Tyler Weaver's Blog, page 24
October 24, 2019
Life Happened So Please Enjoy This Dog Picture
Family stuff this morning: crossing the rubicon of marriage into that uncharted wilderness of taking in-laws to a doctor’s appointment solo. Consider this a filler space. Regular ramblings return tomorrow - but at least the chain remains unbroken.
October 23, 2019
Wrist-Cyborg, Month Three-ish
Lost track of the days that I'd previously kept track of at ye olde site in ye olde volume of Informalities – but here I am, with an update.
Finally have the Watch face I like (the only one I like), "Complications" – an awful, seemingly un-Apple name – set: Weather, Multi-Timer, Streaks, and Healthface; and, while Just Press Record remains my essential app, I don't include it on the watchface because any accidental tapping (complication) goes straight to recording, without manually turning on the recorder. If this happened on my run, I'd be stuck with an hour and ten of heavy breathing punctuated by profanity and salutations to squirrels and neighbordogs. Hell, maybe that's a podcast right there. (Add to notes?)
Experimenting with Healthface integration with MySugr blood sugar tracking (slight bemusement at the gung-ho yippee you can do it cheer cheer monster thing of naming my Diabetes Monster; named mine PancreaBastard, because the name amuses me): for now, it provides better, more useful for November’s upcoming endo appointment – the lack of a peaks and valleys chart in the weekly screen of Apple's Health app makes charting day to day infinitely more difficult. Sticking with the free sign-up for now – no interest in a diabetes coach or in sending my test strip data to the latest niche subscription service.
Today: using my phone in the office as a music player. Since the phone and the watch are actually integrated, it's nifty to have my music controls on my wrist, as the phone is not allowed in the hallowed sanctuary of KaijuDesk... but, a potential pitfall: will my increased usage of the phone render the watch useless? I'd be lost without it on my run – as I said, Just Press Record essential. (Still think I’d be more torn up if something happened to the Watch than the phone.)
(Listening): IV (INSTANT CLASSIC / MA32), by Innercity Ensemble. (Yes, I'm hooked.)
October 22, 2019
AttentionWar
Most persistent battle with myself is the one waged over my attention, the battle for being not necessarily "in the moment," but in being focused on decisive actions directed to the incremental realization of clearly defined priorities – in other words, doing what I'm doing when I'm doing it (those things I CAN control) and not falling prey to the seduction of unsolvable, unactionable, riddles and peturbations – those things I can’t control... family/families, online existence, the Orange Malignancy's hourly fuckeries – etc etc – at the slightest inclination of roadblocks before me on the prioritized path...
(... let it be said that the creative path – anyone's creative path – is anything but a highway – on its BEST days it's an ephemeral footpath of unending night through brambles, poison ivy, and nature's threats – real and imagined – with an Apple Watch-sized flashlight at 10% battery life as a guide.)
Anyhow: over the decades of the battle of this witless I, I've tried countless tricks and conjurings to rally the troops of my attention against the invading hordes of reactionary bullshit: for about twenty years, I meditated twice daily. Three weeks ago, after realizing that it had become less of an anchor to keep me in position but a pair of cement shoes pulling me deeper into a black hole of myself (and gifted me with a panic attack that lasted for three days), I gave up that practice and instead redirected all of the effort heretofore confined to those sitting minutes towards a decisive, conscious effort throughout the day – three breaths usually does the trick, catch and release, sometimes hundreds of times a day (the ceaseless joys of Hulk/Loki puny-god whiplash between dysthymia and generalized anxiety disorder); anything to keep that dial in the center. Note: the run and yoga more than make up for the loss of the sit and the breathe which is, as is all too often the case, proving to be nowhere near the calamity I feared it might be.
Subject change: the further I get into THE BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES, the more I see its satire of the 1980s NYC hellscape as another essential read in the guide to understanding not necessarily the genesis of our current predicament but rather what passes for the "character" of the current seatwarmer of the Resolute Desk. We are in the BONFIRE presidency - DUMPSTERFIRE OF THE VANITIES?
(Listening): II, by Innercity Ensemble.
October 21, 2019
Mission: Cereal
Fall continues to fall.
Red balloons dot the street, helium-deprived birthday bash fallout; they are not, as my de-spectacled running self thought, a dancing human being, but a balloon (I repeat – a balloon). Leaves are turning, falling – more and more difficult to tell which are the leaves and which are the plastic flowers blown from the detritus of summertime patriotic remembrance in the cemetery. Leaf-pickup days are imminent, maybe.
But I'm not dead yet and a new mission is taking priority: find a new cereal. I've been a Multi-Grain Cheerios acolyte since day one of my post-DKA Day recovery (though I might have had a daliance with Raisin Bran but I was young and stupid then though Raisin Bran is quite good), just the right portion. But I want something different, a different taste; each Saturday or Sunday afternoon, I do my impression of Renner in the final scenes of THE HURT LOCKER, staring at the cereal, in search of that ever-elusive balance between taste, carb content, and portion size; Lucky Charms is/are out, I think.
