic school taught by nuns .
What does Catholicism mean to these kids , beyond the familiar rituals ?
That ’ s a question I have asked myself , and I am certain @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Catholicism asks for faith .
But when you are young , as these boys are , almost everything requires faith : faith in the adults around you , in how they live , what they say , and what they embody ; faith in the future ; faith that people know what they are doing , and that their example makes sense , or will , possibly , when you ’ re grown up .
It ’ s the fate of faiths to face the tests and contradictions that come with reality @ @ @ @ @ @ @ time .
The only moment in the story that approaches this question directly is when Danny is returning from the communion rail with the host in his mouth—which he has been taught to believe and wants to believe is the body of Jesus Christ—and , as he opens his eyes , giving up his pious pose in order to find his way back to his seat , what does he see but a young girl , whose body is budding with sexuality , and he responds with “ weird feelings , ” as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jesus out of his thoughts , leaving him with a mind full of Mary Catherine Michener .
Does Jesus know ?
Does he care ?
What is Danny to do about that ?
What are any of the boys to do ?
How these boys work out their relationship to this question , or all matters of their connection to the church , would be private , if not secretive .
You had a similar upbringing in Dubuque , and even , I think , considered becoming a priest .
What drove you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” would be the apt word—and not for long .
But at certain junctures—with the faith of an imaginative childhood at play , as well as the “ reality ” one encounters , with its seemingly irreconcilable contradictions , if not oppositions to faith—becoming a priest can seem like the solution to a riddle .
A way out of the riddle , a step to be taken , an act that provides the hope of getting extra help in solving the contradictions , so to speak , by way of the sacrament .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ in a fairly inarticulate way , that I was looking for a way to cope , a strategy to keep life at bay , and so I suspect it was not a true vocation .
I think that following a true vocation would be an act of embracing life—a priesthood that engaged with life .
For me , the impulse was anti-life , isolationist , protectionist .
I can ’ t say that I understood this clearly then , but I knew enough to see that the impulse was fake and that to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Jackie Rand is only ten but has already had to cope with his mother ’ s death , his father ’ s brutality , his stepmother ’ s mercurial interest , and the constant taunting of his peers .
Do you think there ’ s a chance he ’ ll make it through this childhood intact and have a better future ?
I think Jackie has little or no hope of getting through life intact .
He is already , at the age of ten , a tattered soul , jerry-rigged and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a lot of bad splices .
For him to somehow turn the shambles he is into someone thriving would be possible , of course , but a lot of luck would have to come into play .
Toward the end of the story , it occurs to Danny that Jackie is , in a sense , a Jesus to the other boys—the person who takes all the punishment and suffering onto himself , enabling the others to feel better off by comparison .
Is there something spiritual underlying his final “ resurrection ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a resurrection when I was working on the story , though , looking back , I can see that the idea is there .
However , there ’ s nothing spiritual in it for Jackie .
He just gets knocked out and wakes up .
On the other hand , what Danny sees in that moment may have a resonance or a dimension of awakening , a realization that we all suffer and survive separately , though we can bear witness to one another .
This pack of boys exists in a world @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the nuns at school , and very little access to information .
That kind of childhood is hard to imagine now .
Do you feel nostalgia for it ?
I don ’ t know if I have nostalgia for that time , though certain aspects seem to have a richness .
Is abundant information better than mystery and imagination ?
If a movie came to town that we saw and loved , we couldn ’ t summon it up with the press of a button once it left town .
We had to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and enact what we could of what we remembered .
We waited and hoped that it would come back to one of the little theatres that specialized in second runs .
When it happened—when a longed-for movie came back , which wasn ’ t all that often—it seemed a kind of miracle .
I think a lot of what we do as children is create a disguise for ourselves , a way of being that has to be convincing to those around us .
We invent certain codes and passwords that only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ order to appear as we should , rather than as we are .
We smuggle our disguised selves out of the country of origin and across the border to whatever awaits , where we hopefully will remember the codes and passwords so that we can work our way back , following our trail of bread crumbs , decoding the mystery we made of ourselves .
A lot of what goes on in this story , among these boys , who are thankfully free of adults , is that they are working together , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to determine those codes .
Not that a little more information and less ignorance back then wouldn ’ t have been helpful in some matters , but what we have today is information turned into a juggernaut of willed ignorance .
Do you have any favorite childhood memories ?
The hill behind our house .
It went on for miles .
It was high , several stories high , hundreds of feet—not a mountain but steep , with plateaus and bluffs and cliffs .
I could leave my house and be on it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hill , the hill .
We found refuge there in the games we played , the camps we built , the movies we enacted , the fantasies of heroism , brotherhood , betrayal , honor , vengeance .

