Change is Possible. With Cats

I have this cat. A bit under two years ago, I changed her vitamin mix, and she went from anxious and reactive to calm and damn-near approaching mellow.

Back before the new supplementation, this would happen: I'd be be walking by her and she'd tense up, lurch to one side. I'd veer, not wanting to trip over her, and then she'd dash in another direction, usually exactly into my leg, careening off of it, forcing me to then trip-hop over her. Then she'd make a mad rush to the other side of the house, where she'd hide, because, from her point of view, she'd just been attacked.

All because... well. Because she was, at baseline, hyper-vigilant and super anxious.

She is now a changed cat. In that same scenario, she simply stands there, unconcerned, and lets me walk by. Or step over her. Less wasted energy and -- needless to say -- a far more pleasant experience for us both.

I rather doubt that before her biochemistry changed, she saw herself as tense, nor do I think that afterwards she thought of herself as relaxed. She doesn't think that way. Not much for self-reflection.

No, from her point of view, the outside world just got better. Things were more settled, humans were kinder. More predictable. Some of this is credit to her walnut-sized brain's ability to re-pattern -- to learn -- to see things differently, when things felt different.

This is what's called a "virtuous circle" -- the better things get for her, the more she is able to see those things that are better for her, and the less she is looking for -- and finding -- things that are worse. Like clumsy humans trying to kill her with her their huge columns of legs, necessitating a mad dash for survival.

I'm not trying to make a particular point here. I'm observing patterns I've seen recently, up-close and personal. In my cat. And yes, in humans as well.

That our internal and external states influence and reinforce each other is hardly news, but how powerful that effect can be is sometimes shocking. My cat's baseline has changed radically, and her behavioral alterations are both obvious and significant, improving the world for her human companions as well. Her new ability to see the good in her world changed her world -- for the good.

Does she see that the change in her world originated inside herself? I rather doubt it. Could this have happened without that baseline change to her biochemistry? Alas, no.

Extrapolating to humans, we cannot simply will ourselves to see things differently -- it's not enough. We must touch and change the many systems that touch us. I tried to tell my cat that all her problems were attitude many times before the biochemical change, and it made not one whit of difference.

In this way people are not so unlike cats. We are each of us made up of multiple interlocking biochemical systems. We are part of multiple interlocking social systems. Many multitudinous and complex, interlocking systems, all affecting the other systems swirling around and through.

My cat didn't listen to my advice about her attitude. My fine lectures were twitched away by her feline ears.

The world is not simple. We are not simple. But change -- significant change -- is possible.

Confidence, Competence, Stress, and You

If you feel good, you'll act empowered. Yeah, you already know that. Better posture, smiling -- that sort of thing. The body language that says, yeah, I've got it goin' on.

You might also have heard that if you act like you're feeling pretty good, even when you're not, your physiology follows suit. No?

Hear it now: researcher Amy Cuddy talks about success, social competence, and influence. This isn't just about appearance, either - she's also talking about how you feel inside, about stress, about taking action in situations where you might otherwise freeze up.

Her recommendation is simple, fast, and requires no purchase, which is why you might not have heard about it. Here it is: take two minutes to stand or sit as if you're on top of the world. That means unfold, expand your body, grab some great posture. Smile a bit.

Turns out there are measurable results. Brain chemistry changes. Risk tolerance goes up. Testosterone and cortisol increases. Stress coping improves.

What? We're back to "fake it til you make it"? Yes. Adds Cuddy, "fake it until you become it" because doing this again and again actually changes you physically as well as habitually.

Doesn't quite seem fair, does it? But to hell with fair. Cuddy's research says it works.

Have I mentioned dance lately? See the connection?

An Adventure in Terror

I don't know what I was thinking.

Actually, yes, I do. I was thinking I didn't like my choices. To me skiing is uncontrolled falling down a frozen mountainside, hurtling toward trees and humans who don't get out of the way. "Tubing" isn't much better and sounds vaguely dirty.

I considered the zip-line forest tour. Online comments included: "amazing!", "so much fun!" and "do it!" But flying through the air in a Canadian winter? Sounds cold. Skip it.

