pseudoisaac

I tabled for my organization at a Youth Pride Fair in a St Paul park last Friday. I helped with registration, surveys and button-making.

One thing struck me about the place: these are my people. The young people there were mostly in high school. Many were black or Hispanic and all of them live in a society that marginalizes them for who they are. Yet they were friendly, interested in the health and wellness message of the organizations present, and excited to volunteer or work for them over the summer.

They have every reason to be angry and withdrawn or to have not turned out at all. It was a Friday, after all. I can’t imagine how hard junior high through college would have been if I were gay on top of all my other problems. But people came out for the spirit of it and showed their pride.

It may have been a somewhat nicer place than the Loring Park Pride Festival, too. What sticks out at me about that fair is all the cigarette smoke I have to breathe and the fried food smell that clings to my clothes. In other words, how similar it is to any other summer festival. Also the huge, veiny penises of Captain Kirk and Spock on display in paintings there last year were not in the spirit of a public fair, but who am I to question the artist? (I confess that I am looking forward to this year’s Pride Festival partly for the cheese curds and the swag.)

The Youth Pride event on the other hand was tobacco-free and while it emphasized sexuality as a big part of young people’s lives, it included organizations that serve their many other needs and wants, such as summer camps, homeless shelters and choral groups.

I checked in with a really slow office assistant who had emailed me saying to be there at 0850 when it was supposed to be 0920. She moved slow, talked slow, was slow.

But then things went better as an alumnus (who looked like he could be my brother) showed us what it took to get in. He seriously looked just like me – a nondescript white guy in a collared shirt with short hair. He had input in the admissions process and seemed reasonable in what he expects from essays, recommendations, etc. and what he feels is neat and novel on the one hand, or over-the-top and contrived on the other. Another guy (a 3L) showed us around. Both were very nice and smart.

We (me and three other men) sat in on an "Evidence" class for upper-level students. It seemed like something I would enjoy. Students were assigned roles and stated what they would do in a given situation as a judge, prosecutor or defender. The lecturer knew his stuff and was presenting common exchanges in a criminal case, such as when a cop’s testimony can be challenged as hearsay and how to respond to such a challenge. It is very interesting to think about what is admissible in court and what should be brought up later as grounds for an appeal.

One of my fellow prospective students was a music teacher from Joliet, IL A very nice guy who basically wants to fight for his people in education, who are under attack from all directions. Another was a business man from Kentucky who was rude enough to try to contribute to the large-group discussion (twice) even though he was not in the class. Another was a recent grad and college football player. Muscular but soon to be fat.

I liked the class. Law school is something I had never given a thought to until a friend of mine got admitted. I am so similar to her in politics, passtimes and reading that the idea suddenly intrigued me. I have always wanted to advocate for people and the environment. And I thought that being in this country’s wacked-out healthcare system was the only way to do that. I have always been drawn into science as well even though I struggle with the math and experimentation parts of it while loving the natural history, narrative and spirit of it. But when I consider the things that most influence the health of me and people my age, one of the biggest would definitely be the statewide smoking ban in restaurants. This was done through legal and legislative means, and is still being challenged. Each nonprofit or government health or environmental agency has lawyers helping to do the good work and get their initiatives applied. Anything you might be passionate about has legal people involved.

Ultimately I don’t think I would get in to the UMN program. But I am checking out William Mitchell College of Law in a couple of weeks and am enticed by the four-year part-time program which leads to the same degree. I also kind of like spending time in St Paul and am irritated with the sluggishness of UMN bureaucracy. My hope is that my many years of studying biology will be put to good use, instead of fading away like some language one used to study.

Included: me in Afton State Park, June 2012, on a very special and misty-cold morning.

I woke up curled in a faceful of vomit. But even that was better than what I deserved: a tall glass of dookie, with nuts. I had ruined my summery shirt and been nursed by friends who were just trying to have a good time responsibly. It was a metaphor for what my life has become. The shame and embarrassment are mine to bear alone.

