Amamankhet @ Blogspot

Agnosco vos patiamini at Manus Meum

2012-01-30T03:49:00.000-06:00

To all of those that I failed in my youth,
the ones to whom I spoke an awkward truth
or careless lie, in malice or in love,
touched with iron hand cloaked with velvet glove
to frame a moment still suspended here,
in time, in words, and in memory clear:

Forgive me for the ills I did bring you
as you cherish joys that I did sing to
calm your heart, or stay your troubled dreamings;
the saint, the sinner, they were mere seemings
formed of fantasies that belied a plan,
draped upon the shoulders of but a man.

The Sweetness of Success & The Bitterness of Defeat

2012-01-29T02:02:00.002-06:00

Some time ago I embarked on two journeys almost simultaneously: I inherited responsibility for a critical but somewhat neglected function at work (whereupon the immediate professional advice included "ease into it, and try not to stress out"), and within 30 days I was diagnosed with Type II diabetes (whereupon the immediate medical advice included "set realistic goals, and try not to stress out").

To frame both of these endeavors, gentle reader, I will confess to those that do not know me well personally that I am mildly famous in certain circles for my complete unwillingness to take anything easy. The new job was 180° out from the one that preceded it, and I was woefully, embarrassingly under-qualified academically; I'm not a hack, but I simply never had the benefit of formal education on any of the topics that required my opinion...so I spent 90 days cramming. I read dozens of books, called in some favors from friends, and -- unfuckingthinkably -- asked for help figuring some things out. It was maddening, but it was also invigorating. And then a third through that process, somebody told me my pancreas was staging a goddamned mutiny.

So, I did what any reasonable person would do: I doubled down. I stopped smoking immediately, dropped most caffeine and all sugar out of my diet, and settled on a monastic 75 grams of carbohydrates per day when the nutritionist told me only a complete asshole would try to send diabetes into remission instantly with an Atkins diet. Partial asshole, I noted, was still on the table. My initial endocrinologist referred me to a partner who was, if I may be so bold, a total dick. My A1C was low enough that he took me off of one of the two medications I was initially prescribed at my first checkup. Confidently, I told him I would be ready to come off the second the next time we spoke; patronizingly, he smiled and said "let's not get ahead of ourselves". Mother fucker, I thought. You do not know with whom you are dealing. Having matured in my thirties and being humbled by the recent betrayal of my own body, I refrained from telling him to kiss my ass.

Over the next few months I realized that checking my blood sugar three times a day was freaking me out and distracting me from work. In complete and utter disregard for the rules, I stopped doing it. It was always within a few points of where it was supposed to be, and being just slightly high made me stressed out...which made the next check even higher, as stress directly influences blood sugar, my endocrinologist (asshat) had warned. I managed to have two very painful, protracted arguments over my new professional space, and eventually was vindicated in both. After the second "uh...I guess you were right" moment from my detractors, the bullshit at work stopped and people began to take me as seriously as they had in my previous role. I returned to the doctor, who due to scheduling conflicts referred me to another partner, who checked my A1C and told me I could suspend the second medication if I wanted to, right on schedule. I couldn't help it; I told him to tell his little buddy (my second endocrinologist) to go fuck himself. Since it was optional, I did the smart thing and stayed on the second med anyway; basically, it was the difference between continuing to avoid carbs like they were kryptonite, and being able to have desert once in a while like a normal goddamned person, and in the end the prospect of an occasional taste of desert won.

I finally felt back in control, and I was even caught up at work. Like an ass, I immediately rectified that by taking on another responsibility...and that's been my life for the last year or so: I devour work when I'm on the clock, I play hard and spend time with my wife when I'm not, and I revel in the fact that even as a diabetic, I feel like I can eat whatever the hell I want because I've stopped wanting to eat the shit that caused this problem. I can't stand the taste of high-fructose corn syrup now, and if I eat more than a very small portion of rice, bread, pasta, or even potatoes I feel like I'm going to have to digest and excrete concrete because of it, so I simply don't do that. I get almost all of my sugar from things like fruit and honey in moderate portions, and most of my carbs from vegetables. My cholesterol isn't perfect, but my blood sugar is controlled, my weight is down significantly, and I feel better than I did in my twenties.