Photograph by Ben Gabbe / Getty
Your story in this week’s issue, “Things We Worried About When I Was Ten,” is set around the time when you yourself were ten. Does it draw on your own childhood?
Everything I’ve ever written, even depictions of the most extreme situations—ones that might seem far from my experience—began with something I knew, if only a dream recalled in the morning, or a memory that arose like a dream recalled. Sometimes impulses or ideas or memories become available only after they’ve been put through some unconscious process that, like a kitchen blender, mashes them into something not quite what they were. So, in that sense, and probably in a more direct way, too, this particular story connects to my childhood.
The narrator of the story, Danny, is a ten-year-old Catholic boy, who, like his friends, goes to a Catholic school taught by nuns. What does Catholicism mean to these kids, beyond the familiar rituals?
That’s a question I have asked myself, and I am certain only that I have no single answer. Catholicism asks for faith. But when you are young, as these boys are, almost everything requires faith: faith in the adults around you, in how they live, what they say, and what they embody; faith in the future; faith that people know what they are doing, and that their example makes sense, or will, possibly, when you’re grown up. It’s the fate of faiths to face the tests and contradictions that come with reality and the steady march into experience and time. The only moment in the story that approaches this question directly is when Danny is returning from the communion rail with the host in his mouth—which he has been taught to believe and wants to believe is the body of Jesus Christ—and, as he opens his eyes, giving up his pious pose in order to find his way back to his seat, what does he see but a young girl, whose body is budding with sexuality, and he responds with “weird feelings,” as he calls them, as she pushes Jesus out of his thoughts, leaving him with a mind full of Mary Catherine Michener. Does Jesus know? Does he care? What is Danny to do about that? What are any of the boys to do? How these boys work out their relationship to this question, or all matters of their connection to the church, would be private, if not secretive.
You had a similar upbringing in Dubuque, and even, I think, considered becoming a priest. What drove you in a different direction?
“Considered” would be the apt word—and not for long. But at certain junctures—with the faith of an imaginative childhood at play, as well as the “reality” one encounters, with its seemingly irreconcilable contradictions, if not oppositions to faith—becoming a priest can seem like the solution to a riddle. A way out of the riddle, a step to be taken, an act that provides the hope of getting extra help in solving the contradictions, so to speak, by way of the sacrament. I think I saw quickly, though in a fairly inarticulate way, that I was looking for a way to cope, a strategy to keep life at bay, and so I suspect it was not a true vocation. I think that following a true vocation would be an act of embracing life—a priesthood that engaged with life. For me, the impulse was anti-life, isolationist, protectionist. I can’t say that I understood this clearly then, but I knew enough to see that the impulse was fake and that to follow it would be a big mistake.
Jackie Rand is only ten but has already had to cope with his mother’s death, his father’s brutality, his stepmother’s mercurial interest, and the constant taunting of his peers. Do you think there’s a chance he’ll make it through this childhood intact and have a better future?
I think Jackie has little or no hope of getting through life intact. He is already, at the age of ten, a tattered soul, jerry-rigged and patched together with tape and wire with a lot of bad splices. For him to somehow turn the shambles he is into someone thriving would be possible, of course, but a lot of luck would have to come into play.
Toward the end of the story, it occurs to Danny that Jackie is, in a sense, a Jesus to the other boys—the person who takes all the punishment and suffering onto himself, enabling the others to feel better off by comparison. Is there something spiritual underlying his final “resurrection”?
I never thought of it as a resurrection when I was working on the story, though, looking back, I can see that the idea is there. However, there’s nothing spiritual in it for Jackie. He just gets knocked out and wakes up. On the other hand, what Danny sees in that moment may have a resonance or a dimension of awakening, a realization that we all suffer and survive separately, though we can bear witness to one another.
This pack of boys exists in a world with virtually no adult supervision, beyond the nuns at school, and very little access to information. That kind of childhood is hard to imagine now. Do you feel nostalgia for it?
I don’t know if I have nostalgia for that time, though certain aspects seem to have a richness. Is abundant information better than mystery and imagination? If a movie came to town that we saw and loved, we couldn’t summon it up with the press of a button once it left town. We had to remember it, find stills in magazines, and enact what we could of what we remembered. We waited and hoped that it would come back to one of the little theatres that specialized in second runs. When it happened—when a longed-for movie came back, which wasn’t all that often—it seemed a kind of miracle. I think a lot of what we do as children is create a disguise for ourselves, a way of being that has to be convincing to those around us. We invent certain codes and passwords that only we know and that we employ in order to appear as we should, rather than as we are. We smuggle our disguised selves out of the country of origin and across the border to whatever awaits, where we hopefully will remember the codes and passwords so that we can work our way back, following our trail of bread crumbs, decoding the mystery we made of ourselves. A lot of what goes on in this story, among these boys, who are thankfully free of adults, is that they are working together, whether they know it or not, to determine those codes. Not that a little more information and less ignorance back then wouldn’t have been helpful in some matters, but what we have today is information turned into a juggernaut of willed ignorance.