But then while packing I realize I have some excellent winter clothes. It dawns on me that the cold problem is solvable. And I do like trees and forest.

That's how, when at the last minute there is a cancellation, I end up on the zipline tour. What am I thinking as I get into the van to go up into the mountains? That I've solved the cold problem. With layers. Clever, me.

We walk into the woods under towering snow-clad hemlock pines. We cross a swaying ice-encrusted bridge between two tall trees. It's a bit high up, I realize, looking over the side. But at least I'm not cold.

Our first platform is built around a 150 year-old hemlock pine with bark rippled like frozen rivers. Very pretty. I look over the edge. The ground is far away. Very far away.

The plan is this: the guide clips your harness to a metal line connecting our tree platform to another one. He opens a gate and you step off into space. The zipline catches your weight. Gravity accelerates you down and then across hundreds or thousands of feet of open air to the other platform. You see the forest in a unique way. Like a bird. It's tons of fun, we're told.

I look over the edge again. I don't feel so good.

It turns out there are two sorts of people in the world. Those who think heights are cool and do things like parachuting and ziplines, and those who know heights are not cool and don't. My group is made up of the first sort. A bit nervious maybe, but no one is going into a full-blown panic. Except maybe me.

I've done ropes courses. Even a bit of ziplining. But somehow the memory of how petrified I was has vanished until this moment. What the hell had I been thinking when I signed up for this?

That I would be cold. Having solved that problem, I had somehow missed the other now quite urgent problem: I am about to die.

"Hey," I say to John, one of our two guides. "I'm thinking of bailing. What do I need to do to get out of here?"

"Oh," he says in his heavy English accent, "you'll be fine!"

"Seriously," I say. "I don't want to do this. I didn't realize it would be so --"  I know I sound like an idiot now but that's okay. Idiot compares well to dying. "So high."

"The next one's a bit higher," he admits, "but you'll be fine! A woman on this morning's run was as scared as you are and she was fine."

I don't bother asking how he can possibly know how scared I am. I look over the edge again. This is insane. It's hard to think clearly through my primal, unreasoning terror. My lizard brain is screaming.

"Ah, just give it a try!" John says. "You'll like it!"

I'm pretty sure he's wrong.

The group is going now. Clip on, step off into air. A loud buzzing "zzzzippp-pah!" sound. "Next!" John calls brightly.

I want to throw up. I want to grip the railing and never let go.

"I don't think I can do this," I tell one of the remaining guys. Only much later do I realize that my ability to speak sensibly despite being wretchedly sick with terror is giving the erroneous impression that I'm actually okay.

"Perfectly safe," he says unhelpfully.

"I know. I just don't think I can do it. I'm really scared."

I can bail on this, I remind myself. Sure, it's trouble for the guides, but that's their problem. Mine is staying alive.

"Well," he asks, "what are you scared of?"

Good question. If I'm going to bail, I decide, I want to know why. Quick, like a racecar mechanic, I take my mindset apart.

It's not the safety; I can see how the harness and redundant clip system works, and the process is pretty safe. It's not the accelleration either, which, while impressive, is no worse than an airplane taking off, something I regularly risk and actually enjoy.

It's the height. If this were 10 or 20 feet off the ground, as I absurdly imagined, I'd be okay. It's the stepping off into 80 feet of empty air from a perfectly good platform. I try to reason with my lizard brain, but it's having none of that. An horrific future awaits, it tells me.

One by one my group goes -- zipppp-pah! -- off to the other side.

I'm a software engineer. I like to solve problems. What's going on in my head is a problem. I don't have time to fix it but can I make a fast patch? A few moments later I have a plan. I still don't want to do this but I do want to see if my brain-hack workaround will fly. So to speak.

And my time's up. Step up or bail. I walk to the gate and John clips me onto the line. Now the patch: I shut my eyes and imagine the ground only 10 feet down. My lizard brain is screaming so I do it again. It doesn't believe me, but it can't see anything with our eyes closed, so it can't be sure.

In that split-second of plausibility, I bend my knees, feel the harness catch, and step forward into air.

I go. Down and fast. I want to see, so I open my eyes. There's forest sailing by and snow covered land 100 feet below. I'm okay, and oddly, no longer terrified. I was right: it was the step off the platform, not the ride. The brain-hack worked.