Just when I thought I was turning things around and taking control, I do this. And to think that earlier in the day I was making fun of Wisconsinites for their bingeing problems. And I got all righteous the other day about people smoking on the patio at a restaurant and near the doorway of my building. And now this, an even worse violation of my own promises to myself.

I am sick. But sick people at least deserve sympathy. In addition to being sick I am like a fat-headed child. A person born with love and privileges but who nurtures a secret malice toward almost everyone. Good deeds, justice, compassion, achievement – none of these outward traits can wash away the shame because the defect is inside me. "Imbecile rapacity," that’s the term for it (thank you Conrad). I have a blind impulse to smash and grab. I am a looter in a place built with love and care.

I think of my co-worker: he is loud and domineering in conversation. He smells like armpit and he has a dumb haircut. But because he is good-natured, outgoing and sociable, people like him. I however, am aloof, grim, distant. I have all the condescension of Sherlock Holmes but none of the charm or intelligence. I offend the people I like and ignore those I don’t. I am a jerk, a liar, a recluse, eager to put people down or lash out.

And another full day devoted to "recovering." A day lost to daytime TV and sipping on Diet RC Cola. Both of these things signaled my diminished expectations in life.

If I stumbled and had to be walked home, it was because of reversible damage to my cerebellum. If I failed to encode memories later on in the night, it was because of reversible damage to my hippocampus. At least I can drink my fluids and floss a little more thoroughly the next day. But when does the damage cross the line and become irreversible? And when will I have brought the standards low enough to fall through the bottom? Obviously I won’t recognize that line when I cross it. Better to avoid it altogether.

I saw black tulips with astonishingly delicate and feathery petals.

I saw an old man waiting on a bench for his wife to finish chatting with someone.

I saw a fat bride with sunburned shoulders and neck.

I saw little boys in tuxedos and I heard toads trilling, treefrogs croaking and western chorus frogs clicking.

I saw a huge garter snake. Nearly stepped on it, in fact.

This all made me think: what makes you notice something? What is it that makes something cross the filter from sensation and into perception? Having been perceived, what brings it into cognition? Individuals are bombarded by stimuli of varying quality, duration and intensity all day long, but only some of them break through. And only some become incorporated and remembered – become, in a word, part of one’s mind.

That black tulip, for instance, was so unusual I couldn’t help but notice it. But on another day in a less receptive mood I might have passed it by.

The old man looked patient and content, like he was the quiet one in the relationship and was used to waiting.

The robust bride I passed by was so pink on her sun-exposed parts I couldn’t help but notice, and having noticed, I thought: She is going to be so red and sore in the morning her new husband won’t even be able to touch her. Hopefully they will get their fill with the fucking that night.

And the frogs and toads. I used to think those noises were from bugs. Only after listening to Stan Tekiela’s “Reptiles and Amphibians of Minnesota” did I learn they came from distinct amphibians. This made me more attuned to them and allowed them to “break through” the barrier.

And that snake. I only noticed it when it fled. A biologist once proved that a snake with speckled coloration is more likely to freeze when approached, while one with stripes, like this one, will flee and cause its pursuer to misjudge its speed and miss it when it strikes.

Yet as much as I love noticing things like these, I am grateful that I am not constantly aware of the hum of traffic outside, for instance, or of the clothes over my skin. And that I can usually control what I think about instead of being pushed and pulled by intrusive thoughts. And that I can think without the input of any sensation at all.

How can I spread wellness? I think of this as I sit here, after one hour of my daily exercise as prescribed. I feel great as self-generated opioids wash over me. The mind brims with possibilities. Later in the day I will, as research has shown, do my dishes earlier, make my bed more often, be more productive, get better sleep, and so on. My muscles feel warm and strong, my appetite is hearty but satisfied. If a discrete activity such as exercise can bring me joy and other advantages, maybe I can help bring that kind of thing to others.

Wellness is a broad state. Many things contribute to it. Just consider my workout today:

– Well-marked five foot wide bike lanes got me to the Cedar Lake Trail with its beautiful and open views of downtown.

– The excellent air quality in Minneapolis leaves me with no fear of being outside at midday.

