Humour, Philosophy, Rantings, Thoughts

When I inhale

I just felt like typing. I like the speed of my fingers when I do it. There’s a rhythm to it. When my fingers click on the keys it feels like thoughts galloping. You can’t make a mess like you can in a journal. I like to doodle skeletons that were left in the rain. Outlines or shapes and ideas that need more time around them, to find themselves. Maybe one day they’ll start a narrative.

I should will give you an idea of some of the things whirling around in my head. I’ll talk about smoking. So here’s a timeline to get you familiar with where (and why) I am here now…

I got sober. I stopped smoking weed and gulping down alcohol because, at the time, my survival depended on it. My future did not. In the first three months my brain lit up. Every kind of repressed voice, emotion and colour shot to the surface. My brain was a living and chaotic kaleidoscope of feelings, anxiety, energy and something worse…unpredictability. Years of substance and alcohol abuse kept me unconscious and unmanaged. Both of these play out in early sobriety. I can’t stop something small from making me cry or panic in seconds. There’s something else too. I can’t bring this to a dead halt without having a drink. I can dig deeper now I have some distance from the experience. I realize part of the reason I drank in the first place was to sedate the cerebral squirrels in their cage.

Two things happen after three months. The first is the anxiety, mood swings, and feeling “driven” starts to dissipate. Thank fuck. The next thing is I begin to realize that addiction is here to stay. You can move houses to change the view, but there will always be a storm. I don’t know why. I get this feeling that I always will have this urge to “tap out”. I used to use the words “take the edge off”. (I never used this phrase when I was smoking. It felt like I was apologizing for something that wasn’t there.)

In the beginning the first few cigarettes gave me a head rush and a calming feeling. After a while that rush became harder to achieve. Sounds familiar doesn’t it? My body adapts to whatever I throw at it. I’ll confess something out the gate, numbnuts. Of course I was aware of the cancer thing! The most obvious thing to me is lung cancer. I thought I’d be more transparent and I just googled some of the shitty things that happen. Such as:

  • smelly hair
  • anxiety and irritability
  • yucky teeth
  • bronchitis
  • chimney coughs
  • heart disease
  • horrible vision
  • lung cancer
  • constricted blood vessels
  • chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD)
  • loss of appetite
  • increased risk of blood cancer, meh
  • etc, etc, ad nauseam.

Confession no. 2 – I didn’t care about the data above. As long as I could tap out for a few seconds and get the squirrels to stop scratching…I was okay with that. Remind me to come back and talk about COPD. I have a chilling story about that. Anyway I got the flu and my body and old ideas had a standoff. I was standing outside in the morning with a chest full of phlegm. Yes, I was hauling on a cigarette. Smart, huh? Even though I was feeling like dog’s balls, a part of my brain played that same narrative. You need a little more and you’ll feel better.

It turns out I had to test that theory. Four cigarettes later I sounded like a bagpipe full of bees. This culminated in a sentence or two. What the fuck am I doing to my body? I’m just making it worse. Dunno about you but I have the habit of waking up when I’ve pushed things to the limit. As well as the flu the COVID-19 pandemic is still raging. The weekend is a mixture of me cursing myself and contemplating my own mortality.

This anger morphed into action and I went to the pharmacy to buy some nicotine gum. This post got me pretty charged so I threw a piece into my mouth hole while I wrote the previous paragraph. I know you’re gonna ask about the gum. Everyone does. It’s not the same as cigarettes. It gives me a bit of that hit until I get this weird metallic taste in my mouth. It feels like I’m chewing on electric tinsel. Maybe that’s the point? Maybe they want me to throw it away like a guilty sock I jerked off into. I don’t want anyone to know…I just want to be done with it.

The first few days I was consumed by invasive thoughts. I like to refer to it as unwanted advertising. I need a smoke, I need a smoke. Look how nice the weather is bud! Perfect breeze to light your cigarette in. I don’t care you threw them all away. Look for someone puffing and ask them for one. You can make a plan shitbird. Thankfully the flu clawed at my energy levels. I slowly began to recover and feel less rotten like the underside of a log.

Turns out I’m caffeinated enough to share one more story with you. The old man with COPD. Easiest way to describe it is “smoker’s bronchitis” or emphysema. Both of these phrases get caught in your throat before they roll off your tongue. I worked with him while doing a part time general labour job. A carpenter tore up old flooring and I was the lemming that carted away all the debris.

