Alone in my Knowledge

JWise Thoughts

Shadows in the Coffee Shop

Why should I feel so alone in my knowledge? Is it a fringe belief system that hinges on delusions and conspiracy theories? No, while I find some of those entertaining, they are mere fodder for distraction that needs to remain where they emerged from: on the fringe.

On the contrary, I’m in love with history, philosophy, and sociology, the glue of culture. From out of the sciences we learn of the building blocks of the very nature of the universe to the emergent organic beings we are.

Meshed together, we form a society that is disparate and grossly unequal. Our shared existence is fracturing as we seem intent on stratifying those who might vaguely understand things from those who are oblivious though self-righteousness while they falsely believe they are the true holders of knowledge.

Those who claim the power of knowledge but are relying on politics to sway a corruptible underclass into becoming their mob are betraying the very values that are supposed to be indicative of their intellect: professional education and proclaimed religious affiliation.

We are not lifting up the masses; we are merely making their poverty comfortable. Poverty is not only about the goods or capital one possesses or fails to attain, but it is also about the intellectual tools that help form decision-making rigor, which leads to better life choices.

I cannot claim to have a professional university education; I dropped out of high school. I cannot be certain that drug use hasn’t fogged my perception. So, what knowledge I might have can easily be dismissed as a perfunctory superficial education that was acquired willy-nilly. All the same, I have to scratch my head in disbelief at what we, as a citizenry allow to pass as being credible from our leadership and even from one another.

Basic logic is lost in hyperbole and an attention span dictated by threes. Some thirty years ago, my idea was as follows: large issues could remain in the public’s mind for upwards of three months, such as political issues, serial killers, and freedom movements such as apartheid. The next block was three-day attention, and it pertained to movies, sports, and larger local issues. Finally, there was the three-hour attention that might see people talking about a TV show, a celebrity drama, or a local sporting event at the high school.

Today, I have to revise this to three hours, three minutes, and three seconds. While it could be argued that a relatively recent event, such as the Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh, spent more than three hours in the news cycle, I’m suggesting that the majority of people didn’t spend even three hours in consideration of or contemplating the impact of the process that was unfolding. On the contrary, I’d suggest that the average person only needed three seconds to make up their mind. There doesn’t seem to be much of anything that can raise the ire of a person enough to get them engaged for more than about a few minutes.

There’s an inherent problem here in that none of us will ever know anything of any value if we can only ever afford three seconds of decision-making after three minutes of information gathering. We cannot learn languages in three minutes, three hours, three days, or even three weeks. To that end, we are collectively being manipulated by broadcast and social media-driven political establishments that are able to distract the uneducated with a superfluous dusting of titillating fragments that delude their adherents into believing they are well-informed.

Aldous Huxley in Brave New World, Marshall McLuhan in The Medium is the Message, and Neil Postman in Amusing Ourselves to Death all foresaw the dangers of our passivity but were powerless to curb a population bent on self-destruction and having already turned away from the written word. Now, amplify their prognostications by taking the internet and reducing the dialog to six-second videos found in what became known as vines and speech that is reduced to a tweet, and the recipe for stupefaction is well in place.

Let’s return to my opening statement: why do I feel so alone in my knowledge? At any given moment in my day, I cannot be surrounded by people who care or are able to consider ideas that their intransigence isn’t able to engage. Their memes, which have become their mentors, fit nicely for a minute or two and only work to reinforce their sense of certainty that plays to their continued ignorance, masquerading as a kind of knowledge but one without depth.

I don’t necessarily see a refuge where I can turn to be in a community that cherishes or at least respects the age of knowledge that is quickly fading if it’s not already dead. Populism easily escalates into nationalism, and this is especially so when able to lob these idiocies on a disenfranchised, poorly educated populace, which is exactly what we’ve cultivated for the past 40 years.

Maybe the better question for myself should be, why have I been cursed with this sense of awareness that impinges on my well-being?

Walking

JWise Life

Fitbit counting my steps on a winter day

Eating a healthy, diabetic-friendly diet is not enough. I have to walk. There is a direct correlation between my blood glucose level and the amount of physical activity I get. I don’t need to run or do Zumba. I’m not sure yoga would offer any benefit, but I know that walking lowers my levels every time I make a serious effort to get out.

Walking, though, sometimes feels like a full-time job, as it takes me roughly two hours to get my six miles in. Luckily, this situation with my elevated readings occurred in the Arizona winter when the mornings are still quite cool and the days are not much warmer than about 70. In the summer, the need to walk in a depressing mall is disheartening. The idea of walking a couple of miles under the 110-degree sun is a non-starter.