Do you have any favorite childhood memories?
The hill behind our house. It went on for miles. It was high, several stories high, hundreds of feet—not a mountain but steep, with plateaus and bluffs and cliffs. I could leave my house and be on it in minutes. The hill, the hill, the hill. We found refuge there in the games we played, the camps we built, the movies we enacted, the fantasies of heroism, brotherhood, betrayal, honor, vengeance.


newyorker--2020-01-27--“Things We Worried About When I Was Ten,” by David Rabe

He grabbed me then , jerked me out the door .
Once we were outside , he left me standing at the bottom of the stairs while he stomped up to our apartment .
I ran after him and got to our part of the long second-floor porch we shared with the Stoner family just in time to see him bang the door shut .
I heard him inside saying , “ Goddammit to hell .
What is wrong with that kid ?
” “ I ’ m sick of it , you know.
” “ Never mind , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” “ Sick of what ?
At least tell me that.
” “ Because I ’ m asking .
That ought to be enough.
” I heard another door slam .
When I opened the apartment door to peek in , I saw that the door to the bathroom , which was alongside the kitchen , was closed .
My mother was wearing a housedress that I ’ d seen a million times .
It buttoned down the front and never had the bottom button buttoned .
She had an apron on and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a pot in her hand .
Everything smelled of fish .
She looked at me standing in the doorway with the Webers ’ boxing gloves on .
“ What happened ?
” she asked .
“ I was supposed to box Ron Weber , because Dad thought I could beat him , even though he ’ s older , but he wasn ’ t home , so Sharon— ” “ Wait , wait .
Stop , stop .
What more do I have to put up with ?
” She grabbed my arm @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ What happened ?
What happened ?
What happened ?
” she said too many times .
“ Carl , ” she shouted at the bathroom door .
“ What happened ?
” “ I ’ m on the crapper , ” he said .
“ Oh , my God.
” She walked like a sad , dizzy person to the table , where she sat down real slow , the way a person does when sliding into freezing or scalding-hot water .
She put her chin in her hands , but her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the tabletop , where she closed her eyes .
I stood for a moment , looking down at my hands in the boxing gloves , wondering how I was going to get out of them .
What if I had to pee ?
How could I get my zipper down and my weenie out ?
I went into the living room , which was only a few steps away , because the apartment was really small .
I sat on the couch .
I wished I could go up into the attic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and had a low , slanted roof , but it felt far away from everything , with all these random objects lying there , as if history had left them behind .
One of them was Dobbins , my rocking horse , who had big white scary eyes full of warnings and mysteries to solve , if he could ever get through to me .
But the only way up to the attic was through the bathroom , which was off limits at the moment because my dad was in there on the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the gloves with my teeth , trying to tug them loose enough that I could clamp the gloves between my knees and pull my hands out , and I made some progress , but not enough .
So I gave up .
I sat for a while and then I lay down on the couch .
Another thing we worried about was that , if it rained and it was night—not late , because then we had to be in bed , but dark already , and wet , the way a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wouldn ’ t let us go out , or wouldn ’ t let us have a flashlight because we ’ d run the batteries down , then other kids would get all the night crawlers that came up and slithered in the wet grass .
We worried that they would all be snatched up by the kids whose parents weren ’ t home , or who had their own flashlights .
It was strange to me that night crawlers came up at all , because when they were under the dirt they were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , if they stayed down there after a heavy rain they would drown .
I didn ’ t know and couldn ’ t ask them .
The main thing was that they weren ’ t regular worms but night crawlers , big and fat , with shiny , see-through skin , and we could catch them and put them in a can with coffee grounds and then use them as bait or sell them to men who were going fishing but hadn ’ t had time to go out and catch some themselves @ @ @ @ @ @ @ go , we raced out our doors and , in my case , down the stairs , then walked around sneakily , searching the grass with a flashlight , the beam moving slowly , like the searchlight in a prison movie when prisoners are trying to escape .
When the light struck a night crawler , we had to be quick , because they were very fast and they tried to squirm back into the holes they ’ d come out of , or were partway out of , and we had to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fingers and then pull them out slowly , being careful not to break them in half .
