Lessons from an exercise session (or two)

       Yesterday, after over eight years without any serious exercise and having gained over 20 kilos (44 lbs.) of body weight, I somehow challenged myself to complete 50 push-ups in a go. I am amazed that I, somehow, did it. I am actually amazed that I could do a push up at all, but fifty- that was just awesome!

       Today, I tried to repeat that feat. I managed all of twelve push-ups before I collapsed, unable to do any more. Maybe I had burned out all my energy yesterday. Maybe my muscles had been damaged by yesterday's effort. Maybe the earth's gravitational pull was much lower yesterday. Maybe God (probably fuelled by my lack of belief in His/Her/Its existence or relevance) was trying to freak me out trying to figure out what happened. Maybe the clothes I wore yesterday were much more comfortable.

       Whatever the reason, I did something yesterday and I could not repeat it today. Perhaps, yesterday was just my day. Just like a footballer (I am not American, so when I say football, it means a sport in which you actually kick the ball around) who scores a hat-trick one day but can't get a single shot on target until the seventieth minute, when he gets red-carded for a reckless challenge. And suspended for a month for that not-so-nice word he shared with the ref.

       While my second outing wasn't as bad as the unfortunate footballer's, it was pathetic compared to my first. But, there is one major factor I have overlooked, thus far. My first attempt was a challenge. I looked at myself, thought I couldn’t do it, then went ahead and proved myself wrong. The second outing was just an attempt to copy the first. It wasn't a real challenge. I knew, given the right situations, I could pull it off. I had done it twenty four hours before.

       While my first attempt was fairly impromptu and more or less unconscious, the second time involved a lot of thinking. Did I plan on a daily exercise regimen? Did I want to equal what I did the day before or go further? Did I find yesterday's effort rewarding? Would it be as rewarding if I repeated it today? All these thoughts must have been playing in my mind as I positioned my hands and began the session.

       Perhaps the knowledge that you can do something is detrimental to sudden success. Because, then, you start to envision the things that follow instead of focusing on the task at hand. Perhaps, some amount of self-doubt is necessary, in order to keep your crosshairs on the bull's-eye. If you go into a situation where you know you can do it just because you have done it before, perhaps your knowledge can lead to your undoing.

       I agree that the knowledge you can do something can be more useful in the long term. It builds confidence that is based on real experience, which comprises both successes and failures. But being confident based on a single success or two can stop a mission in its seedling phase. I am unlikely to start a real exercise regimen soon. Perhaps if I had started with 10-15 push-ups and continued that for a week then increased it steadily, I might have continued with it. But, knowing that I can do 50 after years of not exercising at all makes me complacent. And, the fact that I could barely cross ten today makes me unwilling to try again tomorrow.

       Here's my conclusion based on two mornings of physical effort- If you want to complete a challenge, such as getting 50 push-ups at a go was for me, tackle it head on. It makes the process less rational and much easier to tackle. However, if you want to take on a long term objective such as exercising daily, starting low and building up is the better approach. Of course, if you have run both a 100 yard dash and a marathon in your life, you will know what I am getting at.

Deception: The Most Human Of All Arts

Everyone is told as a child- “Do not tell a lie.” Yet, human nature dictates that almost everyone, sooner or later, decides that it is not in their best interests to follow such a moral code. Despite George Washington and Mohandas Gandhi, founding fathers of two great nations, being revered in their respective countries for not breaking this code (Whether or not they did not tell lies at all is not relevant to my rant), their successors have been among the many blatant violators of the borders between truth an falsehood.

       But I am not making moral judgments here, as I am not qualified to do so. If anyone is to stone the liars, it should be someone who has never lied themselves. To the best of my knowledge, both Washington and Gandhi are dead. (And even if they are alive, they have to finish stoning their fellow countrymen- who add up to over one and a half billion- before they can even think of reaching out to me.)

       Why do we lie? While people in various fields might give various answers (e.g. Our developed cerebral cortices, The development of language, Greed, Lack of adequate moral upbringing, To protect oneself from the results of one’s actions, Cynicism, Satan), I think the real reason is simpler. We lie because we can.

       Lies come in various shapes and sizes. The ubiquitous “white lie” is a phenomenon that has entrenched itself in the human mind so deep that it becomes natural, even when it is unnecessary. Lies said to hide someone’s mistakes are almost as prevalent. Then, there are lies that are told solely for profit, usually at the expense of somebody else.

       We usually expect to be lied to in our lives. Yet we make a big fuss when we find out we’ve been lied to. We get angry at the person that lied. But, we usually get angrier at ourselves for not having spotted the lie sooner. Often, we would also have lied had we been on the other side of the same situation. Perhaps our lies wouldn’t have been as good or as deep. Perhaps we couldn’t have pulled it off so skillfully. Perhaps that is why we are angry in the first place.

