Land of confusion

Yesterday I watched my children head out to the global youth for climate strike, and burst into tears. Sweet baby Jesus you make me proud. How do I keep you safe from harm? What have I done, bringing children into this mad world? What can I do to alleviate their fears and anxiety and frustration? I felt like calling them back and apologizing, saying I’m so so sorry you have to feel this way, as if we don’t hear you or care about you or your future.

And to those who think these strikes are some great green conspiracy: you are absolutely half right. The children and youth of today are stone cold sober dead serious about securing a safer future for themselves if the ladies and gents of their parents’ and grandparents’ generation won’t. What they see and hear is more or less this: we will keep extracting and exploiting as much as we can for as long as we can and to hell with the consequences. Or the grandkids. Is it any wonder they are prone to panic? Why aren’t we?

Those tears were a visceral reaction I couldn’t contain. Not only was I a mess of pride and joy and distress, I’d seen the news from New Zealand but didn’t say a word as they headed out bursting with resolve and vigor, I just hoped they wouldn’t see it until much later. The mere thought of what was done, no, I don’t want to see the vile violent footage, fills me with not terror or fear but deep heartfelt sadness. The thought of someone hurting my children, anyone’s child...I can’t even breathe through the pain and grief that thought rouses. Children are innocent. Those children are innocent. But so were their parents. And grandparents. Aunts and uncles. Friends and neighbors. Fellow humans in peaceful prayer.

If you or anyone living in your sub-human subculture think you will change the course of history or the fate of nations this way, you are wrong. Terror doesn’t work. Look it up. Never has, never will. This was no act of heroism but homicide. This is no righteous warrior but a murderer. We are all cousins on this planet. Taking a life is spilling your own blood. That’s what it is. That’s all it is. Any perceived justification is but a misguided excuse. And chaos... Since you can’t control the outcome or the consequences, chaos is neither a method nor an ideology.

Is that how you start your mornings on this planet, playing victim of this and victim of that, thinking up excuses, thinking “This is what I’m here for. This is how I’ll spend the one life I was given”? Bathe in hatred, moisturize with bigotry, spray on some eau de loathing, bake a fear cake and pass it around? You are no man on a mission, you are lost. You have lost your humanity, your true north, and every cardinal point; love, empathy, compassion and respect. This is your contribution? Ending lives while squandering yours? There are constructive and destructive ways to live a life, apply yourself, communicate and participate. You chose wrong. You chose a road to nowhere.

As my children returned, bursting with even more resolve and vigor, they did ask about the news from Christchurch. Their reaction? Not horror, at least not the kind that was perhaps sought, but a saddened headshake. What a senseless, heartless act that accomplishes... absolutely nothing. Nothing but the calm and continued resolve to reject thoughts and acts and voices that aim to divide and conquer; leaders leading people astray, demagogues and populists, xenophobes and misogynists, bullies and trolls, all who’d rather follow a moral compass gone haywire than think for themselves.

Same same but different

Temperature: a slushy 4/39 degrees

Eating: Heading out to dinner later today to meet up with my tribe of fierce fabulous fearless women. Happy International Women’s Day! ✊

Drinking: Oh I’m sure there’ll be a toast or several.

Watching: the new Moominvalley series. We need a Moomin emoji. To the Unicode Consortium, let's go!

Listening: to the X Ambassadors

Reading: How to Be a Good Creature: A Memoir in Thirteen Animals by Sy Montgomery, illustrated by Rebecca Green. This is a beautiful book on so many levels.

Thinking: Don’t judge me, exalt me, berate me or underestimate me/anyone based on my/his/her sex. What we do, think and say is what counts.

Feeling: A tad bit under the weather from the flu my son gifted me with. But thanks for waiting until carnaval was done!