Because they somehow resisted—they hung on to their holes without any hands .
We could feel the fear in them as they tried to fight back , so tiny compared with us , though we were only kids , and , when we got them out , the way they twisted and writhed about seemed like silent screaming .
It was odd , though , how much they loved the dirt .
We all knew that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Germs .
Maggots .
You could even suffocate if dirt fell on you in a mudslide .
We almost felt as if we were saving the night crawlers , dragging them out and feeding them to fish .
It was impossible to figure it all out .
Another thing we worried about was having to move .
What if we had to move ?
It happened every now and then to people we knew .
Their families moved and they had to go with them .
A big truck showed up , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out of the house and put them into the truck .
It had happened to the Ballingers , for example .
“ We ’ re moving , ” Ronnie said .
“ Got ta move , ” his younger brother , Max , said .
And , the next thing we knew , the trucks were there and the men in and out and then the Ballingers were gone .
Every one of them .
The house was empty .
We could sneak into their yard and peek in the windows and see @ @ @ @ @ @ @ empty it hurt .
And then other people , complete strangers , showed up and went in and started living there , and it was as if the Ballingers had never been there .
Or Jesus .
We all worried about Jesus .
I know I did .
What did he think of me ?
Did he , in fact , think of me ?
At Mass , I took the Host into my mouth , and the priest said that it was Jesus , and the nuns also said that it was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bread , this wafer that melted on my tongue .
You weren ’ t supposed to chew it or swallow it whole , so you waited for it to melt and spread out holiness .
Hands folded , head bowed , eyes closed until you had to see where you were going to get back to your pew , and there was Mary Catherine Michener entering her pew right in front of you , her eyes downcast , a handkerchief on top of her head because she ’ d forgotten her hat , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out of nowhere , it seemed , and stuck out as if they were taking her somewhere , were big , as if to balance the curve of her rear end , which was sticking out in the opposite direction .
Did Jesus know ?
He had to , didn ’ t he , melting as he was in my mouth , trying to fill me with piety and goodness while I had this weird feeling about Mary Catherine Michener , who was only a year or two older than me and whom @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t have pointy breasts and a rounded butt , but now she did , and , seeing them , I thought about them , and the next thought was of confession .
Or of being an occasion of sin .
I did not want to be an occasion of sin for the girls in my class , who could go to Hell if they saw me with my shirt off , according to Sister Mary Irma .
And so confession again .
Father Paul listening on the other side of the wicker @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and sad and bored .

Audio available Listen to this story Audio: David Rabe reads.
High on the list was trying not to have the older boys decide to de-pants you and then run your pants up the flagpole, leaving you in your underwear, and maybe bloodied if you’d struggled—not that it helped, because they were bigger and stronger—and your pants flapping way up against the sky over the schoolyard. They mostly did this to Freddy Bird—nobody knew why, but it happened a lot. It was best to get away from him when they started to get into that mood—their let’s-de-pants-somebody mood. Oh, there’s Freddy Bird. You could see them thinking it. You had to slip sideways, not in an obvious way but as if you were drifting for no real reason, or maybe the wind was shoving you and you weren’t really paying attention, and, most important, you did not want to meet eyes with them, not one of them. Because they could change their mind in a flash if they noticed you, as they would if you met their eyes, and then they’d think, Oh, look, there’s Danny Matz, let’s de-pants him, and before you knew it you’d be trying to get your pants down from high up on the flagpole while everybody laughed, especially Freddy Bird.
Meeting eyes was, generally speaking, worrisome. It could lead anywhere. I’d been on the Kidnickers’ porch with the big boys when they were tormenting Devin Sleverding—pushing him and, you know, spitting on him and not letting him off the porch when he tried to go. Fencing him in. And I felt kind of sorry for Devin, but I didn’t let it show, and I made sure that I stayed on the big boys’ side of the invisible line that separated them from Devin, who was crying and snorting and looking like a trapped pig, which he was, in a sense, and waving his hands around in that girly way he had, his wrists all fluttery and floppy, which he should have just stopped doing, because that was how he’d got into trouble with the big boys to begin with. (That was another thing we worried about, a sort of worry inside a worry: along with not wanting to meet anybody’s eyes, we had to make sure that we never started waving our hands around like girls, the way Devin Sleverding did.)