       The art of telling a good lie is an integral part of various facets of human life. Whether it be political propaganda, a placebo your physician prescribes you, the elaborate stunts in a blockbuster movie or the trick of a stage magician, deception is an important thing. Each of these is trying to make you feel better, despite knowing that what they are doing is essentially telling a lie. And, it works.

       Lies work best in the short term, when an immediate result is needed. A politician or party that keeps on deceiving people will end up on the wrong side of history. However, in a crisis, they may need to tell a few lies to keep people calm, even when they have no real answers. The same is the case with placebo medications. They can be very useful in certain conditions, but if continued for a prolonged period, the patient will continue with the same response.

       The actor and the conjurer are a different story. We go to the theater (or rent/download a movie) or a magic show expecting something that we do not see in our daily lives. We ask for deception. And, that is what they give us. We know the lead actor is not fighting with three bullets lodged somewhere in his chest. We know magicians (unlike pigs) can’t fly.  Yet, we suspend our disbelief. And we get entertained.

       Practicing the art of deception is a real balancing act. You have to sell the lie just right- like the porridge in the tale of Goldilocks. If your lie is too cold, it will be caught. If it is too hot, people will smell something fishy. The expert artists of the trade of deception spend years sharpening their act.

       Any introductory book on the art of conjuring will discuss the palming of an object. The real secret is not in any particular configuration of the hand, but in moving the hand equally smoothly with or without the palmed object. This involves practice. While practicing, you are not trying to deceive anyone but yourself. You are trying to live your lie, to make it natural. Only when it feels natural will it look natural.

       Confidence artists take this to another level. They really know how to live their lie. These are the people who can sell ice to an Eskimo and sand to a Bedouin. They have to do it in order to keep themselves safe from both the suspicion of their marks and the eyes of the law. And, since they know they have a lot to lose and even more to gain, they spend every resource and every unit of time trying to better their “artistic skills”.

       Not all of us are confidence artists. Most of us only tell white lies most of the time. But even a white lie has to be convincing to be believed in. And unless you are lying to a child (I won’t judge you nor ask why), you had better believe in your lie before you try to sell it.
     


The best lies are those that make you feel good even when you find out that you were being lied to.

1152

[ This is a work of fiction. All characters and places in this work are fictional. The stunts performed were done in a controlled environment under strict supervision. No living animals were harmed in the writing of this work. The author does not condone acting out this work, in whole or in part, in real life: Any reader/non-reader that does so, is doing so at his/her/its own risk and the author shall not be responsible/accountable for any untoward occurrence arising from such a misconceived endeavor. ]

Counting the seconds since he had taken his last breath, he looked up through the hole in the ceiling, at the sun. 323, 324, 325… It would be visible for exactly 827 more seconds. 826, 825, 824, 823… The exercise served no purpose, but he had done it daily for years. Excluding those days when there was no sun, of course. He wondered why he did it, of all the possible reasons. But the wondering interfered with his counting, so he focused again. 788, 787, 786…

       

       A little more than thirteen minutes later, he exhaled. It seemed pointless. Yet, at times, it seemed the only thing that made any sense. For 19 minutes and 12 seconds every 24 hours, he sat still, holding his breath, watching the sun for the only time it was available to him. Everything else could wait. Including the teardrop he had so carefully stopped in its tracks as it prepared to roll off his left eye. He didn’t want the drop to interfere with his time in the sun.

       

       It had been so long, he didn’t even remember why he was here. Had he been brought here forcefully, or was he a volunteer? It didn’t even matter anymore. The only face he ever saw was his own, that too on a puddle of water that formed when it rained through the hole in the ceiling. And that face looked nothing like the sun that he missed when it rained liked that. The sun was warm, bright and vibrant. It did not have bloodshot eyes and a nose even a prizefighter would be ashamed of. And, most of all, it lacked a hideous grin that could never be fixed.

       

       But, now, the sun was gone. It would only come back tomorrow. The twenty three hours and forty minutes until then had to be spent. Much as he would have liked to, he couldn’t just sleep till then. He might wake up too early and be too anxious by the time it came back to hold his breath. Or he might wake up too late and miss the sun altogether. And while there was a genuine possibility that he might never wake up at all, that was not something he could bank on.

       

       He looked at the wall behind him. At the seven bricks he had marked. Five of them had 453 dots on them, the other two had 452. If he cared, it was a Sunday. But, the sun had already ended on his day. He picked up a piece of burnt bread that remained from his last meal and marked a dot on the sixth brick. Then, he flung the piece of bread upwards. It went through the hole in the ceiling and moved towards the left, then out of sight. The north wind. It meant a chance of rain.