It was 34 degrees this morning when I first stepped outside, two hours later and I needed somewhere else to get another mile in. I could choose a trail, but even after things had warmed to 39 degrees, the shadows were still a bit icy. So I drove over to Costco (which was still closed), and after my walk, I sat down at a coffee shop in the same plaza to start this blog entry while having an iced drink. The problem with walking around the vast Costco parking lot is that the morning crew is in there making cinnamon rolls before the doors open to the public, and in a large part of the lot, I’m being seduced by the wafting smell.

After coffee, with Costco now open, I walk over for some shopping with the aim of gathering another 1,000 steps before dropping the groceries at home and going out for another couple thousand. At that point, I should have a solid three miles on my Fitbit, and I can start tending to lunch.

Fitbit counting my steps on a winter day

In this race to correct my sugar imbalance, I have to be rigorous in my effort, and lunch, in particular, is a struggle. All restaurants with a drive-thru are automatically disqualified as carbs are the primary and often only option on the menu. Mexican food, which is abundant here in the Southwest, is off the list as I have zero discipline to stay away from the tortilla chips. I could go out for a salad, but either I’ll be forced into something like an iceberg dinner salad that will leave me hungry in one hour, or I’ll be sitting in front of a 1,000-calorie monster.

An hour after eating whatever protein-heavy lunch I cook up, I have to force myself to break the lethargy and go out for at least another 2,000 steps.

Before dinner, I aim for another couple of miles, so I finally reach my 6 miles/ 12,000 step goal. Anything over that, and I’m thrilled and hopefully working towards weight loss.

Fitbit counting my steps on a winter day

Initially following this routine, I start shedding weight quickly, but just as quickly, it plateaus, sapping a bit of my enthusiasm. This time around, though, I’m jotting down these notes to myself in order to remind me of my recognition of this imperative. Getting complacent in the past did not serve me well, and this time around, I have to force myself to get my weight down to a more reasonable 200 pounds. I’m weighing in at 241, which is 5 pounds heavier than I was about a year ago. I hate publishing this here, as it makes it more real than the self-delusional fantasy I like to entertain.

Cultivate Your Potential

JWise Thoughts

Shadows in the Coffee Shop

What are you doing to cultivate your potential? How often do you practice literacy? When was the last time you tried something that wasn’t necessarily physically demanding but had you questioning if your mind was up to the task?

Every day, I ask myself why it appears that so many are comfortable in lazy banalities. What’s wrong with digging into our minds whose currency and lifeblood are words? Our imaginations have become muscles atrophied through the neglect brought by existential angst. Don’t worry about those things outside yourself; dig into the things within that are vast landscapes awaiting your exploration.

Where do you begin such an enormous task? Maybe right there on your smartphone. Go ahead and ask it to tell you about the Frankfurt School of Critical Theory or lookup Burmese Laphet Salad. Stop listening to your favorite songs and tune in to some music you think you hate. Don’t make it easy. Go way out of your comfort zone and try some Merzbow. You could make a commitment to watch an entire Bollywood film that would certainly feature at least half a dozen hit songs, which would give you some idea of the music nearly 2 billion people on earth enjoy.

Other avenues await you, such as recording some video on that phone, installing Adobe’s Creative Cloud of applications on a computer, and learning video editing and storytelling. Or open up Photoshop to learn that tool. Indesign is another one of Adobe’s tools, and with it, you can collect your thoughts and photos and publish your own book.

Video, photography, and writing are not your cup of tea. Grab a DAW (Digital Audio Workstation) and start watching tutorials on how to make music. Download some free VSTs (instruments and effects) and just playmaking sounds until you develop some skills.

Like drawing or sculpting as a kid? Krita for drawing is free, and Blender offers sculpting as part of their suite of 3D tools and it too is free.

Feel like you already have too much screen time with your connected devices? Turn off the TV and reclaim that time so you can set your attention to productivity tools that actually reflect who you are instead of passively continuing the diet of useless nonsense. Pick up a bunch of knitting needles and make a pair of socks, or buy some clay and sculpt a blob of nothing in particular.

Still not ready for challenging your brain with learning stuff you “think” is too hard? Go to a museum, a concert of music you typically don’t listen to, a play, the opera, or go volunteer at a hospice, halfway house, or other services that help your community.

The thing is that you have to break out of your routine because your routine is potential already realized. You own the repetition of fully knowing how you do the same thing day in and day out; there is no surprise or growth with standing in place. To get somewhere, you must take a step forward. Do not take steps backward or trace the ones you’ve already walked in; where do you think they’ll get you?

In effect, you must walk on the hot coals of discomfort and over the edge of certainty. Only through the continued effort of exploring where you might fail to enjoy the chore or fail to master something will you achieve the skills you need to wear down the calluses of your own stubbornness against change.

Fuck You, Diabetes!