So the older boys had formed a circle around him, and, if he tried to break out, they’d push him back into the middle of the ring, and, if he just stood there, hoping they’d get tired or bored and go play baseball or something, well, then one of them would jump at him and shove him so hard that he staggered over into the boys on the other side of the circle, who would shove him back in the direction he’d come from. That was what was happening when our eyes met. I was trying to be part of the circle and to look like I belonged with the big boys and thought he deserved it, waving his hands like a girl. Just stop it, I thought. His snot-covered, puffy red face looked shocked and terribly disappointed, as if seeing me act that way was the last straw, as if he’d expected something more from me. And I don’t know where Devin got the stick—this hunk of wood covered in slivers which had probably been left on the Kidnickers’ porch after somebody built something—but he had it and he hit me over the head. I saw stars, staticky, racing stars no bigger than mouse turds. Blood squirted out of my head, and I fell to my knees, and, while everybody was distracted, Devin made his break. I was crying and crawling, and one of the big boys said, “You better go home.” “O.K.,” I said, and left a blood trail spattering the sidewalk where I walked and alongside the apartment building where I lived and on just about every one of the steps I climbed to our door, which entered into the kitchen, where my mom, when she saw me, screamed. I had to have stitches.
Another thing I worried about was how to make sure that I never had to box Sharon Weber again. It was my dad’s idea. We’d gone down to Red and Ginger Weber’s apartment, which was on the ground floor of our two-story, four-apartment building. I was supposed to box Ron Weber, who was a year older than me, but he wasn’t home, so Red offered his daughter, Sharon, as a substitute, and my dad said sure. Nobody checked with me, and I didn’t know what to say anyway—so there I was, facing off against Sharon, who was a year younger than me, but about as tall. She hit me square in the nose, a surprise blow, and I just stood there.
“C’mon, Dan,” my dad said. “Show her what you got.” I wanted to. But I was frozen. I didn’t know what I could do—where to hit her. She was a girl. I couldn’t hit her in the face, because she was pretty and, being a girl, needed to be pretty, and I couldn’t hit her in the stomach, because that was where her baby machinery was, and I didn’t want to damage that; I couldn’t hit her above her stomach, either, because her chest wasn’t a boy’s chest—she had breasts, and they were important, too, to babies and in other ways that I didn’t understand but had heard about. So I stood there, getting pounded, ducking as best I could, but not too much, because I didn’t want to appear cowardly, afraid of a girl, and covering up, not too effectively, for the same reason, while Sharon whaled away on me.
“Dan, c’mon, now,” my dad said. “What are you doing? Give her a good one.”
I couldn’t see my dad, because my eyes were all watery and blurry—not with tears, just water.
I guess it had dawned on Sharon that nothing was coming back at her, so she was windmilling me and side-arming, prancing around and really winding up. My dad said, “Goddammit, Dan! Give her a smack, for God’s sake.” Red was gloating and chattering to Sharon, as if she needed coaching to finish me off. “Use your left. Set him up.” My dad was red-faced, his mouth and eyes squeezed into this painful grimace, the way they’d been when I spilled boiling soup in his lap. He could barely look at me, like it really hurt to look at me.
He grabbed me then, jerked me out the door. Once we were outside, he left me standing at the bottom of the stairs while he stomped up to our apartment. I ran after him and got to our part of the long second-floor porch we shared with the Stoner family just in time to see him bang the door shut. I heard him inside saying, “Goddammit to hell. What is wrong with that kid?”
“What happened?” my mom asked.
“I’m sick of it, you know.”
“Sick of what?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Never mind,” he said. “Goddammit to hell.”
“Sick of what? At least tell me that.”
“Why bother?”
“Because I’m asking. That ought to be enough.”
“Him and you, O.K.?”
“Me?” she said. “Me?”
I heard another door slam. When I opened the apartment door to peek in, I saw that the door to the bathroom, which was alongside the kitchen, was closed.
My mother was wearing a housedress that I’d seen a million times. It buttoned down the front and never had the bottom button buttoned. She had an apron on and a pot holder around the handle of a pot in her hand. Everything smelled of fish. She looked at me standing in the doorway with the Webers’ boxing gloves on. “What happened?” she asked.
“I was supposed to box Ron Weber, because Dad thought I could beat him, even though he’s older, but he wasn’t home, so Sharon—”
“Wait, wait. Stop, stop. What more do I have to put up with?” She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the kitchen.
“What happened? What happened? What happened?” she said too many times. “Carl,” she shouted at the bathroom door. “What happened?”
“I’m on the crapper,” he said.
