The Online Photographer

Happy to report that my lifestyle changes are going swimmingly*. My problems are worse than some others have, and not as bad as some others deal with. But they're mine so they're all I can share.

I'm either supposed to do, or trying to do on my own, five things:

• Go back to my plant-food diet, and stop eating sugar;
• Wear compression socks;
• Lose weight;
• Resume using CPAP; and
• Exercise.

The Five Doctors (I seem to keep seeing different people) are more or less agreed that I was having heart problems caused by sleep apnea—my heartbeat had become uncoordinated and irregular and my heart wasn't pumping enough blood, so I wasn't getting enough oxygen. This was causing all sorts of symptoms. I've been back on the CPAP for 31 days and the difference is...astonishing. I've gone from extreme fatigue (four naps in one day being the signal that got me to the doctor) to no naps; from oxygen hunger and shortness of breath to breathing normally; from lethargy to energy; from badly fractured sleep (with an avalanche of nightmares) to almost normal sleep; from confusion to normal mental sharpness (such as it is, yuk-yuk).

I've been off sugar and back on my plant-food diet for a mere eight days, and have been working out for only six days, and I've already lost 9.3 lbs. (.66 stone). (I weigh myself first thing in the morning on an excellent scale.) Who knows if the weight loss is attributable to the return of normal heart function, or the diet and exercise, or the resumption of normal sleep, or all those things?

The exercise is interesting. I rather enjoy it. I just take my tablet and read, and that makes the time fly by. I use some combination of a total of five different cardio machines, alternating sitting with being on my feet. I get my heart rate to between 90 and 100 BPM and keep it there. It isn't hard. I'm going to add workouts with dumbbells sooner or later.

Books, books!
I'm really enjoying Bill Bryson's The Body: A Guide for Occupants. I love love love his guided tours of subjects far from my usual field of interest; I lapped up his lovely book on physics, A Short History of Nearly Everything. The Body is equally entertaining, and bits and pieces of fascinating information fly by. For instance, babies who grow up in houses with cats present almost never get asthma. (I'm on the chapter about the lungs now.) His vivid account of how long it took before we accepted that smoking was linked to lung cancer is very telling. There's certainly a parallel to the obesity epidemic: as Dr. John McDougall says, "People love to hear good news about their bad habits."  

Speaking of which, that's what I'm working on now, habits. I'll let you know how it goes. I'll report back in a month or two. I hope I can do this. (I initially mistyped "can't" for "can"...Freudian slip?)

And speaking of habits—to briefly get back on topic—I'm carrying the camera again. Too many pictures were going by in my daily life. From now on, where I go, the camera goes.

Mike

*Except that I'm having trouble with time management.

Original contents copyright 2023 by Michael C. Johnston and/or the bylined author. All Rights Reserved. Links in this post may be to our affiliates; sales through affiliate links may benefit this site. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases. (To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below or on the title of this post.)

Featured Comments from:

Keith Mitchell: "I also enjoy Bryson's writing. Despite being a recently retired registered nurse, The Body left me with a sad sense of my lack of knowledge but simultaneously a sense that more work and research will still facilitate big improvements to our health.

"Glad to hear you are on the right side of your health concerns and hope that your new habits become embedded quickly."

Steven ralser: "If you want to read further about one of the reasons why it took so long to recognize the link between smoking (and second hand smoke)and lung cancer, read Merchants of Doubt: How a Handful of Scientists Obscured the Truth on Issues from Tobacco Smoke to Global Warming, by Naomi Oreskes [and Erik M. Conway —Ed.]. See also https://www.merchantsofdoubt.org."

JoeB: "Good to hear the phoenix is rising from the ashes. I have found going to the gym an excellent way to organize my day—I enjoy the routine. I also enjoy the results of my workout. The social aspects of seeing the same folks at the same time of day cannot be discounted. Diet cannot be ignored. What and how much is eaten make all the difference in our life. I should have turned green if the saying 'you are what you eat' is true!"