At first the child in me bristled when I had to do simple things while he sat in the car. For example, close the trailer door or put cones around the car. Only when we were on lunch did the mallet of recognition smack me. It didn’t feel good. Now before I tell you how this happened, I need to point out one more thing. This man is fat. I can see you flinch when I spew the f-bomb. No I’m not talking about chunky, either. I’m talking about “when you get in a car and your stomach touches the steering wheel” fat.

During our lunch he picks up his wife and drops her off at home. I watch him waddle into his house. It’s dark inside. The couches are adorned with dog blankets and a glowing fish tank gives the living room a pulse. Apart from the trickle of fish and his dog that bounces around like a fresh tennis ball…everything else feels heavy. I come out of the toilet and I find, this man I’ll call Mike, folded on the edge of the couch.

Oxygen tubes curl into his face. He says something to me like “I just need a few minutes.” I watch his eyes get lost in the blue hue of the fish tank. I figure this must be a form of meditation for him. I ask him about the other tank in the room. I try make my question sound cursory and wondering. He shrugs it off like small talk he’s intercepted many times. I still remember one of his lines. “If you want to keep smoking, this is what you’ve got to look forward to.” At the time this didn’t cause a reaction. Later on it throbbed inside my head.

It’s time to leave. I walk out of the house and get into the car. I watch him take careful steps. The car door clicks. He climbs in and starts huffing and puffing. It reminds me of when I was a kid in the swimming pool. We’d play a game to see who could hold their breath the longest. I’d give up after my lungs were burning and I gasped to get my breath back…you know the rest.

Shock ignites my eyebrows. “Are you okay, Mike?” He gives me a proverbial shrug telling me it was just part of his routine. It wasn’t a game for him anymore. It was ingrained into his life. I thought about this for days afterwards. The logic played out into chilling patterns. I chose to ignore it. I’ve come to realize significant change comes when I’m at the edge of my own precipice. This doesn’t apply to all change otherwise I’d be a walking dumpster fire. And I should elaborate on the whole edge-of-the-cliff thing…

That precipice is where my urges and logic intersect. You can be fancy and call it consciousness. I like to think of it as intuition or knowing. It’s kinda like poker. You play for a while and the betting goes up. Three people fold. A small thought gnaws at you. It’s time to put down the cards and walk away asshole. There are other games to play.

Or maybe I’ll just step outside the house to feel the wind touch my face again? A few houses down I hear a kid yell and another laugh. I’m exactly where I need to be.

PhilosopherPoet

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Canadian nuances

Canadian nuances: Part 8 – I choose concrete

“Dress dry, there’s a storm coming tomorrow.”

The next day I arrive at work. My muscles complain like misplaced teenagers. I cradle a gas station coffee. With every sip the bulb behind my eyes flickers. The short answer is a smattering of subcontracted crews are building a multi-million dollar hotel. The long answer comes to me like as sobering slap. In the wrong hands…this could be chaos.

Pillars of cement stand out of the ground. Hedges of rebar hug the wall and they remind me of angry spears.This is no LEGO set. Only a hammer will fit in your hand or maybe a drill of some kind. Most material be it concrete, steel beams, scaffolding even the garbage can needs a few men (or sometimes a crane).

It all started with a hole in the ground. (Let me try that one again with dimensions…) It all started with diggers and giant trucks haulin’ ass to get the sand outta the way. This isn’t grandma digging a hole for her little seedlings. These are men strapped in high visibility clothing yelling at each other in the hopes the message is heard above the shriek of a circular saw. This is a two story underground parking hole.

 

I’ll rewind to the beginning…

I arrive on site and watch men work below me. I stare up. A white fog blocks the view of the mountains. I’m told that is a snow storm barreling towards up (around 12pm). My brother comes back, puts away his phone and asks me, “do you want to bash out concrete or patch up some holes?” I choose concrete. (Later I find out this is the tougher job.)

I walk to the far end of the site. There are no flat surfaces to stand on. You know those metal rods you see in cement? Well, these parallel rods (or rebar) are all I have. My boots clunk over tons of them. I get on my knees and start bashing at shards of concrete. It’s Friday…the end of a long week of roofing, lifting, swearing and trying to absorb as much detail as one can.