Episode 412 where Dita gets all worked up over the Oscars

I'll show you my utterly unimpressed with the Oscars face if you'll show me yours. Seriously. I'm having a hard time getting excited. And not for the first time. For the many manieth time in a row. Is the show showing its age...being 91 and all...and perhaps a bit...tired...of itself? If there's one thing the movie industry knows how to do it's a facelift, but I feel like they need a more extreme kind of makeover at this point.

Have they finally decided on this year's show? With a room full of actors will they dispense with a script and employ the brow-dampening art of improvisation? Will they simply be mailing those statues in 2020? And can we talk about the omissions? They tell a tale of memory disorder, no surprise when you're 91, really. What is wrong with this year's lineup? Let's see, shall we? Where's Widows? [Did you see this movie? Apparently, neither did the Academy.] Where is Early Man? Joanna Kulig? Emily Blunt (and correct me if I'm wrong but she's never been nominated, not once, a scandal of Dolby Theatre proportions)? Or Toni Collette?

[I can barely stomach horror these days, but I'm glad I watched Hereditary and A Quiet Place. BC EB & TC. And if the Academy doesn't care much for horror then what is their excuse for overlooking EB in Mary Poppins Returns? No, I'd really like to know.] Where is Timothée Chalamet for his rip-your-heart-out-and-fry-it-extra-crispy Beautiful Boy performance? Nomination got lost in the mail? Landed in the hands of PwC and was never seen again? They couldn't spell/pronounce his name? What about The Rider? Zero fucks given, Signed, The Academy. And yay for Adam Driver, but if Adam Driver then John David Washington, right? No? Why not?

Anyone care to explain? What is going on, people? What?! The Oscar goes to anyone who delivers a sincere answer and makes a believable performance out of it.

Friends, family, countrymen, lend me your ears

"[L]ike a sunrise or sunset...we appear and we disappear, and we are so important to some, but we are just passing through."

~Natalia in Before Midnight

Happy Valentine's Day, fellow travelers. 💋💓
 

Let’s get physi(ologi)cal

Just when you thought that now that Dry January is over, you’re safe…tum tum tum tum tum tum tum tum…that’s supposed to be Jaws, btw…Fit February is here! I know. And no, I’m not here to go all fitness fascist on your ass, whatever shape and size yours happens to be. I would, however, like to mention some seldom advertised truths.

Humans have an on average amount of fat cells. On average. Meaning some people have two or three times the amount of fat cells his/her average-amount friend has and are apt to gain two or three times the amount of weight her/his average-amount friend ever could or would. You can choose what and how much you eat, but you can’t choose those cells any more than you can choose your genes. Hundreds of genes affect weight and among that multitude lurk some that predispose you to gain extra. (And yup, those tend to run in the family.)

So, some people can eat seemingly anything they want and not gain weight, and some feel they can’t eat a thing without automatically putting it on. That’s a simplified picture but more or less how the process works. Weight is not just a matter of dietary habits or self-discipline, as some unhealthy health messaging would have you believe. It’s physiology at its finest, and most infuriating. So much in the human body we can’t control or change. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t react if you start putting on excess kilos/pounds bordering on obesity, it just means that losing those kilos/pounds may turn out to be a lot harder than you thought. Bodies equipped with certain genes, triggers and extra storage facilities will do their best to keep those extra fat cells fed. That’s the job.

Another tidbit: Your gut doesn’t count calories. All an adult stomach requires to feel sated is 400 grams/14 ounces of food. How many calories you pack into those grams/ounces is up to you. And if you’ve heard someone call the gut our second brain, well, consider, for instance, that there are bacteria in your gut that specialize in sugar. That’s what they crave above all else. They create that craving you feel. That’s your second brain in action, insta messaging you, screaming for sugar, and the more you feed that need the greedier the bacteria get. That’s their job.