“I’m not complaining. I’m just saying I wish I had brought my gloves.” Cartoon by Robert Leighton Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
“Oh, my God.” She walked like a sad, dizzy person to the table, where she sat down real slow, the way a person does when sliding into freezing or scalding-hot water. She put her chin in her hands, but her head was too heavy and it sank to the tabletop, where she closed her eyes. I stood for a moment, looking down at my hands in the boxing gloves, wondering how I was going to get out of them. What if I had to pee? How could I get my zipper down and my weenie out? I went into the living room, which was only a few steps away, because the apartment was really small. I sat on the couch. I wished I could go up into the attic. It wasn’t very big and had a low, slanted roof, but it felt far away from everything, with all these random objects lying there, as if history had left them behind. One of them was Dobbins, my rocking horse, who had big white scary eyes full of warnings and mysteries to solve, if he could ever get through to me. But the only way up to the attic was through the bathroom, which was off limits at the moment because my dad was in there on the crapper. I worked on the laces of the gloves with my teeth, trying to tug them loose enough that I could clamp the gloves between my knees and pull my hands out, and I made some progress, but not enough. So I gave up. I sat for a while and then I lay down on the couch.
Another thing we worried about was that, if it rained and it was night—not late, because then we had to be in bed, but dark already, and wet, the way a good heavy rain left things—and our parents wouldn’t let us go out, or wouldn’t let us have a flashlight because we’d run the batteries down, then other kids would get all the night crawlers that came up and slithered in the wet grass. We worried that they would all be snatched up by the kids whose parents weren’t home, or who had their own flashlights. It was strange to me that night crawlers came up at all, because when they were under the dirt they were hidden and safe. Maybe, though, if they stayed down there after a heavy rain they would drown. I didn’t know and couldn’t ask them. The main thing was that they weren’t regular worms but night crawlers, big and fat, with shiny, see-through skin, and we could catch them and put them in a can with coffee grounds and then use them as bait or sell them to men who were going fishing but hadn’t had time to go out and catch some themselves.
When our parents did let us go, we raced out our doors and, in my case, down the stairs, then walked around sneakily, searching the grass with a flashlight, the beam moving slowly, like the searchlight in a prison movie when prisoners are trying to escape. When the light struck a night crawler, we had to be quick, because they were very fast and they tried to squirm back into the holes they’d come out of, or were partway out of, and we had to pinch them against the ground with our fingers and then pull them out slowly, being careful not to break them in half. Because they somehow resisted—they hung on to their holes without any hands. We could feel the fear in them as they tried to fight back, so tiny compared with us, though we were only kids, and, when we got them out, the way they twisted and writhed about seemed like silent screaming. It was odd, though, how much they loved the dirt. We all knew that there were awful things down there. Germs. Maggots. You could even suffocate if dirt fell on you in a mudslide. We almost felt as if we were saving the night crawlers, dragging them out and feeding them to fish. It was impossible to figure it all out.
Another thing we worried about was having to move. What if we had to move? It happened every now and then to people we knew. Their families moved and they had to go with them. A big truck showed up, and men in uniforms took all the things out of the house and put them into the truck. It had happened to the Ballingers, for example. “We’re moving,” Ronnie said. “Gotta move,” his younger brother, Max, said. And, the next thing we knew, the trucks were there and the men in and out and then the Ballingers were gone. Every one of them. The house was empty. We could sneak into their yard and peek in the windows and see the big, scary emptiness, so empty it hurt. And then other people, complete strangers, showed up and went in and started living there, and it was as if the Ballingers had never been there.
Or Jesus. We all worried about Jesus. I know I did. What did he think of me? Did he, in fact, think of me? At Mass, I took the Host into my mouth, and the priest said that it was Jesus, and the nuns also said that it was Jesus, in this little slip of bread, this wafer that melted on my tongue. You weren’t supposed to chew it or swallow it whole, so you waited for it to melt and spread out holiness. Hands folded, head bowed, eyes closed until you had to see where you were going to get back to your pew, and there was Mary Catherine Michener entering her pew right in front of you, her eyes downcast, a handkerchief on top of her head because she’d forgotten her hat, and her breasts, which had come out of nowhere, it seemed, and stuck out as if they were taking her somewhere, were big, as if to balance the curve of her rear end, which was sticking out in the opposite direction. Did Jesus know? He had to, didn’t he, melting as he was in my mouth, trying to fill me with piety and goodness while I had this weird feeling about Mary Catherine Michener, who was only a year or two older than me and whom I’d known when she didn’t have pointy breasts and a rounded butt, but now she did, and, seeing them, I thought about them, and the next thought was of confession. Or of being an occasion of sin. I did not want to be an occasion of sin for the girls in my class, who could go to Hell if they saw me with my shirt off, according to Sister Mary Irma. And so confession again. Father Paul listening on the other side of the wicker window, or Father Thomas, sighing and sad and bored.
Being made an “example of” by Sister Mary Luke, the principal, was another nerve-racking thing that could happen. You could be an example of almost anything, but, whatever it was, you would be a kind of stand-in for everybody who’d committed some serious offense, and so the punishment would be bad enough to make everybody stop doing it, whatever it was.