The bottomline is I worked through the snow and got the job done after an 11 hour day. At 6:35pm I go to a local bar and order a shot of jager plus a pint. I down the shot which lights up the old kindling in my eyes. I tip the bartender with a toonie that giggles when I put it down.

C’est la vie.

 

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poetry

thought closet

fix your thought closet
some hangers i will not reveal

yesterday i lent you a green one
its shoulders bent on the ends
plastic ones bother me, the
curled head juts out, with
the eyes of a mother.
she looks for laundry.

i look for a jacket to hide
my feelings. neither of us win.

the cupboard will outlive us.
heavy sweaters
pressed t-shirts
and a lego man
are all shards of stories.

the closet remembers, and
creaks when it closes.

 

 

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poetry

A stranger’s bed

for Sarah

We lay in a stranger’s bed.
Just the two of us, an old
painting hung behind our heads
and listened to the stories, my
awkward hands, limp on the mattress.

I watched the freckles dance on
your face when you laughed. Before bed we
both removed our glasses.

Between sentences we studied the other,
our naked faces learning a new
language. All over again.

On the second night, I was worn
down by work. Your voice trickled
in excitement, turning each page of intimacy.

I tried to stay awake and listen to
your stories. My eyelids rocked open and
shut like an old boat.
I did not make it to the end.

I asked you in the morning about
it. You said I slurred a sentence like
a sailor, and then nothing.

You turned in the current of duvet, and
waited for waves of sleep.

 

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poetry

Mantra

Dream and laugh like a river.

Sing around the throat
of a fire.
Shout at the moon, because
she is your sentinel.

When you cry the river will
carry your tears away,
from the current of memory.

In anger I hurl my fists and
fury at the mountain.

He watches me through the
history of my words,

and accepts the challenge.

 

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poetry

The Dinosaur

for my mother

I coloured in a dinosaur, at
the age of ten.

I selected five careful pencils and
put them all in a row.
Sharpened. The heads of fences.

I gave him silver claws, and a
dark green body. The colour oozed
into the page.

After an hour I had carved him
into a story, into my mind.

The teacher wafts around the
room, stacking reptiles into
an old palm.

A few days later the news broke.
I won the competition. My mother
chortled her praise, while she cooked
with a bent back.

I dreamed of art lessons
I won. Excited and curious. (I think
it was the silver claws that did it.)

I never collected my prize. I still
blame my mother. Only now I see
her lack of hands with two boys
bubbling in the house.

I wonder what she did to breath
back then. I think it was the piano.

I rocked in my dreams.
My mother stroked the keys, because
it cooled her head down.

It was her language.

 

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poetry

Sheffield

 – for my father –

I remember the
medicine bottle.
A spiral grows from the
plastic cap, like DNA.

You used them for
hooks, sinkers and
swivels.

I dug through your red
bag of tackle, rolled
like a scroll.

Velcro cracks as
I peel it. Grains of
beach sand dance on
the plastic skin.

My fingers skip like an
excited jeweller. I hold
a grey weight in my hand.

I looks like a battered pyramid,
scars and scrapes
drawn into geography.

Under the butt there is a
metal loop to tie your line.

“This weight is for the sea.”
My father’s voice turns the
tide of my thoughts.

He tells me the pointed end
digs into the sand.
It holds the bait
that flies a bloody flag.

I finger 2 long
lead weights. dead weight.

Ten years on I can still
feel those dense shapes
in the oyster of my palm.

I can feel the smile spill
through the shrub of your beard.
I can smell the scent of a wooden path.

Brown arms become bronze,
Sea and sweat stick to our stories.
Have I become a fisherman?

Well, almost.

 

 

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poetry

between the two of us

you are like the wind on a
mountain, your voice is supple.
it weaves through my old furniture
in the house.

my heavy pauses frustrate you.
when I plod from point-to-point
you are already riding rapids
in the rain.

I don’t think it will work out
between the two of us. I sit on
my sofa like a comfortable crab
your hands dance towards the
ceiling, parting curtains
hanging paintings

your fingers stroke the pulse of
sunlight, and my
eyes are buried in a book.

 

 

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Articles, Reviews

words for my father

Father Ballam hooking a big one.

