We have a friend staying with me for a few days. She is living up north and needed a place to stay while taking care of some local business. Her personal issues are so numerous and severe, it pains me to even list them. The toppers are: talking to the now sixteen year old son after a three year absence, philandering first husband, ex-con druggie alcoholic boyfriend that disappears every few days, recovering from a stroke, trying to establish social security benefits due to loss of trade (manicurist) from loss of sensation in right hand (dominant), untreated, bi-polar mother (with whom she lives up north).
So here is where my brain is at: I desperately want to help her out of this incredibly desperate situation. I believe everyone should be given the opportunity to mature and thrive. And quite frankly, I think she has hit the very bottom of where ever she is at. But I find myself questioning my motives. Am I lending aid out of the most generous portion of my heart or just to prop up my own flagging self-worth?
After a good night's sleep, things are much clearer now.
Intentions are invisible. The motives are only those I give them. If I were to casually mention these things to others with the intention of leading them into a conversation regarding what a great guy I am, then my motives are impure. This is simpler than I thought.
As everything turns out to be.
-nn
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Simplicity
There is an old chinese saying:
"The beauty of an uncarved block of wood is limitless, where the finished carving is bound by the form given it".
If I were nihilistic, I would read this as a statement of futility. Why would I care to do anything if everything I did was binding it to a particular form? I would not want to take the blame of confining the limits of an object (or person), thereby confining someone else's ability to visualize ...
This was started out as a post about appreciating simplicity.
About how keeping things simple are more natural.
A small testament regarding technology and how it is not the answer to everything.
Counterpoint: I am using technology to write this blog.
-nn
"The beauty of an uncarved block of wood is limitless, where the finished carving is bound by the form given it".
If I were nihilistic, I would read this as a statement of futility. Why would I care to do anything if everything I did was binding it to a particular form? I would not want to take the blame of confining the limits of an object (or person), thereby confining someone else's ability to visualize ...
This was started out as a post about appreciating simplicity.
About how keeping things simple are more natural.
A small testament regarding technology and how it is not the answer to everything.
Counterpoint: I am using technology to write this blog.
-nn
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Writer's block head
A word game I play when I have trouble with "flow". Think of a compound word, then use the last word to create another compound word. Only I have expanded the rules to allow celebrity names (real and otherwise), common phrases, and gutter slang. The results can be interesting.
- play catch release
- oat meal time
- test case worker
- ring tone deaf
- shit fire up
- ring tone loc
- giddy up chuck
- light saber tooth
- max power up
- get some bitch
- fuck up end
- scooter trash bin
- drop dead on
- finger nail biter
- holy water bottle
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
The Inverse Power of Praise.
A brilliant piece of research regarding how to talk to your kids. This is the issue with providing mindless praise.
From the New Yorker.
-nn
From the New Yorker.
-nn
sausage fingers
Bitch of a thing. Fingers always getting in the way, screwing up my posts. Never mind the fingers are being controlled by this vacuous meat cake that resembles something like swiss cheese. Suffice it to say, the post I inadvertently deleted was nothing less than word-filled nirvana, capable of transporting you to worlds and concepts removed from the mundane.
AND it was funny.
While I recover from your loss, I offer the following:
AND it was funny.
While I recover from your loss, I offer the following:
Saturday, February 17, 2007
speaking other perspectives
Watch a foreign film without subtitles turned on. Then watch it again, this time reading along, and see what misconceptions you made.
Yes, this is an investment in time.
Yes, this is an investment in time.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Differing views of the same life
"To see things like never before".
It is a learning experience to be able to shun one's perspective and attempt to endure another's. It is easy to confuse this as living vicariously through someone else's experience, but nothing could be further from the truth. To be able to consider another's life is to be able to consider another viewpoint. To allow yourself to ask "What if...?"
What if you were homeless?
How would you react to a life out of control?
What would you do?
-nn
It is a learning experience to be able to shun one's perspective and attempt to endure another's. It is easy to confuse this as living vicariously through someone else's experience, but nothing could be further from the truth. To be able to consider another's life is to be able to consider another viewpoint. To allow yourself to ask "What if...?"
What if you were homeless?
How would you react to a life out of control?
What would you do?