– A supportive culture of outdoor activity prevails here in Minneapolis. Even though it was gray out there were lots of people on bikes, jogging and walking. There were men in Spandex from head to toe and bronzed goddesses running with sporty ponytails and Kegels like a vise, no doubt.

– I had my iPod shuffle to reduce the monotony (not while biking of course). This little device was practically made for workouts.

– I have excellent trail running shoes available for cheap. They are perfect for the former train tracks that were converted into unpaved trails in that area.

– I have a book: a Dorling Kindersley strength training book with lush illustrations and effective and safe directions, available at my sunny downtown library with its excellent county-wide request system and its interesting assortment of slumbering homeless people.

– I have dumbbells from a sporting goods store, courtesy of a gift certificate from my parents for Christmas.

– I have fresh fruits and veggies I bought at Rainbow for cheap, along with boneless skinless chicken breasts for a dollar a pound.

– I have the benefits of nutritional knowledge from school and other resources. And more important, eating habits ingrained from childhood.

All these things have benefited me. So how do I contribute? How do I spread wellness? How do I infect others with a love of the outdoors, or a taste for veggie sandwiches, or a fondness for trail running? The best way to start is to set a good example. Then to invite friends and family to exercise with me and share healthy meals. Then to support and validate people in everyday interactions. And finally to advocate for bike trails, education, a healthy food system, and all the other things that have helped me be healthy thanks to the efforts of so many people before me.

I set out at noon for this place on the Minnesota River. The day was cold, only 40 or 45 degrees, but so wet that I could be sure the temperature would stay roughly the same. I dressed more for water resistance than for warmth. The overcast sky scattered light everywhere in the phenomenon so coveted by photographers. These optics and the wetness of the foliage always make the various shades of green so much more distinct than usual.

Although I could feel the cold in my wet toes and fingertips, I was rewarded for my afternoon adventurousness. At the beginning of the day I told myself I would do something new today, and I did. I followed a new trail where I saw northern shovelers, blue-winged teal, tundra swans, red-tailed hawks, bald eagles, wood ducks, American coots, great blue herons, and a chipping sparrow. For many of these birds, today was a day not for adventure but for loafing before continuing their yearly journey north.

I saw only two people on my walk, and only from a distance. And I had an encounter with a fox. The fox was reddish orange and its fur was wet. I saw the black tips of its erect, triangle ears. Through binoculars I watched it traipse and bound. It was looking around for prey, not paying me any mind at all. From the distance I was at I don’t know if it even saw me. It appeared to be using its sight as much as its hearing to hunt. Or perhaps it was foraging, taking whatever it could get. Maybe it was a mother who had pups to bring food to. Funny that they should be called “pups.” I have read that a fox can bark like a dog. It did not catch anything before I lost sight of it, as it entered a dense copse of quaking aspen.

Because my perception is dim and my memory is distorted, there are certain moments I must record as they happen. I feel compelled to write them down so they don’t dissipate like vapor and go cold. The time when I helped a dead-drunk man to a bench, the time I skinny-dipped with eight girls in the Caribbean, the time I heard meteorites as they fell to earth, all these events can slip away from me if I do not put them down somewhere. My hike alone on a cold and drizzly – but bright – April afternoon is the same way.

Lately I in order to get my rebelling body to go to sleep in the afternoon I have been doing something that may not be entirely wholesome: I will take 50 mg of diphenhydramine (generic Benadryl), then shower, then eat a big sandwich and a bowl of oatmeal, and then have a small glass of whiskey (about 100 mL). This puts me out pretty quickly, especially if I exercised earlier in the day.

However I can see at least three problems with this tactic. First, I wonder what, if any, interaction there is between the alcohol and the diphenhydramine. Is it more taxing on my liver, maybe? I am at least taking the diphenhydramine by itself instead of popping Tylenol PM tablets, which some people take to help them sleep but which also includes acetaminophen, which is not necessary unless you have an ache.

Second, I try to avoid big meals like that. I am worried about blood sugar spikes. We talked in class once about how 80% of people with diabetes mellitus type II are overweight or obese. But what about that 20% who are of healthy weight? That is a significant percentage. Obviously there are other risk factors for chronic diseases, and there is growing certainty that blood sugar fluctuations do not help.