My father is a warrior on many levels. He has risen up through the blizzard of a divorce. He soldiered through his own dyslexia and the currents of a busy family to conquer his Masters in Philosophy. (I better have another drink here this is starting to sound like a damn eulogy…and the bugger is still alive!) Allow me to reel this story in, the way one would clasp the steel nub of a coffee grinder’s arm. I can sum up my father in three words…

Fishing. Philosophy. Ideas.
These are the forces that drive him. They propel him onto the cold mud of a riverbank or into the furnace of concepts jostling in an academic paper. I know when he starts his 5 o’clock mornings ( a ritual the family has grown accustomed to), he first rustles around the kitchen like a wise old badger. To make his coffee he doesn’t turn on the kettle. Instead, he puts a pot of water on the stove and waits for it to boil.

Having a pint with the old man.

I remember being an angst-fuelled 23 year old telling him, “But that takes so much longer!”
He looked at me, a warm smile filling his eyes.
“You do not live with a woman and small children.”
His sensitivity, back then, baffled my own immature mantras. His modest income meant the houses he occupied where no mansions. In a nutshell, he would rarely give up his morning routine and at the same time…restrain himself so the family got enough sleep. Allow me to get back to the badger and his early morning.

My father in his element…or The Element perhaps?

Coffee in hand, he trundles to his favourite chair in the lounge. (If you read as much as this intellectual mammoth, you earn the right. Or perhaps, the chair finds you?) He sits down with a big red book of Rumi (a Sufi poet). It’s the perfect blend for him, mysticism and metaphor.

A gentleman always tells the truth. He allowed me to reel this fatty in so I could experience “the rush”. I compromised and said I’d take the photo as his hands were still full of fish!

Over the years poetry and books kept the two of us together. Much like a weekend for him, alone, pours cool consciousness back into his bones. He may not believe in a god, although he will make an effort to crawl back into nature to get in touch with something close to a Divine. Whether it’s internal or buried in the ripples of a rise…well, that remains to be seen.

Having another pint!

I love you Dad. Happy Birthday!

 

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Inspiration

The secret to living longer may be your social life

 

Transcript

Here’s an intriguing fact. In the developed world, everywhere, women live an average of six to eight years longer than men do. Six to eight years longer. That’s, like, a huge gap. In 2015, the “Lancet” published an article showing that men in rich countries are twice as likely to die as women are at any age.

But there is one place in the world where men live as long as women. It’s a remote, mountainous zone, a blue zone, where super longevity is common to both sexes. This is the blue zone in Sardinia, an Italian island in the Mediterranean, between Corsica and Tunisia, where there are six times as many centenarians as on the Italian mainland, less than 200 miles away. There are 10 times as many centenarians as there are in North America. It’s the only place where men live as long as women.

But why? My curiosity was piqued. I decided to research the science and the habits of the place, and I started with the genetic profile. I discovered soon enough that genes account for just 25 percent of their longevity. The other 75 percent is lifestyle.

So what does it take to live to 100 or beyond? What are they doing right? What you’re looking at is an aerial view of Villagrande. It’s a village at the epicenter of the blue zone where I went to investigate this, and as you can see, architectural beauty is not its main virtue, density is: tightly spaced houses, interwoven alleys and streets. It means that the villagers’ lives constantly intersect. And as I walked through the village, I could feel hundreds of pairs of eyes watching me from behind doorways and curtains, from behind shutters. Because like all ancient villages, Villagrande couldn’t have survived without this structure, without its walls, without its cathedral, without its village square, because defense and social cohesion defined its design.

Urban priorities changed as we moved towards the industrial revolution because infectious disease became the risk of the day. But what about now? Now, social isolation is the public health risk of our time. Now, a third of the population says they have two or fewer people to lean on.

But let’s go to Villagrande now as a contrast to meet some centenarians.

Meet Giuseppe Murinu. He’s 102, a supercentenarian and a lifelong resident of the village of Villagrande. He was a gregarious man. He loved to recount stories such as how he lived like a bird from what he could find on the forest floor during not one but two world wars, how he and his wife, who also lived past 100, raised six children in a small, homey kitchen where I interviewed him. Here he is with his sons Angelo and Domenico, both in their 70s and looking after their father, and who were quite frankly very suspicious of me and my daughter who came along with me on this research trip, because the flip side of social cohesion is a wariness of strangers and outsiders. But Giuseppe, he wasn’t suspicious at all. He was a happy-go-lucky guy, very outgoing with a positive outlook. And I wondered: so is that what it takes to live to be 100 or beyond, thinking positively? Actually, no.