MikeR: "Yay for you! And aren't those sleep apnea nightmares horrifying?"

Mike replies: They certainly are. I didn't think I was going crazy, but I did think the cause was fundamentally psychological. I didn't realize it was a symptom of sleep apnea.

There won't be a post today. I know things have been torn up around here lately—unsteady—but I'm going to take the day to work on my book.

Very inconveniently, it's not a book about photography. This probably means it will die in a drawer, as they say. Photography is all anyone ever wanted from me; nobody has ever been interested in anything else I have to say. But I can't help it—I have other stories to tell before I shuffle off to Buffalo. (That's an old euphemism for kicking the bucket, itself a colloquialism. It's ironically symbolic that the actual Buffalo is close by.)

I always wanted to be a writer, and I am, so I can't complain. I made the decision when I was a freshman in high school, and I still remember where I was when it came to me—I was running an errand for a teacher in the middle of the hour, so the hallways of the school were deserted, and as I walked I was mulling over what I was going to do in life. It came down to painter or writer. Everybody knew me as an art geek, but I knew a lot about modern art by that time, how idea-laden it had to be, how obfuscatory the intellectual scaffolding had to be, and I had my doubts I could negotiate it. Halfway down the staircase, by the courtyard at the old South Campus of the University School of Milwaukee, I stopped cold and stood stock still for a while in the silence, thinking. I realized that writing was all I was good at, so I had better aim at that.

The idea was put in my head by an eighth-grade teacher, Worden L. "Sandy" McCallum. We called him Mr. McCallum, of course. He wanted to see me after school one day. I thought I was in trouble again and was going to get yelled at—I was very often in trouble. But usually, I knew what for. So I was mildly curious to find out what I had done wrong this time.

I was enamored of Mr. McCallum. English was my favorite class even with teachers I didn't like, and I liked him. He was different from the other teachers—for one thing, he wasn't a professional educator and I don't think he had been trained. He was a "gentleman teacher" of the sort who used to "pitch in" at old-time independent prep schools like USM—a volunteer, essentially. He only taught one or two courses. He seemed to be independently wealthy as far as I knew, and he had at least a few fine antique cars. I liked cars, so I would always go to the window of our fourth-floor classroom early and look down at the parking lot to see what car he would arrive in. My favorite was an MG, although at this remove I can't remember what model. Mr. McCallum was good-looking in a sort of preppie way and had the imperious air of old "quiet" money and the invisible upper class. I wanted to be like him.

When I got to the classroom—I could find it in that building today, and I can picture it in my mind—he had one of my papers in front of him, and he proceeded to ask me a bunch of questions about it. But he kept complimenting it. He read one sentence and said something like, "how do you do that? How do you know which words to use and how to put them together?" To which I thought, what? I decided he thought I had copied the paper and it wasn't my work.

I remember he had me read aloud a sentence with a semicolon in it. "That's right," he said, after I spoke it. "How do you know what a semicolon sounds like?"

"...Dickens?" I answered. I didn't know.

It might have been Mrs. Memmel, my fifth-grade teacher at the Bayside Elementary School. I didn't like her at all—she had teacher's pets who could do no wrong, and then another category of "bad kids" she persecuted, and I was one of the latter. But she did me a huge favor. For an hour after lunch, every day, she would read a book aloud and we had to follow along in our own copies of the book. Every now and then she would pause and call out a kid's name, and the kid would have to give the next word—that's how she tested whether you were following along like you were supposed to. She never called on me because she learned early that I was always right there with her. I learned how written words sound from Mrs. Memmel. Not only the proper pronunciations of lots of words, but the music of writing—the cadences, the flow, the starts and stops, the emphases, the silences in the right places. I still read aloud to myself occasionally, just to remind myself that the symbols on the page are actually sounds.