-nn
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
flag etiquette
It turns out that US flags are not supposed to be burned until they are no longer serviceable. Good to know.
For those with a desire to know more about proper flag handling.
For those with a desire to know more about proper flag handling.
Monday, February 12, 2007
sides of the universe
When I was in the sixth grade, there was a contest to draw a picture to be included on the title page of our annual. The annual was a half sheet, folded, black and white, staple bound affair that had all the features of a full-size year book in the convenience of a size more acceptable to those in the sixth grade. I am sure the printing and handling costs were similarly smaller, which was probably the most important point than any other for a small, out-of-the-way, island-based elementary school.
There were several pictures submitted, I did not think highly of my drawing skills, but given the context requested, I knew my subject matter would overcome my lack of style. Let me explain how I arrived at my subject.
The weekly Color Guard was a randomly picked foursome that would escort and raise the flag a few minutes before the pledge of allegiance was read over the loud speaker. It was one of the many minor honors available to school age children. On a side note, everyone said the pledge of allegiance, it was what was done.
The crisis du jour, delivered by the previous contingent, was thus: while preparing to hoist the flag aloft, everyone on the team seemed to have been paying more attention to pulling the rope than actually attaching the flag, which promptly fell to the ground. Now under normal circumstances, one would think to quickly snatch up the flag from the ground, give it a quick dust off, and start anew. But this being an island composed of the most invasive and red soil to be found this side of the Sedona desert, it was quite obvious this incident would not be sterilized so easily. In fact, due to the rains the night before, there was not only dirt on the flag, but huge red, brown streaks of mud. No, this would definitely not be so easily overcome.
The children were aghast and noticeably disturbed to think they had soiled this all important banner of our nation (because that is what we were taught at this tender age). They did what every school kid does in need of emergency cleaning at school. They called the janitor. The janitor at once notified the principal and things quickly escalated. Once the adults starting getting involved, it became more about demonstrating proper flag etiquette and less about assuring the kids they did not just shit all over the country they call home. This was a real patriotic crisis, even more so since it was discovered should the American flag ever come in contact with the ground, it should be ceremoniously burned. So given the circumspect nature of the elementary school mind, the thought process is thus: "The flag touching the ground is an event of such enormous badness, the only way to overcome the shame of it is to incinerate it and get a new one."
Okay. Got it. Lesson learned.
Let's return to to the point of this little story, shall we? Out of the gray fog of my brain, my very astute sixth grade logic labeled the events as to carrying the utmost seriousity. "The flag touching the ground? SERIOUS!". This was my picture. This was the content that would catapult me from relative grade-school obscurity, to the much vaunted elite group of kids everyone wanted to give their coveted bag of Fritos. I immediately set to work drawing the flag pole with the school as the backdrop. Then the flag just as it was starting to lose its tension as the lanyard it was tied to snapped. To bring the drama to the fore, I replaced the entire color guard to one, lone kid, a look of horror breaking on his face as the realization of the events were just dawning on him. His pose was the one of a person being shocked into action.
This was killer stuff.
I joined the queue as we all waited for the teacher's aide to review the entries. I watched with anticipation as she looked at the candidate pictures one by one. I noticed there was no great reaction, an occasional "Nice" or a "Good job". I was sure to be in. It was my turn.
She took a look at my drawing. And blinked. She held it at arm's length, apparently to take in the whole of the composition. A look came over her that I could only describe as disgust. She immediately went into a rant "People will open this book years from now and and the first thing you want them to see is a joke?". "How could you even think of putting this picture in the book (like it's a bible, right?), this is not amusing, not funny, at all!" Shamefaced, I meekly retrieved my picture and returned to my desk thinking, "What the heck was that about?" You asked for serious, didn't you?
It was at this point, the universe taught me several important lessons.
There were several pictures submitted, I did not think highly of my drawing skills, but given the context requested, I knew my subject matter would overcome my lack of style. Let me explain how I arrived at my subject.
The weekly Color Guard was a randomly picked foursome that would escort and raise the flag a few minutes before the pledge of allegiance was read over the loud speaker. It was one of the many minor honors available to school age children. On a side note, everyone said the pledge of allegiance, it was what was done.