(Laughter)

Meet Giovanni Corrias. He’s 101, the grumpiest person I have ever met.

(Laughter)

And he put a lie to the notion that you have to be positive to live a long life. And there is evidence for this. When I asked him why he lived so long, he kind of looked at me under hooded eyelids and he growled, “Nobody has to know my secrets.”

(Laughter)

But despite being a sourpuss, the niece who lived with him and looked after him called him “Il Tesoro,” “my treasure.” And she respected him and loved him, and she told me, when I questioned this obvious loss of her freedom, “You just don’t understand, do you? Looking after this man is a pleasure. It’s a huge privilege for me. This is my heritage.” And indeed, wherever I went to interview these centenarians, I found a kitchen party. Here’s Giovanni with his two nieces, Maria above him and beside him his great-niece Sara, who came when I was there to bring fresh fruits and vegetables. And I quickly discovered by being there that in the blue zone, as people age, and indeed across their lifespans, they’re always surrounded by extended family, by friends, by neighbors, the priest, the barkeeper, the grocer. People are always there or dropping by. They are never left to live solitary lives. This is unlike the rest of the developed world, where as George Burns quipped, “Happiness is having a large, loving, caring family in another city.”

(Laughter)

Now, so far we’ve only met men, long-living men, but I met women too, and here you see Zia Teresa. She, at over 100, taught me how to make the local specialty, which is called culurgiones, which are these large pasta pockets like ravioli about this size, this size, and they’re filled with high-fat ricotta and mint and drenched in tomato sauce. And she showed me how to make just the right crimp so they wouldn’t open, and she makes them with her daughters every Sunday and distributes them by the dozens to neighbors and friends. And that’s when I discovered a low-fat, gluten-free diet is not what it takes to live to 100 in the blue zone.

(Applause)

Now, these centenarians’ stories along with the science that underpins them prompted me to ask myself some questions too, such as, when am I going to die and how can I put that day off? And as you will see, the answer is not what we expect. Julianne Holt-Lunstad is a researcher at Brigham Young University and she addressed this very question in a series of studies of tens of thousands of middle aged people much like this audience here. And she looked at every aspect of their lifestyle: their diet, their exercise, their marital status, how often they went to the doctor, whether they smoked or drank, etc. She recorded all of this and then she and her colleagues sat tight and waited for seven years to see who would still be breathing. And of the people left standing, what reduced their chances of dying the most? That was her question.

So let’s now look at her data in summary, going from the least powerful predictor to the strongest. OK? So clean air, which is great, it doesn’t predict how long you will live. Whether you have your hypertension treated is good. Still not a strong predictor. Whether you’re lean or overweight, you can stop feeling guilty about this, because it’s only in third place. How much exercise you get is next, still only a moderate predictor. Whether you’ve had a cardiac event and you’re in rehab and exercising, getting higher now. Whether you’ve had a flu vaccine. Did anybody here know that having a flu vaccine protects you more than doing exercise? Whether you were drinking and quit, or whether you’re a moderate drinker, whether you don’t smoke, or if you did, whether you quit, and getting towards the top predictors are two features of your social life. First, your close relationships. These are the people that you can call on for a loan if you need money suddenly, who will call the doctor if you’re not feeling well or who will take you to the hospital, or who will sit with you if you’re having an existential crisis, if you’re in despair. Those people, that little clutch of people are a strong predictor, if you have them, of how long you’ll live. And then something that surprised me, something that’s called social integration. This means how much you interact with people as you move through your day. How many people do you talk to? And these mean both your weak and your strong bonds, so not just the people you’re really close to, who mean a lot to you, but, like, do you talk to the guy who every day makes you your coffee? Do you talk to the postman? Do you talk to the woman who walks by your house every day with her dog? Do you play bridge or poker, have a book club? Those interactions are one of the strongest predictors of how long you’ll live.