The next platform starts higher, some 160 feet up, and I'm freshly terrified. So we -- my lizard brain and I -- go through it again: eyes closed, visualize, step forward. Again, enroute, I look around. A river snakes through deep snow banks. Trees fly past. I come to the other side.

It gets easier each time. Not easy, but easier. On the final zip I step off with my eyes open to see if I can. Someone takes a picture.

While I wouldn't call it fun there's something powerfully satisfying about pushing through impassable terror with a brain-hack I built myself, on-the-spot. That's some cool real-world engineering.

As we're driving down the mountain I realize something else: I wasn't cold. Not once. FTW.

All we want to do is

It's relentless. Even my go-to song isn't working. That's my most insidious,  earwormy song, the one I only use when I'm desperate because it's also pretty sticky (and no I'm not telling you what it is) so it's the heavy for kicking out songs that have a solid hold of my --

eat your brains. We're not

Arg. Maybe if watch it just one more time, I can shake it off.

unreasonable, I mean, no one's gonna eat yer eyes. All we want to do

Is to eat my brains, I know.

is eat your brains! We're 
 
I've thanked the friend who sent it to me and he laughed at me. Maybe he's already a zombie.

at an impasse here

I am fascinated not only by the video but by my fascination. Sure, the contrast beteween the catchy lyrics and up-beat tune, a zombie signing ASL, spewing office-speak -- it's all delightfully incongruous, besides --

maybe we should compromise

-- I did study ASL and the best way to reinforce language is with song, the way we did as children, so maybe that's where the thing is --

if you open up the doors

-- grabbing my attention. Attention!  Not brains! Not brains!

we'll all come inside

Argggh!

and eat your brains!

I give up. A little late to the scene, but I'm there.

Haven't seen it yet?  Consider this warning. But go ahead and watch it. Why I should suffer alone? We like company.

While you Were Out

As an early adopter of email (seriously early -- early like "what is email?" early), an avid IMer, and an enthusiastic SMSer, I luxuriate in the certain knowledge that anyone who needs to contact me can do it.  When I walk away from my (primary) computer, my phone provides this certainty, allowing me to leave home without that nagging feeling -- remember those days? -- that someone might call, write or text and I might miss it.

You youngers don't realize what it was like with phones attached to walls. Before answering machines and voice mail when you missed a call it was missed forever.  No caller ID, no call-back, no clue. Tough.

I remember hearing the phone ring through the door, struggling with the key to get the door open, and diving for the damned thing only to have it stop.

"Hello? Hello?"

Then hours of wondering who it might have been. How your life might have been different if only you'd come home a few seconds earlier.

You start calling people. "Hey, did you just call?  No? Oh, okay. Fine. You?"

Along came answering machines. Along came the Internet. Along came cell phones. Now my cell phone *is* the internet. And everything else, too.

I can glance at my phone and know, without question, that no one called, wrote, texted, tweeted, or facebooked me.

Finally, I have certainty. It's like being free, only a lot noisier.

And then I went camping in the Mojave desert. No cell towers. No internet. Completely cut off from email, voice, SMS.

Wow.  Serious wow.

If someone needed me, they would have to wait.  Think about it: if it's not important, it can wait. If it is important, it still has to wait.

For a handful of days I traded that certainty for a smoky, crackling fire, the coyote pack over the rise, nights of relentless cricket serenades, and a sliver of moon in a white river of star-drenched sky.

Something interesting happened: I had silence. Beautiful, exquisite, deep silence. No phone, no voices, no words.  No noise.

I've heard about people choosing to take a night a week internet-free to reconnect to what it is to not be connected. But there is a huge difference between trying to stay away from the net and phones -- the lines of chatter -- and being forced to.

While I was out I also gained a fine appreciation for the luxury of running water. Add to the list: shelter, soap, privacy. We don't need these things, and they are indeed luxuries.

I've been to the desert.  It was, truly, a whole other sort of luxury to be there.

Ah, the quiet. It didn't feel like I was out at all.

Dance is Brain Food

A 21-year long study in the New England Journal of Medicine shows that dancing increases cognitive acuity. Significantly more than crossword puzzles. The article is nicely summarized here, on the Stanford social dance site.