The crisis du jour, delivered by the previous contingent, was thus: while preparing to hoist the flag aloft, everyone on the team seemed to have been paying more attention to pulling the rope than actually attaching the flag, which promptly fell to the ground. Now under normal circumstances, one would think to quickly snatch up the flag from the ground, give it a quick dust off, and start anew. But this being an island composed of the most invasive and red soil to be found this side of the Sedona desert, it was quite obvious this incident would not be sterilized so easily. In fact, due to the rains the night before, there was not only dirt on the flag, but huge red, brown streaks of mud. No, this would definitely not be so easily overcome.
The children were aghast and noticeably disturbed to think they had soiled this all important banner of our nation (because that is what we were taught at this tender age). They did what every school kid does in need of emergency cleaning at school. They called the janitor. The janitor at once notified the principal and things quickly escalated. Once the adults starting getting involved, it became more about demonstrating proper flag etiquette and less about assuring the kids they did not just shit all over the country they call home. This was a real patriotic crisis, even more so since it was discovered should the American flag ever come in contact with the ground, it should be ceremoniously burned. So given the circumspect nature of the elementary school mind, the thought process is thus: "The flag touching the ground is an event of such enormous badness, the only way to overcome the shame of it is to incinerate it and get a new one."
Okay. Got it. Lesson learned.
Let's return to to the point of this little story, shall we? Out of the gray fog of my brain, my very astute sixth grade logic labeled the events as to carrying the utmost seriousity. "The flag touching the ground? SERIOUS!". This was my picture. This was the content that would catapult me from relative grade-school obscurity, to the much vaunted elite group of kids everyone wanted to give their coveted bag of Fritos. I immediately set to work drawing the flag pole with the school as the backdrop. Then the flag just as it was starting to lose its tension as the lanyard it was tied to snapped. To bring the drama to the fore, I replaced the entire color guard to one, lone kid, a look of horror breaking on his face as the realization of the events were just dawning on him. His pose was the one of a person being shocked into action.
This was killer stuff.
I joined the queue as we all waited for the teacher's aide to review the entries. I watched with anticipation as she looked at the candidate pictures one by one. I noticed there was no great reaction, an occasional "Nice" or a "Good job". I was sure to be in. It was my turn.
She took a look at my drawing. And blinked. She held it at arm's length, apparently to take in the whole of the composition. A look came over her that I could only describe as disgust. She immediately went into a rant "People will open this book years from now and and the first thing you want them to see is a joke?". "How could you even think of putting this picture in the book (like it's a bible, right?), this is not amusing, not funny, at all!" Shamefaced, I meekly retrieved my picture and returned to my desk thinking, "What the heck was that about?" You asked for serious, didn't you?
It was at this point, the universe taught me several important lessons.
- Be careful what you ask for
- Know your audience
- Don't expect adult answers from an eleven year old
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Let's review
"Those who forgot the past are doomed to repeat it."
I am a big fan of the personally reviewed life. By this, I mean to say that it is of utmost importance that everyone on the face of the planet (and elsewhere) regularly set aside some time to go over the events that have transpired over some arbitrary period. Of course, the period of time will differ from person to person, but the fact remains all (and I sincerely mean ALL) peoples should be performing this seemingly simple act.
This is an entirely personal accounting, not to be seen by any other person other than the individual concerned. I can see the wheels spinning now, "Should it be every year, every four months, when damn it, WHEN?". Well, whenever you think it should happen, it is yourself we are talking about after all.
The simplest tool for this review is a simple pen (pencil, if you prefer) and paper journal. Written in every few days, with just the barest amount of information as to what is happening in your life. Does not have to be anything terribly in-depth, but it should reflect the obstacles you are facing, how you feel about them, and most importantly, the things that bring you joy. How many times in your life have you found incredibly happy but have no idea as to the reason why? Wouldn't you like to be able to tap into that joy again? The joy entries are the next best thing to a road map to help you find your way back.
As for the other entries, consider them snapshots of time. Once captured, you will be able to return to the issue you were facing without the pressure of having to make an instant decision or all the other cluttering thoughts that accompanies handling a crisis. You may even find there were other options available but you were fixated on something else. And perhaps, the next time something of this nature recurs, you will handle it (or at least view it) differently.
Everyone, and I mean everyone, should be doing this on a somewhat regular basis. But when?
That would be up to you, now, wouldn't it?