       

       Too bad, he thought. Although, it might finish raining before the twenty three and a half hours was over. But, he would still have to see that hideous face. And each time he saw it, he realized that the face had looked more ready to fall off the bone that it clung to. How he wished it would fall off once and for all, so he could look at something better. His broken bones and rotting flesh would probably be much better to stare at.

       

       As soon as the thought struck him, it went away. It had been 900 seconds since the sun left. A quarter of an hour; but he rarely counted in hours. An hour was too long to count the time the sun appeared and too short to count when the sun would reappear. He counted time in seconds and days. At first, he had tried to count weeks, which had led to his brick calendar. It was awful, because counting in weeks led to counting in months, seasons and years.

       

       Months meant remembering birthdays and holidays. He wished he had never been born. Holidays didn’t exist in his life. Seasons made him wonder about the migrating birds. If that raven had not built its nest on the hole in his ceiling 643 days ago, he would not even know that birds still existed. He would also not know that raw raven tasted better than burnt bread, but that was another matter. Years were the most terrible. Every time 52 weeks and one day- or occasionally fifty two weeks and two days- went by, it would mean that he had gone around the sun, his only friend and ally, in a complete circle. And yet, his friend only visited him for 1152 seconds a day, if at all.

       

       His friend had visited him and gone. It would not come back for at least another twenty three hours, possibly forty seven or even seventy one. That would be waiting too long. And maybe he would have to see that hideous face again; over and over again while he waited for his friend. What if he tore that face off? No, it would be even more visible when he held it in his hand than when it was reflected in a pool of water. How could he get away from that monstrosity?

       

       With a sudden rage, he smashed the hideous face on the wall. Something warm trickled down the left side of the face, along the eye that had been trying to drop a tear. He had forgotten to let the drop fall. He did not normally forget. Well, it did not forget to drop now.

       

       The transparent drop fell, accompanied by hundreds of other drops. These drops were probably red, but there wasn’t enough light to be sure. In fact, there might not be enough light to be sure for two days, maybe even three or four.

       

       Another bout of rage. This time, he smashed not the face, but the skull that held it in place. Then, he smashed a hand that had placed itself on the part of the skull that had been smashed on the wall. A brick fell off.

       

       Suddenly, he saw his friend. It was outside, waiting. He pushed with all his might. A few more bricks fell off, enabling a hideous face, a head and a neck that was attached to see daylight. Real daylight, not the type that appeared through a hole in the ceiling. It was pure, it was bright, it was warm. And it had been 3170 days.

       

       936, 937, 938… His friend was getting better by the second. It was majestic. The light and colors took over his eyes. The warmth took over his body. Then, he saw the drops of red fall off his face and onto the green grass below. Green and grass, words he had forgotten the meaning of, until now. He pushed through the wall one last time. Freedom!

       

       And as his body fell through the wall, he looked at the sun. No more waiting. His body fell onto a puddle of red on a floor of green. Then, it went cold, as a pair of eyes on a hideous face looked upon a friend for the last time. 1153.

Behavior: Why do I do the things I do?

I think it is time I put myself on the proverbial "hot seat" and ask myself the tough question- "Why do I do the things I do?" Of course, this question is tough to answer, not least because a "Why" question often leads to multiple interpretations of the questions itself. For example, "Why does the sun rise in the east?" can be a scientific question meaning "What makes it appear that the sun moves upwards from the eastern horizon when it first appears at the beginning of a day?" but it can also be a linguistic statement that means "That is just the way things are." or a theological statement meaning "The invisible hand of an omnipotent deity moves the universe in various ways."

And, since I am not going into a deep discourse on theology (which invariably finds its way into many of the things I write), astronomy, semantics and am trying to adress my personal behavioral traits and actions, I should rephrase my tough question to "What are the factors that directly influence my actions in an observable way on a regular basis?", something that has more well defined limits.

It would be reasonable to assume that human actions are the external representations of human thought, especially when there is a logical choice between two or more somewhat acceptable possible actions. So, the factors that effect my choice, compared to another person's, are:

A. My range of acceptable behavior

B. My active choice and the mechanism by which I make it

Now, the range of acceptable behavior is something that varies between people and cultures. In fact, it also varies between two different circumstances for the same person. I may consider physical violence to be unacceptable in most situations, but if there is a reasonable threat of violence against myself, I might find it acceptable to be the first to the punch. Now, whether I fling my fist or not (and whether it is a hook or an uppercut) is a matter of choice.

That example might have seemingly blurred the line between acceptability and choice. Isn't what is acceptable to me simply a choice that I myself make? Perhaps. [It might be useful for me to acknowledge that I took a coffee break to ponder this point.] The thing is, while choice is the instantaneous and somewhat more conscious decision, acceptability is something whose lines have been created and molded over the years as a result of knowledge (individual and socio-cultural), experience and previous choices (especially when the latter have retrospectively been proved to be stupid decisions).