I later learned that Mr. McCallum was fascinated by a certain question, namely, how he could love writing so much and not be good at it. He didn't think I had copied that paper: he was merely interested in why it was so good and how I did it. Anyway, as I was getting ready to leave, he was still looking at the paper, and he asked me a question: "Have you ever considered being a writer?" I honestly didn't know what to say to that. So I just said "no," because that was the truth, and left. But obviously it stuck with me. 

He lived in fine big modernistic house in the woods across the ravine from my house, and when I was in high school he invited me to continue to write for him. So I would write stories and cross the ravine and walk through the woods and take them to his house. It was what would now be called an "inappropriate" relationship, because he and I would sit in his study and drink beer and smoke cigarettes and discuss our work and the work of other writers, like two friends, and I was only fifteen or sixteen. But other than the beer and tobacco he never acted the least bit inappropriate, ever, in any way. He had some number of sons, I think, who were all grown and gone, and a much younger daughter who was still at home. Maybe he just missed his sons. But he was one of the only adults in my life who treated me like an adult, or who ever bothered to "see" me as a person. I was grateful for that then, and I still am. My relationship with my own father was fraught and dangerous, and my father had remarkably little interest in what kind of person I was. I was always casting about for substitute fathers.

If you are looking for a post to read, try "Like a Sack of Bricks," from March about ten years ago.

I fear my book is a fool's errand, in fact the most foolish of fool's errands. If I were a book-writer kind of writer, I would have written a book by now. After trying two articles for The New Yorker and closely reading about fifty more with my tinfoil analyzing hat on, I've come down to the conclusion that I'm naturally a columnist. But I am trying, with the book, I mean, because I only have this one life—and, you know, there's Buffalo, down the road just a couple of hours from here. Time and tide wait for no man.

Sorry for the lack of a post today, but, like I say, there are other stories to tell.

Mike

Original contents copyright 2023 by Michael C. Johnston and/or the bylined author. All Rights Reserved. Links in this post may be to our affiliates; sales through affiliate links may benefit this site. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases. (To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below or on the title of this post.)

Featured Comments from:

DaveB: "I drop into TOP…occasionally. I don’t really do it for the 'photography.' I like what else you write…kinda 'Off Topic.' Today’s post was EXACTLY the type of writing that you do that I like best. You hit the sweet spot for me with this one. My one suggestion…do more of it! There have been few writers in my 73 years who paint the picture in my mind with the way you use words.

"P.S., I’d like to read your book before you get to Buffalo!"

Anthony: "From the above post: 'Sorry for the lack of a post today....' Moving into koans?"

Mark P Morris: "Morning—it almost seems that you are downplaying what you write here. I enjoyed this essay very much. It was revealing but in a very good way. So, thanks for writing it and letting us in on how you feel and how you developed as a person."

Robert: "Re 'I fear my book is a fool's errand, in fact the most foolish of fool's errands.' Exactly why you should lean in and keep on doing it. Don't let fear stop you."

Mike replies: One of my favorite books for artists is Art and Fear by Orland and Bayles. And one of my favorite recent cartoons is two arty-student kids looking at a droopy computer, and one is saying "The AI art generator became self-aware, and now it just procrastinates and questions itself." (Looks like the author is "Coverly" of speedbump.com.)

Mike Chisholm: "Hey, don't think we didn't see what you didn't do there...."

Stephanie Luke: "Just discovered this today, and how delightful it is. I couldn't help hearing it with an upper-class English accent. Your work is done. By all means, write!"

Luci: "Hello, I am not sure what the definition of 'post' is nowadays for you, but let me tell you I enjoyed reading what you wrote today. Yes, photography's fine, but pieces like this are at least as enjoyable. To me, at least. So, thank you!"

Mike replies: You are welcome.

Kenneth Voight: "Very well written. This is why I read you. Have you ever considered being a writer?"

Mike replies: I'm gonna think about it.

Chris Kern: "Mike: 'There won’t be a new post today.' Mark Twain: 'It usually takes more than three weeks to prepare a good impromptu speech.'"

Peter Barnes: "I do like it when you don't post."