Not just any kind of dancing, either. It has to be the kind that requires improvisational work, the styles that require you to make lots of decisions on a split-second basis.

And mostly women benefit.  Why? You probably know that most partner dancing is pretty sexist. Men are expected to "lead" and women are expect to "follow".  I put those words in quotes because there are no really good words describing what those two roles are doing.

The lead -- usually the man -- does what? Directs? Orients? Maybe invites. Offers an idea about how to understand the music with this particular partner.

The follow -- usually the woman -- does what?  Not just does what she's told, that's for sure. Responds? Interprets. The follow interprets the dance based on the music and the guy in front of her.

Now because, as the article says, follows typically make "hundreds of split-second decisions as to what to do next", they gain the most cognitive exercise from dance.  The leads don't have to respond or interpret nearly as often, so they gain less.

In dances like Argentine Tango and Blues and Fusion, where each led movement can have dozens of subtle implications requiring immediate and complicated follow decisions, the cognitive workout is significant.

The article suggests ways leads can improve their cognitive workout. They suggest the lead really notice the subtleties of their partner's actions and respond in real-time, rather than following a pattern.

That is, pay attention. That is, watch and listen.

Hey leads, are you listening now?  Maybe it's a good time to start. Do it for your brain.

It Takes all Kinds

"...to make a world.'

But that's patently absurd. It doesn't take all kinds to make a world; it takes exactly the kinds we have, because -- take a look around -- we have a world.

What this is really trying to say is something more like: "I wish to believe that the world requires for its very existence all the weirdnesses that people manifest so that my own hidden (or obvious) weirdnesses might be not only acceptable but necessary for our mutual continued existence."

In other words, I'm necessary. My aberrations are of value to the world. My dark corners are positively meaningful.

Wishing doesn't make it so. But here's what I think is true: it takes all kinds to cover the permutation space and to explore the infinite variety of the many ways there are to be human.

Well, okay. Maybe that works. Now that I've rephrased it.

Guess I'm one of those kinds.

My brain. I think I'll keep it.

Sometimes I'm really impressed with my brain. Counter to expectation as the years go by my noggin seems to be performing better and better. All sorts of improvements, like remembering names and doing calculations more effectively. Nothing huge, mind you, but noticeable performance upgrades upstairs.

The other day I'm motorbiking around town and I'm caught in a sudden drenching downpour with ambulances screaming around me. I finally reach my destination, go inside, strip off my dripping protective gear, and sit to make a call. I'm chatting away on my cell to a business acquaintance and as we're talking I'm looking through my bag to make sure I have all my things with me because frankly it's been a little hectic today and a lot wet and I realize with a shock that I don't see my phone anywhere.

So I dig through my bag again, but, no, it's not there.

I'm holding back panic. Where could I have left it? On the phone my acquaintance is still talking but I know she's got to leave so I don't feel bad saying, "listen, I've got to go. I can't find my phone."

"Oh, okay," she says, but she wants to finish up a few things, so she's still talking.

I've reached full panic mode now and so I desperately search my bag one more time.

And then, of course, it hits me.

"Oh," I say. "Phone. In my hand." My brain, I realize, needs a break. "Okay, now I really have to go."

I hang up. The other fellow in the office politely refrains from comment but I see him smile. I'm less than perfectly impressed with my brain at this moment, though it's not like I can just threaten it with replacement if it doesn't shape up. I laugh and take a long, grateful look at my phone.

At least now I know where it is. The phone. My brain? Not so sure.

Art, Order, Meaning

There is something so compelling, humorous, and startling about these photos.  They make me think about meaning in a new way. Take a looksee.

Your Brain in the Future

Thoughts inside

One of the cool(est) things about having a brain is being able to think what you like in the privacy of your own head. Whatever you want, any time.

Can you tell what I'm thinking right now? Can you? No! Cool, huh?

But technology and computers are making interesting headway (hee hee) in this arena and -- without jest -- I advise you to enjoy your brain's privacy while you still can.