JWise Life

My Blood Glucose Level This Morning

Fighting diabetes is a serious struggle that requires vigilance that feels like an elusive moving target. Three years ago, when I was diagnosed, I was adamant that I would never go on insulin. The problem was that this was exactly what my doctor wanted me to do. On the exact day I was given the diagnosis, I did a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and changed my behaviors.

Lucky me, I wasn’t supposed to start using those needles to inject myself until after I saw a dietitian who would discuss diet and the process of self-injection. My appointment wasn’t for two weeks, so I had time to attack the invader who was taking advantage of my genetic predisposition for this ugly disease. I fully understood that I’d brought this on myself with my overeating and obesity, but still, I had wished that before it ever happened to me, the healthcare industry would have invented the magic bullet that would save me the hassle.

When my date with the dietitian finally arrived, I’d reduced my fasting blood glucose from around 320 mg/dL to about 160 mg/dL. I was confident that I was moving in the right direction and that with just two more weeks, I could get this under control; I was right. In those early days and the ensuing ones, I changed my diet by eliminating any sugar, potatoes, pasta, and rice. I started looking at carbs and portion sizes. I bought a Fitbit for me and one for Caroline, which turned out great as we became competitive about step count.

The day after my appointment with the dietitian, we traveled to North Carolina for about a week, and while we were there, we took every opportunity to eat BBQ and walk. Proteins and green veggies were my new favorites. One month after my lifestyle changes, I had a follow-up appointment, and by then, my blood glucose tests were consistently within normal ranges

Four months after my original diagnosis, I had another appointment that again tested my A1C; this time, instead of the 11.2% I had back in April, I was at a healthy 6.2%. For all intents and purposes, I did not have diabetes. Of course, I was now taking the drug Metformin, but at least I wasn’t on insulin. Armed with my “clear” bill of health, I took it as a license to occasionally cheat on my diet. For the next two years, even though I had some serious fear that I’d pushed things too far, my A1C reading continued to come back in the range that gave me nothing to worry about.

Initially, I was extremely vigilant in testing my blood glucose, maybe to a fault, but I didn’t want to let this get away from me.

Now, here it is nearly three years later, and over the last six months, I grew lazy with testing; the matter of fact was that I simply stopped. I thought my diet was “mostly” under control, though I was aware that my portions had grown. There were no diabetes symptoms, so I grew arrogant.

Then, last night at 2:30 in the morning, I woke up needing to pee. Damn it. Two hours after breakfast this morning, I checked my blood glucose, and I was in the mid-200s; fuck you, diabetes. I felt panicky and a bit of despair as I had no idea how long I’d been out of control again. I’m trying to tell myself this is only temporary because I ate pineapple and raspberries last night, but I think that might be delusional.

I’m in a constant battle with my metabolism, genetics, and the convenience of eating out in a restaurant culture that rewards you with large portions.

Maybe this will prove to be a good thing because I’m seriously pissed off right now and feel like I need to be done with this. I lost nearly 40 pounds after learning I had this ailment; my hope is that if I can shed another 50 pounds, I could be done with it for good.

Until my numbers come down, I’ll have to deal with some anxiety, and I have to return to hyper-awareness of how insidious this monster known as diabetes is. Wishful thinking is not my best friend in keeping this life-destroying shit at bay. There are about 100 million of us with diabetes here in the United States, which is almost one-third of all Americans, and still, it is not a national discussion. The restaurants, grocery stores, and convenience foods cater to self-indulgence and are making a serious contribution to America’s ill-health.

It’s estimated that about 3 million people in the U.S. have a sensitivity to gluten, and everywhere we look, they are being catered to. Many people who likely do not have any sensitivity at all to wheat products imagine they have problems and have joined the bandwagon of self-diagnosed hypochondriacs who insist on a gluten-free meal. If you have diabetes and try to find carb-free meals, you are going to have to look far and wide and still come up empty-handed. So the “easy” fix is that those with diabetes should turn to cooking for themselves, but convenience is not part of that program, and as everyone knows, cooking for healthy eating is a seriously time-consuming job.

It was the threat of taking insulin that made me change my routine and try to take this disease seriously. I don’t want this to be a dilemma of choosing between an easy way and a longer life. Too many people don’t want to change their relationship to convenience and so will continue eating what they want while regulating their blood glucose with a jab in the stomach. The problem with this type of treatment is that I’ve seen too many others go through the ugliest of complications that are a part of diabetes. So in my frustration, I am left with the hope I can muster the fortitude to fight for my life and find a tiny amount of solace in screaming, “Fuck you, diabetes!” for making food so difficult to enjoy.

Winter Sky

JWise Photo of the Day

Winter sky in Arizona

Bands of undulating clouds drift imperceptibly across the morning sky. They range from brooding dark grays to ephemeral puffs of cotton balls on their way to disappearing. With the sun still low in the sky one can glean that it is still winter here in the desert. These are the patterns of weather that are clearing where the trains of clouds are moving out.