-nn
I am a big fan of the personally reviewed life. By this, I mean to say that it is of utmost importance that everyone on the face of the planet (and elsewhere) regularly set aside some time to go over the events that have transpired over some arbitrary period. Of course, the period of time will differ from person to person, but the fact remains all (and I sincerely mean ALL) peoples should be performing this seemingly simple act.
This is an entirely personal accounting, not to be seen by any other person other than the individual concerned. I can see the wheels spinning now, "Should it be every year, every four months, when damn it, WHEN?". Well, whenever you think it should happen, it is yourself we are talking about after all.
The simplest tool for this review is a simple pen (pencil, if you prefer) and paper journal. Written in every few days, with just the barest amount of information as to what is happening in your life. Does not have to be anything terribly in-depth, but it should reflect the obstacles you are facing, how you feel about them, and most importantly, the things that bring you joy. How many times in your life have you found incredibly happy but have no idea as to the reason why? Wouldn't you like to be able to tap into that joy again? The joy entries are the next best thing to a road map to help you find your way back.
As for the other entries, consider them snapshots of time. Once captured, you will be able to return to the issue you were facing without the pressure of having to make an instant decision or all the other cluttering thoughts that accompanies handling a crisis. You may even find there were other options available but you were fixated on something else. And perhaps, the next time something of this nature recurs, you will handle it (or at least view it) differently.
Everyone, and I mean everyone, should be doing this on a somewhat regular basis. But when?
That would be up to you, now, wouldn't it?
-nn
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
digg-a-licious ebay
The sites allow for some very interesting finds.
I saw this guy on television fairly recently. He was showing the fire protection abilities of his "fire-paste". He had casted a shell of the material over a light-weight helmet and then wore it while a off-screen helper held a torch to his head. It appeared very convincing.
It seems no one wants to market or license his wonder material.
Or the other thing he developed.
I saw this guy on television fairly recently. He was showing the fire protection abilities of his "fire-paste". He had casted a shell of the material over a light-weight helmet and then wore it while a off-screen helper held a torch to his head. It appeared very convincing.
It seems no one wants to market or license his wonder material.
Or the other thing he developed.
Memory loss
I had a post when I started in this morning.
The instant I get in front of the computer, it fades.
There is a passion to write, but the semblance of coherent subject matter fails me. Maybe it is the product of a mind easily distracted. I like to think that my brain is still too concerned with sounding smart and complete. Afraid that I will appear as a attention craving internet whore.
I have taken steps to ensure there is no personally identifiable information on this site.
I know that part of my fragile ego is definitely wanting to avoid the all seeing stare of the Grammar Nazis in the audience, ready to slam the casual writer on sentence structure, proper use of common slang, and inappropriate use of tense. Then there are the Math Masters checking sums and products whether explicit or implied. Date Divas who will check every date you have ever noted to make sure it falls in line with the past list of events you have described AND ensure the reference you listed on February 10, 1999 was indeed Tuesday.
While not the entire reason I have difficulty putting words down, this is definitely a major. Getting started does not seem to be the problem. Once I get into the the bulk of the words, the continuity of the idea starts getting jumbled as I try to ensure a satisfying reading experience.
I just need the practice....
-nn
The instant I get in front of the computer, it fades.
There is a passion to write, but the semblance of coherent subject matter fails me. Maybe it is the product of a mind easily distracted. I like to think that my brain is still too concerned with sounding smart and complete. Afraid that I will appear as a attention craving internet whore.
I have taken steps to ensure there is no personally identifiable information on this site.
I know that part of my fragile ego is definitely wanting to avoid the all seeing stare of the Grammar Nazis in the audience, ready to slam the casual writer on sentence structure, proper use of common slang, and inappropriate use of tense. Then there are the Math Masters checking sums and products whether explicit or implied. Date Divas who will check every date you have ever noted to make sure it falls in line with the past list of events you have described AND ensure the reference you listed on February 10, 1999 was indeed Tuesday.
While not the entire reason I have difficulty putting words down, this is definitely a major. Getting started does not seem to be the problem. Once I get into the the bulk of the words, the continuity of the idea starts getting jumbled as I try to ensure a satisfying reading experience.
I just need the practice....
-nn
Monday, February 5, 2007
not knowing oneself
This is not a trivial matter.