Happy Monday. (And yes, I took the time to take a picture of cereal... when I write these things in 30 minutes I take whatever pops into my head.)
(Reading): THE BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES, by Tom Wolfe (72/685).
(Listening): THE SKY LOOKS DIFFERENT HERE, by Paper Dollhouse.
(Watching): GOLIATH, Season Three (3/8); SCHITT'S CREEK, Season Five (2/14).
(Playing): GEARS OF WAR (ULTIMATE) – after countless attempts, I might actually be enjoying this series.
October 20, 2019
October 19, 2019
Weather Report and Other Exciting Heartlandic Developments
After a week of warnings and advisories, the frost has arrived. The Koi, dwellers and visitors alike, are hiding in the bottom of the pond; the invading hoardes of moles and underdwellers remain undeterred in their quest to terraform my yard into a land hospitable to the mole uprising.
Other excitement:
Squarespace update didn't fix the biggest issue I have with the iOS apps (among the main roadblocks to me making this place my primary home for any and all online sharing): the seeming inability of the app to hew to the Post URL schema - blog/title - I set in the settings in the browser. Manual entering of a title works but I'd like the ease of automation I get when posting from the web... like I said before (I think), I've tried logging out and back in – maybe this time I'll actually delete and reinstall the app. If that doesn't work, I'll tweet at them (MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL taunting / fart in your general direction brought forth to our @-reality) a first time like it was my second time. That'll show 'em.
(Also: remember to hit save periodically when posting here: I lost most of yesterday's post with eight minutes left on my timer.)
Harold Goldberg penned a useful guide to Apple Arcade in The Washington Post, and it's worth checking out. My current favorite Arcade game is Mini Motorways – I've been addicted to its predecessor, Mini Metro, for years – and see no reason why the sequel won’t continue in its stead.
Think that's that for that. Happy Saturday. Regular ramblings return Monday; newsletter 0072 goes out to subscribers tomorrow AM.
(Listening): WHEN SHE HAD NO MIRROR... SHE WATCHED HER SHADOW, by Pinkcourtesyphone and Gwenyth Wentink.
October 18, 2019
Three Years Ago Today My Blood Sugar was 877 and I was 10 Minutes - Give or Take - From Dead
(Clearly, I don’t believe in half-measures.)
In the three years since DKA Day – diabetic ketoacidosis day – since my immune system decided to do it's best to kill me and I learned that I had Type One Diabetes, I've cooked approximately 1,095 omelets and given myself 4,380 shots of insulin; happy not-being-dead-iversary to me.
Memories of three years ago: fire breath...terrified that I was losing my mind, I'd lost 40 pounds and my face was angular... I couldn't keep a balance; I was carried, by my wife and closest friend, to the car to go to the emergency room... I think it was my rage at being taken to the ER that kept me alive (turns out, being taken to the ER was what kept me alive)... once the insulin got flowing – I still have the scar in the cubital area of my elbow where they jammed the IV – I was only allowed to have ice chips for awhile, I think – time loses its resonance in the ICU.
I also remember one of the nurses who, in the middle of one of my last nights in hospital, read me the doctor's reports on what happened to me. She made it clear that what happened wasn't my fault – that I didn't do anything wrong – and that I had to get back to running, but that it would take time. In five minutes, she made me feel like less of a monster, like less of a freak. She brought me a toothbrush, toothpaste and a comb; even though I didn't use it – but oh, did I brush my teeth – I still have that comb. It's a reminder that I'm not a monster, that I'm not a burden – that it's not my fault; it simply is.
I won't lie: there are days, especially between my birthday (07 August) — I'm how old?! – and DKA Day (18 Oct) – where I question why I wasn't allowed to die on that table. I was ready; for once I felt free, truly free, of the bonds to which I'd shackled myself. Sure, I was pissed that I wouldn't get to finish my work, whateverthehell that was, but I was ready. I welcomed it.
In these three years hence, I've spent a fruitful year in therapy, having been diagnosed with chronic depression and anxiety punctuated with OCD, a mental trifuckta that I have to balance as carefully as I do my carb intake and exercise. Not easy, but if I've learned anything, it’s that I'm just too fucking stubborn to be taken by my stupid ass brain and an organ that looks like a drunken slug sandwiched in the middle of my person.
Too fucking stubborn or maybe lucky, maybe both. I don't know. But it's not like I'm not proud of my accomplishments since diagnosis: I’d been practicing yoga for six years and running for three years before shit hit the fan – in the three years since, after four months of recovering and working myself back to it, I'm still doing yoga and I'm now running six miles every day – a number I chose because Haruki Murakami said he ran that much six days a week and I decided that since COLORLESS TSUKURU TAZAKI sucked so much that I would out-run him by a day; I really fucking hate that book.
Anyhow, here I am. If nothing else, I'm getting really good at making omelets. Happy not-being-dead day to me; onward, then, into the rest of my life, one injection at a time. The day’s run awaits.
P.S. What was my blood sugar at breakfast this morning? A comfy 111.
(Listening): YOUR PSYCHE'S RAINBOW PANORAMA, by Tony Njoku.
