The FaceTime
I was reading an obit about Lester Breslow who died at 97 and claimed longevity was based on seven recommended behaviors:
Do not smoke
Drink in moderation
Sleep seven to eight hours
Exercise at least moderately
Eat regular meals
Maintain a moderate weight
Eat breakfast
So I admittedly have been sneaking cigarettes, faced with the loss of my hair and my self enforced new and more chilled lifestyle, I’ve found myself in a pickle – my zen practice is telling me not to dwell or ruminate, my health practice is telling me to lose weight and exercise more, my life practice is telling me to quit pushing too hard, and so I find refuge in that one cig smoked like an outlaw in the bright light of day.
But I’m quitting.
Yesterday, I was chatting with neighbors, one who admitted she knows not one single person who has not been affected by the economic downturn and wasn’t it funny that what happened next was the rest of the day seemed to be an admission of everyone’s fantasies about winning the lotto and what they would do if they won.
What I didn’t say was that I have seen my neighbor (spied her) on her back deck (she works at home too) sneaking cigs.
As I was sitting on another neighbor’s front porch chatting about the reality of the times, I thought about Facebook and what’s lost in the exchange of people posting to the common billboard their fears, joys, and innermost ramblings and what’s gained by some real face time.
On Friday, when Tin and I took the streetcar to the Quarter to hear some jazz, an extended family got on, and I listened as one recounted their grandfather’s existence in this city many years ago – memories imbedded in what’s there and what’s not “dere” no mo. Any or all of what they said could have been Facebook posts, but seemed more weighty and real life crowded onto a streetcar possibly named Desire as we ambled down Canal Street.