If one does now know oneself, one cannot have a definitive and explicable opinion. Having an opinion you can make tangible to others is a hallmark of being an adult. Better yet, it is a clear sign of acquired intelligence, of sentience. If you cannot explain yourself, you presence and thoughts are relegated to the "dumb-animal" class of existence.
And you should be able to explain yourself.
Grandma was the iconic semblance of everything grandmothers are supposed to be: she cooked wonderful, soul-fulfilling foods, was soft spoken most of the time (except when absolutely required otherwise), and was always ready to comfort a child with a warm and sincere hug. I was thirty-two when I discovered my grandmother was actually my step-grandmother. It threw me for a loop. There were deep questions to answer regarding the experiences I had collected with her. Did they they somehow change because of this sudden (yet supposed) change in our relationship.
Not one bit.
If anything, the lesson to learn here is that it is possible to put too much weight on blood lines. Should you be forced to maintain a relationship with that drug-addled uncle just for the happenstance of him being your father's brother? What about the first cousin that has visited every member of the family by way of two weeks on everyone's couch?
When I view my relationship with my step-Grandmother, I see a welcome exchange of services. My need for lots of hugs and her desire to deliver them. My insatiable hunger for food (let's face it, of any sort) and her willingness to prepare it for me. We were two people serendipitously brought together by fate to help each other out. We were two people put together for a purpose. We were symbiotic. We both benefited from each other's proximity.
I miss her.
After reviewing this post, it appears I know how I feel, but I cannot yet put it into words that succinctly explain how I feel. More growing up is called for, it appears.
-nn
If one does now know oneself, one cannot have a definitive and explicable opinion. Having an opinion you can make tangible to others is a hallmark of being an adult. Better yet, it is a clear sign of acquired intelligence, of sentience. If you cannot explain yourself, you presence and thoughts are relegated to the "dumb-animal" class of existence.
And you should be able to explain yourself.
Grandma was the iconic semblance of everything grandmothers are supposed to be: she cooked wonderful, soul-fulfilling foods, was soft spoken most of the time (except when absolutely required otherwise), and was always ready to comfort a child with a warm and sincere hug. I was thirty-two when I discovered my grandmother was actually my step-grandmother. It threw me for a loop. There were deep questions to answer regarding the experiences I had collected with her. Did they they somehow change because of this sudden (yet supposed) change in our relationship.
Not one bit.
If anything, the lesson to learn here is that it is possible to put too much weight on blood lines. Should you be forced to maintain a relationship with that drug-addled uncle just for the happenstance of him being your father's brother? What about the first cousin that has visited every member of the family by way of two weeks on everyone's couch?
When I view my relationship with my step-Grandmother, I see a welcome exchange of services. My need for lots of hugs and her desire to deliver them. My insatiable hunger for food (let's face it, of any sort) and her willingness to prepare it for me. We were two people serendipitously brought together by fate to help each other out. We were two people put together for a purpose. We were symbiotic. We both benefited from each other's proximity.
I miss her.
After reviewing this post, it appears I know how I feel, but I cannot yet put it into words that succinctly explain how I feel. More growing up is called for, it appears.
-nn
Friday, February 2, 2007
Awash in the foam of stuff
Take a trip with me.
"There was no helping it. I had to to think on my feet. There were dozens of people looking at me with expectation and there was no way of skirting my way around a response. I looked straight ahead and proclaimed firmly "Four".
Bang.
The moment was over. Everyone seemed to sigh with relief and turned their attention elsewhere."
Everyone has been thrust into a situation like this. Without warning, you are placed into an unwelcome and unexpected white hot spotlight of attention and you do not know what or how the hell you came to be there. The most vivid memory for me would probably back in school, consciousness a hair's breadth above sleeping and suddenly my name is called (loudly):
"N?".
(snapping out my reverie) "Yes?"
"What do you make of the issue posed?"
This is where the motor has to really fire up, there is a lot on the line (or is there?).
Attempting to not appear lost, an answer starts forming as my brain replays the errant bits of sentences captured in the last fifteen minutes. A couple of thoughts start forming and appear to be salient. Here comes the gamble, "The engineer should have recognized the outliers prior to entering the next phase of development. Clearly, at fault for the outcome."