When these clouds arrived a couple of days ago ready to offer us rain they appeared on the horizons as thick blankets relatively monotonous in their diffuse dark heavy cover. If we do get so lucky that they open up, dropping their contents upon us, there is greater hope for a healthy wildflower season to follow. Winter rains in the Southwest are typically pleasant affairs compared to our blustery monsoon season during the late summer.

With the first winter rains not only do we get to revel in the sweet scent of petrichor in the cool morning air, but are also bathed in the incredible aroma of creosote. The sun pokes through some of the fracturing clouds and will peek in and out of view, often teasing a bright shining knife’s edge off the cloud it is trying to pierce.

Meanwhile all around us, the clouds continue their transition, opening up patches of blue sky where high above the lower dark clouds windswept thin white veils are hiding the majority of our view of blue space.

This all happens in the first minutes after stepping outside and instantly I’m drawn into wondering how many or few people will notice their sky on any given morning? For me at least there are two times a day that the sky holds the greatest potential to wow us: daybreak and sunset. Today I was struck at how rare this opportunity to marvel at the sky is really. On most days here in my corner of Arizona the sky is clear blue without a cloud to be found. Even on rainy days, we see blue skies, and when I lament the oppression of eternally sunny, though at times incredibly hot, days here where we live, I think people find it incredulous that anybody should kvetch about great weather.

There is something to be said about how weather changes our perspective and that bad weather, in particular, brings with it a change in mood and desires to burrow into the nest to find coziness in bundling up with a favorite hot drink. It’s not uncommon over the winter here in Phoenix to have our windows open every day, which is quite the respite after having been sealed inside for our long summer days.

Nothing is Perfect

JWise Thoughts

Shadows in the Coffee Shop

Nothing is perfect. The conversations are about survival, dreams, religion, education, and politics. There are the meth-addicted here, plasma donors, students, and people trying to save their financial footing. I’m on the edge of an area known as “The Square,” which has the reputation of being a high-crime, impoverished corner of Phoenix, Arizona.

A Tesla leaves the drive-through as a couple pushing two shopping carts straggle by, one drawn by the brand and the other by toilets and ice water. A drug deal has been going on where a woman left her van to sit in another car before exiting to rejoin the person in the van who’s waiting on her. But the business is not done as she stumbles back to the black car. This time, they drive to another spot in the parking lot; maybe they think they won’t appear so obvious that way. The guy in the van works his pimples while the girl is likely hand-jobbing her dealer to make up for the shortage of shekels the couple has access to. Having probably run out of zits worth milking, the van driver has taken to compulsively picking his nits; he’s almost frantic in his determination.

The police have shown up, and after a second unit joins the first an officer approaches the car. The van driver remains cool, and after only a few minutes, the policemen leave, and the couple continues. Shortly after that, the party breaks up, with the woman going back to the van and everyone going their own way.

Some guy at a nearby table finally emerges from an extended stay in the bathroom where he’d gone nearly 30 minutes ago. He doesn’t look like a junkie, so I’m left thinking he’s incredibly constipated. Less than two minutes out, and he’s gone back for round two; I listen for the telltale signs of explosive diarrhea.

There’s a near-constant amount of foot traffic from the blood plasma donation center in this parking lot, but they walk on by instead of stopping in today. Within this coffee shop, there’s a diversity that’s missing from yesterday’s location. People from various countries, including China, Mexico, and/or other points in Central America, India, and Pakistan, black, white, young, old, thin, and obese are all represented. On the other hand, most of yesterday’s clientele were between 35 and 65,  of average weight, and predominantly, maybe even exclusively, white.

Are we segregated? In many ways, we are, but it’s not necessarily forced by cultural convention but by class and opportunity that are silently imposed. America favors a homogeneous structure and does its best to tamp down diversity. While America may be the leader on some fronts regarding personal freedoms, there is an undercurrent of intolerance even from those that often fain openness and inclusivity.

Against this backdrop of reality, we are shown an impossible dream of happiness through endless happy consumption where we are all just a latte and 64-inch TV away from nirvana. The truth, on the other hand, is something more akin to accepting your series of personal failures and perceived opportunities that proved to be dead ends. At the end of the day, far too many will try to assuage their pain using the crutches of food, drugs, alcohol, pets, and various other surrogates on their path to futility.

Fortunately for the masses, there isn’t much thinking that goes along with the grind. There may be a general dissatisfaction, but it’s misfocused on blaming some mysterious “other.” Accountability for one’s own intellectual progress is myopic at best, which blinds people to understanding their own complacency for how this state of affairs has come to be our status quo. There is no red pill, and there is no blue pill in a world where one’s trajectory has too much momentum towards mediocrity.