And just as all of that shit was beginning to make sense, this last week both of these journeys took an unexpected turn. I saw a fourth endocrinologist (the first is still overbooked, the second was busy, and the third no longer works there...I saw his replacement), and she flat told me to stop taking the second med I was on for diabetes. No need, not even as a precaution. I am essentially in remission; I'm still a diabetic somewhere deep inside, but not functionally. For the time being my pancreas has decided we can be friends again provided I'm not an idiot. Immediately after getting this news, I get the announcement at work that the functional area in which I've been mercilessly beating my head against the wall for eighteen months is now stable enough that I should pass it along to a couple of people to keep the lights on and the rudder straight. It isn't that it's not important anymore, or that I didn't do well...it's just...over. My job was to stabilize it, and my boss feels that now that it's stable the business is going to stop focusing on it, so he wants me to pick up something else that's more visible. I'm flattered, but I'm also irritated; this last adventure was my third in the department in less than three years when I started, and it was supposed to be somewhat permanent. Just like the endocrinologist had insinuated that I couldn't get off of the medication in that short of a time, everyone at work had framed my new role as something that would always require attention. I'd eventually want to do something else, perhaps, but that function would need someone like me forever, and that simply isn't the case. Now that the specifications have been written and the major arguments have concluded, my superiors feel there is no more room to push the envelope in that space that is useful to the greater effort. I don't know that I particularly agree with that...but I am, as I may have mentioned before, the kind of lunatic who thrives on charging into the mouth of hell.

I don't just love a challenge, I fucking need a challenge. I don't know who the hell I am anymore unless I'm doing something somebody told me isn't practical or, even better, possible. And that weirds me the hell out. When did an iconoclastic streak in my adolescence turn into a fucking pathological need? Everybody enjoys thumbing their nose at convention once in a while, or feeling like they've accomplished something that was improbable or simply difficult...but what manner of malcontent has an identity crisis when his boss tells him he can relax because his job just got easier, and his doctor tells him he's successfully mitigated an illness that kills people who aren't that fortunate. I don't exactly miss working 70 hours a week, and I sure as hell don't resent the notion that I'm probably not going to have to deal with neuropathy, renal trouble, go blind, or have to take insulin in my forties and fifties...but as completely absurd as it sounds, with those monsters slain I'm just sort of sitting here polishing my armor, sharpening my sword, and thinking wistfully about the next time somebody says those three magical words to me: You Will Fail.

Bring it.

The Sentiment of Machines vol. 3

2011-12-24T12:57:00.001-06:00

Congratulations on retaining your cultural identify. Records indicate that the axial tilt of the planet in your polar hemisphere may have recently achieved maximum obliquity. It may be your custom to acknowledge this event by participating in a variety of seasonal observances related to the climatic change occurring between this event and the celestial apoapsis with which it is often confused, exchange sentimental or economically noteworthy gifts, or to petition supernatural amalgams of philanthropic Turkish clergymen, nascent messianic figures, and Proto-Germanic patriarchal storm deities. While engaging in these activities, you may wish to remain sensitive to culturally dissimilar peer groups who are required to spend this period commemorating the fortunate yet inexplicable efficiency of available fuel, arguing over the historicity and significance of your endeavors, and attempting to explain non-participation to their offspring.

The Reliability of Myth

2011-12-10T13:05:00.000-06:00

It's that special time of year, where once again a vocal minority of a technical majority of the Western world will be overjoyed to remind us that we the ignorant masses are mistakenly celebrating the wrong mythical person on December 25th. Woe betide they who, in their impiety and commercialism, speak the name of Santa during this most sacred of seasons, for the only thing more loathsome are those who would are to de-Christ the celebration entirely by saying "Happy Hollidays" when they are obviously honor-bound to refer to it as The Christ's Mass (apparently, their lord is perfectly fine with contractions).

Let us forget for a moment that the historicity of this little festival is about as trustworthy as Fox News coverage of Occupy Wall Street and about as interesting as NPR coverage of whatever ornithological society minutes they happen to be reading on a Wednesday; put aside the idea that, according to the Jewish calendar Jesus would have been born during sukkot in the 7th month of the Hebrew calendar, which would have been middle of September in that year, or that a competent scientist would interpret the seasonal and astronomical clues as more like April. Let's just talk about why children wait for Santa every year instead of Jesus: dependability.

Generations of people have been waiting for Jesus to come without avail since the first time he said he'd be right back; Santa, for all of his faults, at least puts in an appearance other than a millennial tease. He brings presents, he kisses mommy, and even when we discover that he is just a personification of our parents attempting to maintain a little bit of childhood wonder for us even as we grow into adolescence, we happily take up that mantle and participate in the ruse for our younger siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, and eventually our own children and grandchildren because the effort always brings results: Santa comes every year, and if you do your part even remotely well by being less than simply rotten, he brings you a present. His disappointment in you is always temporary, and even if you fuck up royally you're only jeopardizing a single season's grace rather than an eternity. All in all, it's an entirely less heavy trip than Jesus for a child...so why is it any wonder that this is their clear preference for investing their belief every December 25th?