Now, as I realize that going deeper into the topic of acceptability will be a more profound discourse than I am prepared for at the moment, I have to tackle the question of personal choice. Why are my choices, given the same situation and a similar range of acceptable behavior, often different from another individual's? What makes my preferences different from yours?

Neurologically, it might be because we have different synapses in our central nervous system. Psychologically it might be because of differences in our personalities. Behaviorally, it might be because of our past experiences when given similar choices and how they turned out. Economically, it might be because we have different incentives that drive us. Theologically, it might be because one of us (probably me) is a sinner while the other is a saint. Logically, it might be because we are processing the same situation in completely different ways. Statistically, it might be because one of us (again, probably me) is an outlier, while the other is more towards the central tendency. [I wanted to put in a postmodern physics theory that says both of us make all possible choices in multiple different realities, but I resisted that urge, although I still mention it in these brackets.]

I accept that I have not really pin-pointed any specific factors in these few paragraphs. I've merely stated that acceptability and choice affect my behavior(and probably yours as well, although I wouldn't bet on it) and these are again influenced by further factors. But the purpose of writing this was not to reach an instantaneous conclusion, rather to break down a tough question into simpler parts. Perhaps I might think (and write) more on this topic on a further date. Until then, this write-up is just a reminder that the question is still alive.

Art of a different kind?

Art has been defined as that which has no purpose but itself. If I subscribed to a religious ideology, I would probably conclude that God is an artist. While I do not believe in an omnipotent creator that has humanlike personal attributes, such a creator would have to be an artist in creating a universe that has no real purpose. Even more profoundly, creating Man, a creature that exists for no real purpose than sustaining itself, could only be an artistic endavour.


Now, I am not religious. So, I am not writing to praise the virtues of a creator I do not subscribe to. Although, "Omni-artfulness" might be added to omnipresence, omnipotence and omniscience as qualities of a divine being, such an addition is not mine to make. If any of my scanty readers has a decision-making power in any religious body, I would recommend they consider such an addition.


Before I get sidetracked into another unintended discourse on religion or on human psychology, I had better clarify the intent of this block of writing. It is the result of a bout of wandering thoughts, a disease I have been afflicted with for a long time. I have a curiosity complex, an innate desire to wonder how things work and why they are the way they are. Of course, I suspect everyone has a form of this affliction, but usually in a milder form or in one more limited in width.


My curiosity serves no real purpose, as far as I can see. I want to know how things work. But, the moment I work out one thing, I immediately focus on something else. No, I am not attention-deficit. I will usually work the how to a reasonable depth before I move on. It is usually only when the next logical step in the answering of the question is finding a use for the solution that I move on. Curiosity is like an art form for me. The only purpose it serves is to sustain itself.


I read quite a bit. It used to be mainly fiction that I was interested in, until I started writing fiction of my own. Then, I developed a gradual decrement in my taste for fantasy literature as I realized that my daydreams were often wilder than the novels I read. Often, while reading a novel, I would pause and imagine how I might myself have written the remainder. Usually, I would be disappointed in the authors plot and endings. I am not saying that I was more creative than the authors (after all, many of these books were international bestsellers), just that I could imagine plots that were more intriguing to me than the original works.


So, I slowly shifted to non-fiction. Now, I could not daydream the endings to these works. (Actually, I could. Unfortunately, that defeats the purpose of "non-fiction".) What I could do, however, was seek answers. I could read a work on any topic with a few questions I wanted answers to. If I realized that answers were not forthcoming, I would stop reading and change the topic. My topics of interest were not limited to a few fields of knowledge, however. I could (and still can) jump topics as far spaced as ancient Egyptian religion to microeconomic theory to cookbooks to self-help to technical knowledge inside the space of an hour.


But, I struggled to make a complete meal from my random grazings on these various pastures. I was gathering information from varied sources, but was not organizing it into knowledge that could be used for a logical purpose. Occasionally, as I tried to make sense of it all and put things into a semblance of order, I came to multiple loose ends, that were too short to tie up but too connected to be thrown away.


Then, one night, it struck me. I was actively seeking more and more information just to perpetuate my need for more and more information. I was not hoarding the information, however. I have forgotten or misplaced a lot of it and have wilingly given up even more. I was just accumulating it for no purpose other than making sure I always sought more of it. For me, it served no purpose other than itself. It was art.


While I might try to arrange this information into theories, the theories themselves are meant to serve no greater purpose. They too are art forms that have been created for the sole purpose of their own existence. Maybe, someday, some of it might make sense to somebody, somewhere. But for now, it is art, pure and simple. It exists for itself. And, if someday, it ceases to be art, perhaps it will turn into something useful.