And where am I going with all this? Gently nudging you on a path to self-knowledge. If knowledge is power, self-knowledge is a superpower. I don’t view ignorance as bliss, I feel helpless and restless in the face of things I don’t understand. I feel calmer when I grasp cause and effect, even if it’s something I can’t change or control. And this need to understand applies to pretty much everything including weight and health. Or willpower, or self-control. Innate trait or skill, willpower? Not sure it matters so long as we decide to view it and treat it as something we can cultivate. And if you want to be better at handling your body’s messages you should take an interest because we are bombarded with those messages all day, every day.

The trick, or a trick (they teach you this in combat training, probably Weight Watchers too) is not to listen. Disregard. Discomfort? Live with it. Pain? Breathe through it. Exhaustion? More to come, so enjoy every plateau. Easier said than done? Easier for those with higher levels of neuropeptide Y. Easier/harder because of the complexity of our makeup. Nature, nurture, genes, triggers, chance, circumstance… As those fat cells demonstrate, we were not created equal, not in the physical sense. But: we are all capable of learning self-command. If you haven’t been that good at it, it will be taxing at first. You will feel fricking exhausted going head-to-head with yourself. But mastery, even a fleeting glimpse of it, comes with a prize, and that, sweetie darlings, makes it all worthwhile.

[Oh great, another bunghole selling the you-can’t-control-everything-but-you-can-always-control-you trope? Nope. Just trying to demonstrate the difference between being at the mercy of inexplicable inner whims and cravings/the will of others and understanding inner workings/how the world operates. Nah, still kind of sure I’m selling the you-can’t-control-everything-but-you-can-always-control-you trope? Good god, what are you still doing here? Move along, my friend! And if it’s diet tips you’re after, I only have one: Does this nourish me? Does this whatever I’m about to put in my mouth nourish my body? We tend to know the answer, whatever the product or produce.]

How do you start on this road to better self-command? I suggest small and simple. A part of the whole disregard business is not thinking too much. Don’t feel like cleaning house? Don’t debate it. Don’t cajole, don’t bargain or bribe. Don’t ask yourself if you’re up to it. You know you don’t wanna. So best not think too much or too long about it. Put on the autopilot (and some music, if it helps) and get on with it. Or when you constantly crave sweets, or a drink after work, or whatever your taken-too-far-an-unhealthy-guilty-pleasure is. That’s your body sending a message you can either listen to or disregard. Take it from someone whose favorite pastime is thinking, someone cursed with a vivid mind. I’m very good at coming up with reasons (read: excuses) for not doing things like cleaning house because I have better things to do with my time, all the time, every time. So, I’m not allowed to argue or debate or reason. I don’t wanna too fricking bad I’ve gotta. End of inner discussion.

You get better with practice, I promise. How to keep going? You can always roleplay. You can hire your very own imaginary taskmaster. Some BDSM may be in order, a Dom/Mistress, your loving authority, who never judges and only wants what is best for you, and will remind you what that is when you start slipping. I summon a drill sergeant, a mean and bossy bastard. I also have another personal trainer for times and situations when that mean, bossy DSgt of mine feels a bit too…heavy-handed. Stupid tricks, you say? Smart tools, I say. Also, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, okay? Whatever helps. Whatever gets the job done, be it a physical or mental task.

And it is a stressful world we live in. Same as it ever was. You will feel overwhelmed and tired. You will fear failure. You’ll be certain you’re underperforming in everything you do. You will make stupid, senseless comparisons when you should be concentrating on yourself. Take care. Take care of yourself. Learn to know yourself, the good and the bad and the ugly. The saint and the sinner. Your triggers and buttons. The true you. You will live in that skin for the rest of your days. You will have to live with yourself, your choices, decisions and possibly even regrets, for just as long. There is no escape and there are no clean slates, only doodles upon doodles upon doodles, layered and interconnected. That’s you. The one and only. So have patience, have mercy, and when you absofuckinglutely need it, have that glass of wine or whatever. I will be there with bells on, disregard the taskmaster leaning on the doorbell, and we will drink to your health and happiness.