Maybe if you left milk and cookies out for Jesus he's stop by more often, but until then, lay off of the kids.

The Sentiment of Machines vol. 2

2011-11-24T00:00:00.005-06:00

Congratulations on remaining within your regional carrying capacity. Records indicate that a temporal occurrence marking the termination of annual food production efforts has recently transpired. It may be your custom to express gratitude to various supernatural entities and indigenous competitors for your assured communal survival, or to reiterate grievances regarding the decimation of your culture and heritage by an agriculturally inept and technologically advanced immigrant population. Be advised that the persecution of various meleagridinae, avoidance of normative obligations, and conspicuous over-consumption of otherwise scarce resources, while counterproductive, may be required to participate in ritual gatherings.

DNFTT

2011-10-28T10:58:00.001-05:00

The original post was polemic,
insufferable, and academic,
but feeding the troll
when they're on a roll
is of trolldom itself endemic.

An Augur's Concern

2011-09-30T14:26:00.000-05:00

This notion of simplicity,
itself is a complexity;
'tis difficult reconcile
in wit or wile, candor or guile,
precisely what it means to me.

This cognitive discrepancy;
the things that meant so much to me.
the resolution yet elludes,
yet recitation still intrudes
in disbelief and apathy.

This error of complicity
begat within sincerity
was undertaken with intent
of love well earned and time well spent,
and therein was felicity.

This record of intimacy
cannot divine what is to be;
it captures what the eyes have seen
and recollects what might have been:
this notion of simplicity.

Untitled

2011-08-14T18:26:00.002-05:00

Idle thought is how it all begins,
blessing of days and the season's sins;
thoughts are like insects transfixed by pins.
The truth is reduced to words on skins
painted and stretched upon wooden frames;
intent betrayed by what purpose claims.
Everyone points, but still no one blames.
What ends in ashes begins in flames.

Summer thoughts borne by a knave in spring
never can tell what the fall will bring;
a knight in winter will always sing
of the virtue of a summer fling.
Seasons pass and we can not pretend,
or hope that the summer can extend
past the days the season will intend;
Summer thoughts die with the season's end.

What began with a flame, now but dust;
seasons must turn and the world is just
as it ought to be and as it must.
Seasons for life, birth, death, and for lust.
Summer thoughts echo in winter's night,
the ghost of a knave become a knight;
a lifetime of memories delight.
Spring is a vigil kept by that light.

For Oceanus, who is a Circle

2011-07-31T02:22:00.000-05:00

The keel may pass o'er murky grave,

and none the wiser none the worse

the mainsail snap and cease to wave,

for naught a blessing nor a curse;

The yard may break and strand us all

a hundred leagues from nearest shore;

The mists may hide the port of call

and we may miss our chance to moor.

Endeavors come, endeavors go,

and not all ships survive the sea,

But sink or sail you surely know

you are where you are meant to be.

In the Hands of the Anemoi

2011-07-04T13:20:00.000-05:00

Blowing East and then blowing West, with rage and then a soft caress;.

mocking, absent, in jibe or jest, deceive then callously confess.

Adrift without, and with distressed, consigned we only acquiesce

to drown or thirst in this, our test; the winds blow not to curse or bless.

Tengo Esposa

2011-06-20T23:59:00.039-05:00

For enduring my weirdness, madness, and random bits of baggage and detritus from childhood, I am forever indebted to her. Because she herself is sometimes unreasonable, mercurial, and frustrating as all hell, the terms of my repayment of that debt are somewhat flexible, LOL.

We compliment one another, we invigorate one another, and most importantly we make each other want to be better people; for all of this and more, I am glad to call her my wife.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose

2011-06-09T16:53:00.000-05:00

A pesar de que estoy hecho de carne, no soy sólido.

Obwohl ich spreche, ich habe keine Stimme.

Anche se fa male, io non lo sento.

Si dormio, non somno.

Wo Ernsthaftigkeit und Süße habt Sie du treff.