Finally, diphenhydramine quickly loses its effectiveness if you take it every day. I can only pop this stuff every once in a while if it is going to keep giving me the goods.

The obvious solution is to get a damn day job like normal people. But that is impossible at this time. Because of things.

1. I am going to try to use the terms “invaginate” and “invagination” much more frequently in everyday conversation. And if anyone comments on it, I will accuse him or her of being the sicko for even suggesting that there is anything naughty about the word.

2. I am going to do some video or audio recording of my grandma so we have more than just images of her when she is gone. Images are silent but when a loved one dies people often wish they had recordings of his or her voice.

3. I am going to camp the fuck in some state forests here in Minnesota. I was not even aware of these vast tracts of land. But apparently you can camp in them at a reduced rate, set up camp at more remote locations within them, and they have even fewer people around than state parks. I should do it before the ticks really start to come out.

4. I am going to find a female to be my companion in the exchange of certain sympathies that are vital to my being.

5. I am going to dress a little better. I was flipping through an issue of GQ and there was a before-and-after type style makeover, and the “before” guy was wearing almost the exact same thing I had on! The author had some condescending comment such as “Nothing says, ‘I just threw this shirt on’ like a tee shirt poking out under the collar.”

6. I am going to continue reading Les bienveillantes, which has become another interminable project of mine. After all it is right up my alley: gore, French language, and some very methodical and exacting descriptions of the action. But il n’est pas court.

I didn’t get into the program. Oh well. I suppose I can just apply again next year. Better make my application more competitive. And so on. No big deal, right?

But it’s all shit! Shit, dammit! No one cares if you to fail. What is there to all this but endless eating and gnawing? One’s heart is just a pulsating vessel. When people are constantly shouting, "Ay man, you got fitty cent for tha bus?" and harassing and following, the heart reacts. It gets inflamed. Many vascular insults combine to cause lifelong systemic injury and eventually a catastrophe.

One man thinks, "Boy, I am a part of the glue of the community, I just had a great spontaneous conversation with a gentleman out back. It’s amazing how you can connect to someone when talking face to face." Another man thinks, "This fool walks his dog at the exact same time every night and he about to get his ass robbed."

One woman thinks she has the appreciation and goodwill of her co-workers. Another clicks the "dismiss" button in an update box in an online social network.

People are like ships passing in the night? No, not at all. That sounds poetic, but we are more like passing fish. Just as rapacious but much more dumb and blind and diseased.

Women, actually.

One of them was manifestly skeletal. Totally arms and legs, to the point where it looked like her clothes were just fabric draped over her. I was worried she was going to bruise me with a sharp bone sticking out here or there. She apparently had enough glycogen stored in those stringy little muscles to power her on the dance floor for a couple of hours, because she sort of swayed her torso and paddled her arms to the music vaguely. Good for her.

Another was an Austrian chick. She and her friend from Berlin said that while America was great, it was not meeting their expectations so far. It was not "number one." I told her a lot of medical terms came from German discoverers. She corrected me: "Actually, the terms are Latin." I gave her the examples of Virchow’s triad and Schwann cells but I don’t think she understood me because of the language barrier, the loud music and the alcohol. So I looked dumb. She was pretty but she smoked about five cigarettes in a row during our brief conversation.

The other girl was paraplegic and in a motorized wheelchair. What she lacked in motor function, she made up for in number of friends, who were dancing all around her wheelchair while she sat there. It occurred to me that if one of us danced with the girl in the wheelchair, her friends would be free for the taking. Or maybe she was a famous physicist. Or maybe we were in a social experiment and our reactions were being filmed. Then I realized that was preposterous and a person with disabilities does not deserve to be stared at or talked about just for going out in public. But still. Thanks to frat boy humor websites I could not help but make the comment about how one guy jumps on the "grenade" for the sake of his buddies. But that usually refers to fat grenades, which is something the grenade can actually change. It’s cruel either way though.