Or getting sat on by Sister Conrad. That shouldn’t have been a worry, but it was. And, though it may sound outlandish, we’d all seen it happen to Jackie Rand. But, then, almost everything happened to Jackie Rand. Which might have offered a degree of insurance against its ever happening to us, since so much that happened to Jackie didn’t happen to anyone else, and yet the fact that it had happened to anyone, even Jackie, and we’d all seen it, was worrisome. Sister Conrad, for no reason we could understand, had been facing the big pulldown map and trying to drill into our heads the geographic placement of France, Germany, and the British Isles. This gave Jackie the chance he needed to poke Basil Mellencamp in the back with his pencil, making him squirm and whisper, “Stop it, Jackie.” But Jackie didn’t stop, and he was having so much fun that he didn’t notice Sister Conrad turning to look at him.
“Jackie!” she barked. Startled and maybe even scared, he rocked back in his desk as far as he could to get away from Basil, and aimed his most innocent expression at Sister Conrad. “Stand up,” she told him, “and tell us what you think you are doing.”
He looked us over, as if wondering if she’d represented our interest correctly, then he turned his attention to his desk, lifting the lid to peek inside.
“Did you hear me? I told you to stand up, Jackie Rand.”
He nodded to acknowledge that he’d heard her, and, shrugging in his special way, which we all knew represented his particular form of stubborn confusion, he scratched his head.
Sister Conrad shot toward him. She was round and short, not unlike Jackie, though he was less round and at least a foot shorter. All of us pivoted to watch, ducking if we were too close to the black-and-white storm that Sister Conrad had become, rosary beads rattling, silver cross flashing and clanking. She grabbed Jackie by the arm and he yelped, pulling free. She snatched at his ear, but he sprang into the aisle on the opposite side of his desk, knocking into Judy Carberger, who cowered one row over. Sister Conrad lunged, and Basil, who was between them, hunched like a soldier fearing death in a movie where bombs fell everywhere. “You’re going to the principal’s office!” she shrieked.
We all knew what that meant—it was one step worse than being made an example of. Stinging rulers waited to smack upturned palms, or, if we failed to hold steady and flipped our palms over in search of relief, the punishment found our knuckles with a different, even worse kind of pain.
Sister Conrad and Jackie both bolted for the door. Somehow—though we all marvelled at the impossibility of it—Sister Conrad got there first. Jackie had been slowed by the terrible burden of defying authority, which could make anyone sluggish.
“I want to go home,” he said. “I want to go home.”
The irony of this wish, given what we knew of Jackie’s home, shocked us as much as everything else that was going on.
Jackie leaned toward the door as if the moment were normal, and he hoped for permission, but needed to go. Sister Conrad stayed put, blocking the way. He reached around her for the doorknob and she shoved him. I may have been the only person to see a weird hopelessness fill his eyes at that point. I was his friend, perhaps his only friend, so it was fitting that I saw it. And then he lunged at her and grabbed her. We gasped to see them going sideways and smashing against the blackboard. Erasers, chalk sticks, and chalk dust exploded. Almost every boy in the room had battled Jackie at one point or another, so we knew what Sister Conrad was up against. We gaped, watching her hug him crazily. Her glasses flew off. Jackie shouted about going home as he fell over backward. She came with him, crashing down on top of him. They wrestled, and she squirmed into a sitting position right on his stomach, where she bounced several times. The white cardboard thing around her head had sprung loose, the edge sticking out, the whole black hood so crooked that it half covered her face. Jackie screamed and wailed under her, as she bounced and shouted for help and Basil ran to get Sister Mary Luke.
Getting into a fight with Jackie Rand was another thing we worried about. Though it was less of a worry for me than for most. Jackie and I lived catercornered from each other across Jefferson Avenue, which was a narrow street, not fancy like a real avenue. Jackie lived in a house, while I was in an apartment. He was rough and angry and mean, it was true—a bully. But not to me. I knew how to handle him. I would talk soothingly to him, as if he were a stray dog. I could even pull him off his victims. His body had a sweaty, gooey sensation of unhappy fat. Under him, a boy would beg for mercy, but Jackie, alone in his rage, would be far from the regular world. When I pulled him off, he would continue to flail, at war with ghosts, until, through his hate-filled little eyes, something soft peered out, and, if it was me that he saw, he might sputter some burning explanation and then run home.
As a group, we condemned him, called him names: “Bully! Pig eyes! Fatso!” The beaten boy would screech, “Pick on somebody your own size, you fat slob!” Others would add, “Lard ass! Fatty-Fatty Two-by-Four!”