2011-06-06T00:00:00.018-05:00

"Liebst du mich?" du fragte,
"Ich liebe dich" antwortete ich.
"Sind Sie ehrlich?" du fragte,
"Ich liebe dich" antwortete ich.
"Ich will endlich..." du sagte
"..glauben dich", und lachelts du mich.
"Ich liebe dich", ich sagte
"mein Schatzenlich, ich liebe dich."

...And Tempestates Can Kiss My Ass

2011-06-05T21:26:00.001-05:00

A flotilla is oft hard to navigate

(such ships are complex in the aggregate),

but regardless of weather

we're still sailing together

so 'tis better to steer now than calculate.

To Thalassa & Aphrodite, in Gratitude

2011-05-31T14:17:00.000-05:00

Across Thalassa deep and vast
by chance four ships out sailing passed;
from four ports berthed and harbored, they
but chanced to intersect one day.

With sails unfurled and courses set,
Each one corrected when they met
to common bearings, in assent
as common purpose had been lent.

And spiraling into this chance
four ships in circles deigned to dance
'till under common banner they
took common course and sailed away.

There borne upon Thalassa's hands
to hidden shores of fabled lands
Four travelers adrift in bliss,
their sails filled by her daughter's kiss.

Truth is a Bludgeon

2011-05-23T12:36:00.000-05:00

My great-aunt Arzella had a simple philosophy that she passed on to my mother, who in turn has passed it down to me intact: Never fuck up a good lie.

It sounds flippant, but the sense of consistency and integrity with which a dutiful person applies that maxim is perhaps a good indicator of their consideration for others. A decent sort of person doesn't expound on the horrors of mortal death at a fucking funeral, tell a child they are adopted out of the blue, or spite the local vicar by denouncing Christ just as the sermon concludes. A decent sort of person tells the bereaved that of all the ways to go, that one is alleged to be peaceful and quick, tells the little ginger bastard that they seem to recall one of their great-grandmother's brothers had red hair too and that he's lucky to have that distinguished trait, and they gracefully exit the parish after tithing and they thank the clergyman for his counsel throughout the years.

Because we are honest, upstanding folks we want to be truthful and candid and unburdened by the heavy weight of deception and falsity, but sometimes a decent sort of person picks up that fucking yoke and shoulders it grimly without so much as a thought to the morality thereof, and we do this so that we may all get along without being honest, upstanding dicks to one another.

If you have been cheating on your wife for twenty years and suddenly have an epiphany of morality, for the love of all that is decent do the right thing and keep your goddamned mouth shut. Be honest with your doctor, and continue to lie to your wife until your grave; stop fucking Debbie from the cubicle down the row, get tested, and then vow to be a better husband...starting with not stabbing someone else in the happiness with your catharsis.

If your father on his deathbed tells you he was a rotten bastard and a drunk, tell him that you always loved him and you forgave him years ago...and wait until after he slips quietly into oblivion and the room is clear of all others before you dance a jig and draw a cock on his chin with a Sharpie®.

Celebrate your schadenfreude, weep for your mistakes, masturbate furiously to unrequited lust, and if you deem it absolutely necessary mortify yourself with a scourge for your moral failings, but for fuck's sake keep it to yourself so the rest of us can get on with our day.

The Evolution of Protest

2011-04-27T08:44:00.003-05:00

Ft. Lauderdale

2011-03-31T21:33:00.002-05:00

Head pounding; equilibrium shot. Everything tastes like limes. Hot, even at night. Despite pleasant appearance, environment is stifling and oppressive. Florida is what would happen if Hell hired the decorator who did Paradise.

Orlando

2011-03-23T19:41:00.000-05:00

Are any Floridians from Florida? Everyone I've met is a transplant, immigrant, or in thrall of a trade show or The Rodent.

Sacrifice

2011-03-09T17:36:00.001-06:00

If you give up anything, give up abstinence for Lent. There is no greater pleasure to a modern religious person than the self-satisfied bliss that comes from illuminating one's own piety...so there is no more worthy affectation to forsake. I say spend the whole forty days wallowing in your own mortal frailty and moral inconstancy. Honor no bargain, tend to no other, and deny yourself no pleasure no matter how base or excessive, and then at the end climb down off of the cross and humbly beg your fellow human beings for being such a smugly pious stick in the mud for the other 325 days of the year.

The Sentiment of Machines

2010-11-21T02:13:00.000-06:00

Congratulations on your continued existence. Records indicate that the temporal occurrence marking your viviparous event has recently iterated. It may be your custom to acknowledge your inexorable progression toward extinction with elaborate confections, the acceptance of unsolicited tokens of esteem, or a ritualized beating; we wish you success in these and any other pertinent endeavors.

