December 18, 2016
You bet I was pumped, the Mona Lisa is the most famous painting on Earth. I practically skated down the hallways of La Lourve, ignoring millions of dollars of art along the way to glimpse this fabled masterpiece. And she looked lovely – if you were one of the lucky ones at the front of the scrum, the rest of us schmoes elbowed each other for air space, raising our cellphones or cameras as high as our arms and toes would allow. “It’s a fake, you idiots,” I yelled to those at the front, “the original has been stolen so often they hang a repro.” They pretended not to hear me, or perhaps I did not say it out loud. Regardless, they continued to click away. Walking slowly back I took my time contemplating the B-pictures I had rushed past in my haste toward the star attraction. Each painting was more brilliant than the next, some by artists I knew nothing about. The Mona Lisa is the most expensive painting in the world, it is also the most Clipart’d, Snapchat’d, Facebook “Liked” and Youtube-shared painting in the world, but is it the best? Is it even Leonardo Da Vinci’s best? It made me question; is popularity ever a measure of quality?
In this age of instant celebrity it should be obvious that popularity can be bought and sold in the time it takes to post a Tweet. Haven’t seen the latest in the Star Wars franchise yet? What’s wrong with you, it is so cleverly marketed that everyone you know has, so what are you waiting for? Popularity is now so cheap they are calling this the “post-fact era,” meaning you can make up any absurd fiction and if any people click your link then it is the truth. Just as Mary Poppins once predicted, “If you sing it loud enough you’ll always sound precocious.”
Despite all this obviousness, in my daily life I still struggle to divorce popularity from quality. Its not my fault, humans are hard wired for approval and affirmation, it is oxygen for the ego. How I salivate upon seeing the “like” stars on my blog posts. Somehow, more stars substitutes for better writing in some deep, dark recess of my brain. Yet the posts I have struggled with the most to write got very few, if any, ‘likes’, though strangely those were the posts which brought for me the most clarity on their respective topics. Popularity is intoxicating, it has a knack for waylaying wisdom, making me forget the real purpose for writing this blog; this blog is about sorting out the muddle of ideas in my head. If my musings occasionally help others to do the same, bonus.
Presently I am trying to maintain that same clarity about a modest showing of my art, a series of oils at a local art supply store. Artist friends from my drawing sessions took the time to go view the pieces, then showered me with praise. I admit, their generosity was intoxicating, a psychological boost up the wazoo, but I must remain guarded. They are more accomplished artists than I am, I see the evidence weekly in their work. I will not let their well meaning flattery carry me away from looking for flaws in my technique. There is no “best”, there is only striving for better. One benefit of being raised in a household where praise was meagre is that you learn to self-evalute very early on in life. You give more weight to your own goals and strive to please your inner ideals rather than feed off compliments from others. I wonder, could clarity of purpose be the definition of humility? Does being humble mean you don’t confuse your own popularity for quality?
December 9, 2016
Lately going to sleep felt as though I were at a cinema playing The Bourne Trilogy in a continuous fast-forward loop, in other words, chaotic, confusing and pointless. The only rest from these disturbed dreams were the multiple trips to the bathroom in the night. Ah, how I missed those childhood sleeps, when I woke with my eyelids glued shut, surprised that so many hours had passed by without my knowing. Oh, I employed all the usual tricks of good sleep hygiene: no TV one hour before bed, meditation, no eating four hours before bedtime, sleep in a dark quiet room, experimented with pillows and posture. All these things helped for a time but the disturbed sleep got gradually worse. Then my cardiologist insisted I go for an overnight sleep study. No, he did not advice me, he booked the appointment and ordered me to go. My cardiologist has been known to use threats, blackmail, waterboarding, whatever it takes to get his patients to do right and I love him for it.
Off I went to the sleep lab, which did not take long as it was literally across the street from my home. The technician joked that perhaps I could sleep in my own bed and he would run the tubes and wires out the window and into mine. I had enough tubes and wiring attached on my scalp and my legs to bring Frankenstein back from the dead. Throughout the night the technician monitored every twitch, each turn, my heart rate and my breathing. When the results were analyzed by my newly appointed sleep specialist (I now have so many doctors in my circle of acquaintance that I should qualify as upper middle class) it surprised no one who has heard me snore that I had severe Sleep Apnea. About once every minute I stop breathing in my sleep, which explained the disturbing dreams, my mind actually needed me roused so we could breathe again. The way my throat, jaws and gullet have shifted with age, even just lying supine causes my breathing to constrict. Though the young can also experience sleep apnea, it does become more problematic as one gets past age fifty.
“There is nothing else for it,” she said, “you will have be on a CPAP machine for the rest of your life.” I yelled NOOOOOO!!!, then picked up my chair and smashed it through her surgery window. My neighbor, an old man of eighty-five, has one of those CPAP devices. When he dresses for bed he wears Hazmat headgear attached to a Hoover vacuum cleaner circa 1952. He says the noise from his sleep machine keeps him up all night. He is a cardiac survivor and long term, untreated sleep breathing obstruction was a major factor in his heart disease so he puts up with it.
Much for the same reason, I reluctantly went to be fitted for a CPAP machine. Being the Luddite that I am (no cellphone) it was a genuine surprise to me that technology has come a long way. The new CPAP devices are quiet and portable. The mask I chose resembles an oxygen tube they put under your nose when you go in for surgery.
Over the months there were a few side effects that I resolved through research. CPAP machines can make you gassy, high pressure air is being forced into your nose and throat to keep your air passages open, and you can’t help accidentally swallowing some of it into your stomach. The built-in humidifier can get steamy in the summer if you don’t turn it down (resulting in wet mouth). In the winter you might get the sniffles if you forget to turn up the humidifier for the season. But these glitches are minor compared to the uninterrupted and restful sleep I am now enjoying.
They say one in five adults live with untreated sleep-disordered-breathing (SDB). SDB has been blamed for early onset of beastly conditions such as Parkinson’s, Alzheimers, and diabetes, as well as traffic accidents and obesity. Luckily, treatment is getting slicker and more practical, though it is still shamefully unsexy. When Marilyn Monroe was asked what she wore to bed, she replied, “Channel Number 5.” We now know Marilyn had a sleep disorder which led to her depression. Had she forgone her sexiness for CPAP therapy she might well have replied, “Why, a Resmed Airsense 10.” And she could have survived to a ripe old age!