To illustrate, I (im)modestly recommend my recently accepted story "Mirror Test" for The Tomorrow Project anthology, Tomorrow Project: Seattle available later this year, details of  which I will have announced on my publications announcement mailing list.

What, you may well ask, is The Tomorrow Project? It is, to quote their web site:  "an anthology of science fiction based on science fact, featuring an original story from Cory Doctorow." The antho will include "short fiction, comics and short screenplays based upon current scientific research and technology development... currently being conducted by the University of Washington and Intel in the fields of synthetic biology, computer security, robotics, DNA sequencing and bio/chemical sensing, minute architecture, ray tracing/virtual reality and computer vision."

Fiction sponsored by futurists. Not a half-bad idea, if you ask me.

In my story I postulate that facial recognition technology and machine learning computers will pretty much take away your privacy of thought. Ah, the future! Isn't it just...glorious?

Here's your brain now, mentations all cozy and hidden. And there's your brain in the future, where the rest of us know what you're thinking.

Privacy of thought? Cool. Enjoy it while you can.

Jam Tomorrow

There's this great quote from Terry Pratchett's Hogfather:

Jam, Today

"It's the hope that's important. Big part of belief, hope. Give people jam today and they'll just sit and eat it. Jam tomorrow, now -- that'll keep them going forever."

Like so much Pratchett, this makes me smile, because it's funny and it's funny because it tastes true. The idea of jam (or whatever you crave) in the future has a particular draw that having the jam in hand (or mouth) doesn't. It would seem like having it today would be clearly better, since tomorrow never really arrives, but no.

Somewhere in understanding this twisted truth that going-to-have-it-later is more shiny than having-it-now, is, I suspect, the key to something Very Important.

So what is there about jam tomorrow that makes it a more powerful incentive than jam today?

The Moment Between Okay and Not Really

You know the moment - it's the one between between slicing your hand and the gush of blood, slamming the door and realizing you've left a finger behind, the mis-step and the fall.  It's the moment when things are still okay, but not for long.

We were prepping for a short bike ride. I'd hit the garage door button, dashing out from under the closing door, stepping carefully over the beam of light that stops the process when he said "oh, I left my helmet inside."

No problem, I thought, waving my foot across the beam. The door kept closing. No problem, I thought, thinking of the way elevators won't shut on your hand and will bounce back from the least resistance. So I put my shoe under the descending door.

Which descended anyway. Without bounce.  Without give. A powered heavy metal door coming down on my shoe, my toes, which was now clearly a really bad idea. I tried to pull my foot out. No way. I realized that not only was I stuck, but my toes were feeling quite a bit of pressure.

It's a special moment. It's when you realize that things might not be okay, and very soon.

I jammed my fingers under the door, pulled up with all my strength. Nothing moved. Then the pain began.

My friend had the presence of mind to run into the house and around to the garage and pull the quick release on the garage door -- a red handle, which makes so much sense now. The door released, came up.

I took another moment to survey the damage. It was my lucky day: the toes were insulted but not broken, annoyed but not crushed. Now, hours later, they are mumbling about my lack of good sense, but are ready to consider forgiving me.

Even so, the moment is limned in my memory, framed with all the intensity that an active, alert, and not-quite-panicking mind can create.

Such moments can change us, if we let them. They remind us that we are one slip, one poor decision, one moment's bad luck away from being mangled or killed.  Or, in my case, bruised, embarrassed, and feeling lucky.

And in more practical terms: garage doors are unforgiving masses of driving metal completely unlike sensitive elevator doors. Soft toes will not stop them.

Hot. Brain. Melt.

So hot your brain feels like it's melting.  So hot that riding from place A to place B I found myself deciding to go buy things near by at an air-conditioned store, rationalizing the need to go there TODAY, NOW to get stuff.  As if my brain were a whining child. A scheming, clever, and insidious whining child.

Get us out of the heat and brain forgets. Back in the heat it starts whining again.  It's almost funny, which is why I am sitting at a red light, heavy jacket, boots and black helmet, the sun crashing down, heat worming its way into my melting brains, and I'm chuckling.  In case you were in a nearby car, wondering.

It'll pass. Of course it will.  Then it'll be cool again. And too soon, it'll be too cold again.

But today Hot. Brain. Melt.