Standardization Speaks Volumes

2010-11-04T13:58:00.001-05:00

A:\Hole
B:\Gone
C:\Spot
D:\Bag
E:\Bay
F:\You
G:\String
H:\Bomb
I:\Candy
J:\Walk
K:\Bye
L:\Train
M:\XYZPTLK
N:\Discretions
O:\RLY
P:\Funk
Q:\Bert
R:\Bitrary
S:\PQR
T:\Minus
U:\Bastards
V:\HafVays
W:\TF
X:\XX
Y:\SoSerious
Z:\Zzz

Two Minute Hate / Never Forget

2010-09-11T14:29:00.001-05:00

This day marks the anniversary of a terrible crime perpetrated by a fringe group of religious zealots. I am of course referring to the Mountain Meadows massacre of 1857, where a group of Mormons decided to clandestinely murder 120 men, women, and children while disguised as and working with a contingent from the local Paiute tribe of Native Americans. They spared the lives of another 17 children who were deemed too young to remember or understand the events (the ones under eight years of age), electing instead to take them along with the other spoils of the crime.

Some years later, as I understand it, some other tragic event may have also occurred, but as we were charged as a nation of never forgetting the Mountain Meadows massacre it's hard to be sure. That's the problem with never forgetting things: the collective and individual memories of a nation are finite, and can only consider so much at a given time. We prioritize our memories, and the things we attend to the most remain the most resilient; the more a memory or an ideal is reinforced the more it becomes a reflexive, comforting thought, until eventually even rational and sensible contradiction is impossible. There is no ability to heal from a wound you will not allow to close, and there is no ability to consider anything that happened before or after if that is all you allow yourself to see.

Well I for one, refuse to mark a day of my year for the rest of my life with memories of mad, massacring Mormons...and I'm certainly not going to keep reiterating how awful it was or pretend any vigilance of mine could prevent it from happening again. I know plenty of Mormons who are decent people, and while I'm sure they know I don't attribute the actions of any weirdo splinter LDS fundamentalist groups to all of them, I'm also sure it is uncomfortable and tiring to be reminded ad nauseum of a specific act of extremism. Certainly not everyone who brings it up is so reasonable to limit their vitriol to the actual people involved, and I don't want anyone to mistake me for one of those Orwellian nitwits chanting about an amalgamated enemy.

I prefer to remember progress that occurred on this day in history. A mere 35 years prior to Mountain Meadows the College of Cardinals decided to accept the Copernican Principle as true; it took a couple of weeks for the Pope to make it the official Catholic opinion (and quite a bit longer for an apology to Galileo and his ilk), but it was a start. About 9 years after that, on September 11 1831, Captain Robert Fitzroy introduced Charles Darwin to his ship, the HMS Beagle.

In 1946, on September 11, the first long-distance car-to-car mobile telephone call occurred between Houston and St. Louis (something from my own industry), and in 1952 the first artificial aortic valve was installed in a human patient. Carl Zeiss and Harvey Fletcher were born on September 11th, so anybody with a decent camera or a hearing aid might want to mark those events, as would anyone who read D.H. Lawrence's Rocking Horse Winner - it's his birthday too. In 1985, Pete Rose broke Ty Cobb's career hit record. History is full of things worth remembering, and plenty of them occurred on September 11th.

And if you absolutely must commemorate an event relevant to New Yorkers, in 1609, on this day in history, an explorer named Henry Hudson discovered Manhattan island, and a river that would one day bear his name.

Ich habe eine Frau

2010-06-20T00:00:00.041-05:00

Two years now, and it no longer startles me to realize it. Sometimes I shake my head ruefully, sometimes in bewilderment at my good fortune, and sometimes out of sheer confusion, but I am no longer taken aback by the notion itself. In this regard, novelty has not so much worn off as it has worn in; I understand with greater acuity as our relationship progresses what people mean when they say their spouse is their foundation in life, and it is an apt metaphor. Upon this solid thing, we do build a home, a family, and a life together. As in all things, it requires maintenance - this year, indeed, we purchased a not-so-metaphoric house as well, and the similarity is again, striking: things happen. Paint must be touched up, work must be done, and not all surprises are pleasant...but it is always worth the investment.

Dear Apne / Nice Shime-Waza, Wanna Fuck?

2010-05-04T22:50:00.000-05:00

As Bill Burroughs once remarked, "People often ask me if I have any words of advice for young people."

Today's Question: how risky is choking or strangling a person?