The fact that Jackie’s mother had died when he was four explained his pouty lips and the hurt in his eyes, I thought. Jackie’s father seemed to view him as a kind of commodity he’d purchased one night while drunk. The man would whack him at the drop of a hat. This was even before Jackie’s father had failed at business and had to sell the corner grocery store, and before he remarried, hoping for happiness but, according to everybody, making everything worse. Jackie’s stepmom, May, came with her own set of jabs and prods that Jackie had to learn to dodge, along with his father’s anger.
All of us were slapped around. Our dads were laborers who worked with their hands. Some built machines; others tore machines apart. Some dug up the earth; others repaired automobiles or hammered houses into shape. Many slaughtered cows and pigs at the meatpacking company. Living as they did, they relied on their hands, and they used them. Our overworked mothers were also sharp-tempered and as quick with a slap as they were with their fits of coddling. And, after our parents and the nuns were done, we spent a lot of time beating one another up.
Still, Jackie’s dad was uncommon. He seemed to mistake Jackie for someone he had a grudge against in a bar. But then, as our parents told us, Jackie was “hard to handle.” He would “try the patience of a saint,” and his dad was “quick-triggered” and hardly happy in his second marriage.
As Jackie and I walked around the block, or sat in a foxhole we’d dug on the hill and covered with sumac, these were among the mysteries that we tried to solve.
“Too bad your dad lost his store,” I told him.
“He loved my real mom,” Jackie said, looking up at the light falling through the leaves.
“May is nice.”
“I know she is. She’s real nice.”
“He loves you, Jackie.”
“Sure.”
“He just doesn’t know how to show it. You gotta try not to make him mad.”
“I make everybody mad.”
“But he’s quick-tempered.”
“I’d try the patience of a saint.”
More than once, I went home from time spent with Jackie to stare in wonder and gratitude at my living mother and my dad, half asleep in his big chair, listening to a baseball game. Sometimes in church I would pray for Jackie, so that he could have as good a life as I did.
In daylight, we did our best, but then there was the time spent in bed at night. It was there that I began to suspect that, while there was much that I knew I worried about, there was more that I worried about without actually knowing what it was that worried me—or even that I was worrying—as I slept. The things with Mr. Stink and Georgie Baxter weren’t exactly in this category, but they were close.
Mr. Stink was a kind of hobo, who built a shack on the hill behind our apartment building, and he had that name because he stank. We kids were told to stay away from him and we did. He interested me, though, and I looked at him when I could, and sometimes I saw him looking at us. We all saw him walking on the gravel road between the hill and our houses, lugging bags of junk, on the way to his shack.
Then one night I was in our apartment, doing my homework, while Dad was listening to baseball, and my mom was rocking my baby sister in her lap and trying to talk my dad into listening to something else, when this clanking started. It went clank-clank-clank and stopped. Then clank-clank-clank again. “What the hell now?” my dad griped. It went on and on, and Dad couldn’t figure out what it was, and Mom couldn’t, either. It started at about nine and went on till ten or later, and Dad was on his way to complain to the landlord, whose house was next door, when he decided instead to talk to Agnes Rath, who lived in the apartment under us. It turned out that Agnes was scared sick. When Dad knocked, she turned on her porch light and peeked out between her curtains, and, seeing that it was him, she opened her door and told him that Mr. Stink had been peeping in her window. She’d seen him and, not knowing what to do, had turned off all her lights and crawled into the kitchen. Lying on the floor, she’d banged on the pipes under her sink as a signal. So that was the clanking. Agnes Rath’s signal. Well, a few nights later, a group of men ran through our yard and my dad ran with them, and then, not too long after that, fire leaped up on the hill around the spot where Mr. Stink had his shack, and nobody ever saw him again.
Then Georgie Baxter got married, and moved into an apartment on the ground floor of the building next door to Jackie. Georgie and his new wife, who everybody said was “a real looker,” couldn’t afford a long honeymoon. They got married on a Saturday, but, because Georgie had to work on Monday, they came back to their apartment Sunday night, and what awaited them was a shivaree. People came from all directions, men, women, and kids, everybody carrying metal buckets or pots and beating on them with spoons to make a huge loud racket. Jackie and I were doing it like everybody else, beating away on pots with big spoons, though we had no idea why, all of us together creating this clamor as we closed in on the apartment building with Georgie and his new bride inside. I stood with my pot and my spoon, beating away, whooping and feeling scared by the crazy noise we were making and the wild look in all the grownups’ eyes, as if they were stealing or breaking something. I wished more than anything that I knew why we were doing what we were doing.