Now, this leads me to the next question: if we now spend more time online than on any other activity, including sleeping, we’re now up to 11 hours a day, one hour more than last year, by the way, does it make a difference? Why distinguish between interacting in person and interacting via social media? Is it the same thing as being there if you’re in contact constantly with your kids through text, for example? Well, the short answer to the question is no, it’s not the same thing. Face-to-face contact releases a whole cascade of neurotransmitters, and like a vaccine, they protect you now in the present and well into the future. So simply making eye contact with somebody, shaking hands, giving somebody a high-five is enough to release oxytocin, which increases your level of trust and it lowers your cortisol levels. So it lowers your stress. And dopamine is generated, which gives us a little high and it kills pain. It’s like a naturally produced morphine.

Now, all of this passes under our conscious radar, which is why we conflate online activity with the real thing. But we do have evidence now, fresh evidence, that there is a difference. So let’s look at some of the neuroscience. Elizabeth Redcay, a neuroscientist at the University of Maryland, tried to map the difference between what goes on in our brains when we interact in person versus when we’re watching something that’s static. And what she did was she compared the brain function of two groups of people, those interacting live with her or with one of her research associates in a dynamic conversation, and she compared that to the brain activity of people who were watching her talk about the same subject but in a canned video, like on YouTube. And by the way, if you want to know how she fit two people in an MRI scanner at the same time, talk to me later.

So what’s the difference? This is your brain on real social interaction. What you’re seeing is the difference in brain activity between interacting in person and taking in static content. In orange, you see the brain areas that are associated with attention, social intelligence — that means anticipating what somebody else is thinking and feeling and planning — and emotional reward. And these areas become much more engaged when we’re interacting with a live partner.

Now, these richer brain signatures might be why recruiters from Fortune 500 companies evaluating candidates thought that the candidates were smarter when they heard their voices compared to when they just read their pitches in a text, for example, or an email or a letter. Now, our voices and body language convey a rich signal. It shows that we’re thinking, feeling, sentient human beings who are much more than an algorithm. Now, this research by Nicholas Epley at the University of Chicago Business School is quite amazing because it tells us a simple thing. If somebody hears your voice, they think you’re smarter. I mean, that’s quite a simple thing.

Now, to return to the beginning, why do women live longer than men? And one major reason is that women are more likely to prioritize and groom their face-to-face relationships over their lifespans. Fresh evidence shows that these in-person friendships create a biological force field against disease and decline. And it’s not just true of humans but their primate relations, our primate relations as well. Anthropologist Joan Silk’s work shows that female baboons who have a core of female friends show lower levels of stress via their cortisol levels, they live longer and they have more surviving offspring. At least three stable relationships. That was the magic number. Think about it. I hope you guys have three.

The power of such face-to-face contact is really why there are the lowest rates of dementia among people who are socially engaged. It’s why women who have breast cancer are four times more likely to survive their disease than loners are. Why men who’ve had a stroke who meet regularly to play poker or to have coffee or to play old-timer’s hockey — I’m Canadian, after all —

(Laughter)

are better protected by that social contact than they are by medication. Why men who’ve had a stroke who meet regularly — this is something very powerful they can do. This face-to-face contact provides stunning benefits, yet now almost a quarter of the population says they have no one to talk to.

We can do something about this. Like Sardinian villagers, it’s a biological imperative to know we belong, and not just the women among us. Building in-person interaction into our cities, into our workplaces, into our agendas bolsters the immune system, sends feel-good hormones surging through the bloodstream and brain and helps us live longer. I call this building your village, and building it and sustaining it is a matter of life and death. Thank you.

(Applause)

Helen Walters: Susan, come back. I have a question for you. I’m wondering if there’s a middle path. So you talk about the neurotransmitters connecting when in face-to-face, but what about digital technology? We’ve seen enormous improvements in digital technology like FaceTime, things like that. Does that work too? I mean, I see my nephew. He plays Minecraft and he’s yelling at his friends. It seems like he’s connecting pretty well. Is that useful? Is that helpful?

Susan Pinker: Some of the data are just emerging. The data are so fresh that the digital revolution happened and the health data trailed behind. So we’re just learning, but I would say there are some improvements that we could make in the technology. For example, the camera on your laptop is at the top of the screen, so for example, when you’re looking into the screen, you’re not actually making eye contact. So something as simple as even just looking into the camera can increase those neurotransmitters, or maybe changing the position of the camera. So it’s not identical, but I think we are getting closer with the technology.

HW: Great. Thank you so much.

SP: Thank you.

 

Source: https://www.ted.com/talks/susan_pinker_the_secret_to_living_longer_may_be_your_social_life

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