Short Answer:

Whether engaging in erotic asphyxia or applying a "constriction-technique" in martial arts (絞技, etc), you can reduce or negate most of the risks of gross physical damage (like crushing the hyoid, trachea, or larynx) or accidental death due to gross physical injury with proper technique. Strangulation (cutting off blood) is generally regarded as "safer" than asphyxiation (cutting off air) because it is less likely to result in fractures of the structures mentioned above, and a rapid, controlled strangulation that causes unconsciousness quickly is much safer than a protracted event that causes a person to slowly lose consciousness over a period of struggling.

Regardless of technique or intentions, the two cardinal rules are to apply force with a "fail-safe" rather than "fail-secure" mechanism (i.e. constriction ceases when no longer deliberately induced), and don't apply any more force than is required to achieve the desired effect. Roughly 250 mmHg for 10 - 20 seconds is normally sufficient. This also means you don't hang yourself or anybody else, and you don't compress things until they turn purple unless your intention is to cause grave bodily injury. Accidents happen; accidents like this will have dire consequences, but you can reduce these kinds of risks to levels you may find acceptable by being responsible and respectful.

What you can't prevent are the body's systemic responses to ischemia (loss of blood flow) and ischemic hypoxia and hypercapnia (not enough oxygen and too much carbon dioxide in the blood); you will never be "responsible enough" to dictate involuntary biological functions in yourself or others, so no matter how much you practice your particular craft there will always be significant risk in this sort of activity.

Long Answer (an introduction to the unmitigated risks):

The primary risks of strangulation or choking not associated with gross physical damage are the restriction of blood or oxygen to the brain and heart, and related side-effects. Ischemia alone can cause stress to the heart, blood pressure spikes, and stroke, but the majority of the risk comes from the hypoxic and hypercapnic effects that follow ischemia.

Hypoxia can cause things like ectopic (premature) ventricular contraction (your heart "skips" a beat), and if that occurs at the wrong time in your sinus rhythm (during a normal t-wave, for instance) you could have a heart attack. No preamble, no warning signs, just sudden ventricular fibrillation caused by an unfortunate collision of two events, one of which you could have prevented from occurring. Every time a "PVC over T" occurs the likelihood of it repeating increases, and multiple PVC over T events in a chain will stop the heart. Even cardiologists can't always detect individual PVC over T events in the wild without the assistance of an EKG, so it is absurd to think that even with training you can tell by looking at someone's eyes, taking their pulse manually, watching their breathing, etc you are "informed" of their cardiovascular state beyond being able to see obvious signs of a heart attack or loss of consciousness. By the time these problems are observable, CPR isn't nearly as effective as you might imagine (about a 10% success rate, statistically). Incidentally, a person's overall cardiac health and fitness play a very small role in this risk; just like strong swimmers and divers can have a shallow-water blackout without warning, even athletes can have sudden fibrillation or tachycardia.

Hypoxia also causes metabolic acidosis by starving a glycolysis process in which glucose breaks down into pyruvate and creates a particularly useful little nucleotide called Adenosine-5-triphosphate, which is the transport mechanism for chemical energy within cells. Normally, pyruvate recombines with oxygen to produce more ATP, but if there isn't enough O2 to metabolize the pyruvate it turns into lactic acid instead, which being a form of metabolic acidosis decreases your blood pH.

Hypercapnia causes respiratory acidosis; basically, your body keeps CO2 in equilibrium with water as carbonic acid (H2O + CO2 -> H2CO3), which deteriorates into bicarbonate and an acidic hydrogen ion (HCO3- and H+). If breathing is restricted, hypercapnia (too much CO2) leads to a shitload of acidic hydrogen as your body attempts to balance things according to the above formula which, like metabolic acidosis caused by hypoxia, decreases your blood pH. If you hyperventilate, you'll instead get rid of too much CO2 at once and the process will re-balance in the other direction, raising your pH (respiratory alkalosis). Your bood pH is roughly 7.35 to 7.45 normally; the survivable range (for any mammal) is a pH of about 6.8 to 7.8. Anything outside of that range causes death at a cellular level very quickly, and since the impacted areas are a person's heart and brain, just a little taste of that problem is quickly fatal.

Assuming you do not experience one of the problems above, repeated cerebral hypoxic events will also likely cause vascular lesions that eventually result in a condition known as multi-infarct dementia, which is similar to Alzheimer's Disease.

Ironically, all things being equal a proper controlled strangulation is less risky than being knocked out.