Breathless silence. Actually holding my breath.
"Good. Let's move on."
Big exhale. Adrenaline pumping me up as I break into a cold sweat.
Did I pull off some amazing feat of near real-time recall while dozing? Should I work at continuing my latent talent?
No.
I should pay frickin' attention....
"There was no helping it. I had to to think on my feet. There were dozens of people looking at me with expectation and there was no way of skirting my way around a response. I looked straight ahead and proclaimed firmly "Four".
Bang.
The moment was over. Everyone seemed to sigh with relief and turned their attention elsewhere."
Everyone has been thrust into a situation like this. Without warning, you are placed into an unwelcome and unexpected white hot spotlight of attention and you do not know what or how the hell you came to be there. The most vivid memory for me would probably back in school, consciousness a hair's breadth above sleeping and suddenly my name is called (loudly):
"N?".
(snapping out my reverie) "Yes?"
"What do you make of the issue posed?"
This is where the motor has to really fire up, there is a lot on the line (or is there?).
Attempting to not appear lost, an answer starts forming as my brain replays the errant bits of sentences captured in the last fifteen minutes. A couple of thoughts start forming and appear to be salient. Here comes the gamble, "The engineer should have recognized the outliers prior to entering the next phase of development. Clearly, at fault for the outcome."
Breathless silence. Actually holding my breath.
"Good. Let's move on."
Big exhale. Adrenaline pumping me up as I break into a cold sweat.
Did I pull off some amazing feat of near real-time recall while dozing? Should I work at continuing my latent talent?
No.
I should pay frickin' attention....
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Beauty in the mundane. Cultural perception and expectation
I have had too much coffee. It is apparent with the tangential feel of this post
Is it possible to differentiate cultures by studying the mundane? Let's workshop.
I am going to ask you to form the picture of an object in your mind. Do not worry, the object is something you have seen many times before. You pass, walk, drive over them everyday and I will go so far as the say you ignore them regularly, not giving them a second thought. The objects are something relied on, serving a meaningful purpose, protecting people from bodily harm. Western society has come to expect them and sues the local government should they not be where they are expected to be.
Sorry for the suspense. They are manhole covers. Also known as sewer seals, bum beds, et al.
Returning to the question "Is it possible to differentiate cultures by studying the mundane?".
The answer is a resounding "Yes".
Wait a minute, you say "How is it possible to distinguish between two cultures from viewing manhole covers?" Read on.
In the West, manhole covers are invariable round (for good reason) and carry all the personality of a culture insisting to be declared good is to be mass produced, similar to all those prior and post to your existence, and easily blended into existing expectations. Not to perpetuate the tenets of racial profiling but the premise here is "If you have seen one, you have see them all".
The East however, displays quite a different perception on items relegated to the title of manhole covers.
I offer these two examples: one and two.
By comparing the vision of a manhole cover you conjured up in your head with the examples given, I would have to give a most definite "Yes". Unless, of course, you happen to live anywhere else but the United States.
Is it possible to differentiate cultures by studying the mundane? Let's workshop.
I am going to ask you to form the picture of an object in your mind. Do not worry, the object is something you have seen many times before. You pass, walk, drive over them everyday and I will go so far as the say you ignore them regularly, not giving them a second thought. The objects are something relied on, serving a meaningful purpose, protecting people from bodily harm. Western society has come to expect them and sues the local government should they not be where they are expected to be.
Sorry for the suspense. They are manhole covers. Also known as sewer seals, bum beds, et al.
Returning to the question "Is it possible to differentiate cultures by studying the mundane?".
The answer is a resounding "Yes".
Wait a minute, you say "How is it possible to distinguish between two cultures from viewing manhole covers?" Read on.
In the West, manhole covers are invariable round (for good reason) and carry all the personality of a culture insisting to be declared good is to be mass produced, similar to all those prior and post to your existence, and easily blended into existing expectations. Not to perpetuate the tenets of racial profiling but the premise here is "If you have seen one, you have see them all".
The East however, displays quite a different perception on items relegated to the title of manhole covers.
I offer these two examples: one and two.
By comparing the vision of a manhole cover you conjured up in your head with the examples given, I would have to give a most definite "Yes". Unless, of course, you happen to live anywhere else but the United States.
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