ideas : People : stories.
the Human Being stuff
Nature and Romance
Niaz is a director, commercial photographer and film maker based out of Los Angeles who loves "creating awesome stuff!"
These arial shots seem to fall easily into such a category.
Laguna Beach
Lost in a Forest
California Sunset
Pursuit of Happiness
Floating
Santa Monica
You can see more of Niaz's work in his portfolio or follow him on Instagram.
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Every now and then, Sports and ESPN actually have something worth sharing.
The documentary, The 16th Man, is perhaps one of the greatest short films about race, love, reconciliation, and humility that I've ever seen.
There could be no democracy without peace. No liberation without reconciliation (via).
I understand that there are many differences that break the parallel between Nelson Mandela's story and President Trump's current narrative, and I get that to compare the two is unfair, for many reasons, but the climate is pretty close. Or, at least, it could easily become so.
But where I ache to have a president like Mandela is this: Mandela loved his enemies as much as his friends. Instead of creating division and instilling fear, he calmed and soothed tension, even inviting those who hated him to be some of his trusted advisors - much like another great President. Mandela, through grace and patience, prevented a war. He didn't instigate them. Because he understood that his role, his power, was to be used as a tool to serve, unite clashing people groups, and embrace an entire country - not just those with whom he agreed.
After spending 27 years in prison, Nelson Mandela, president of the very people who imprisoned him, believed more in the power of love and compassion and forgiveness than he did in the guns.
So, when it came to sport and the debated Springbok, Nelson Mandela embraced it, believing it had the power to change the world.
"In a country torn apart by racism, the game of rugby was a symbol of violent division. Yet, one man say it as a path for peace, when all roads seemed to lead to civil war."
The Springbok, the sport of rugby, was a symbol of their country, so Mandela embraced it, and the men who played it, uniting 43 million South Africans.
And the people chanted their president's name, rejoicing, as one.
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“After listening to your audio I was unsure how to respond, which is the reason for my delayed response. I see our situation different than you described, so I am not sure what to say or what counsel to give. I will keep praying for wisdom to respond correctly and for all our hearts to be ready for reconciliation.”
For the past twenty something years, I’ve been a part of a broken family, and in the last few years, the heights of tension and dissension have reached beyond comprehension. So, it is with little shock that most all of the podcasts and articles and movies I’ve listened to, read, and watched have been filtered through a lens of brokenness. And because there is no one to vent them to (outside my wife of course), I’ve begun to write them down.
I have no conclusions or eureka moments, just thoughts and questions. Maybe you do to, if you've experienced or are experiencing something similar. Maybe not. Either way, I hope you find these ramblings of thoughts and connections encouraging, even if it only means we are struggling and hoping and floundering together.
This is probably going to be at least a two-part series. I’m not sure yet. It depends on how therapeutic it is. But we’ll worry about that later.
For now, here’s the first posting. It’s entitled, “The Human Being Stuff”
After the 2016 elections, John Pavolvic lost contact with several of his friends. In an open letter to them all, he tried to explain why.
I know you may believe this disconnection is about politics, but I want you to know that this simply isn’t true. It’s nothing that small or inconsequential, or this space between us wouldn’t be necessary. This is about fundamental differences in the ways in which we view the world and believe other people should be treated. It’s not political stuff, it’s human being stuff — which is why finding compromise and seeing a way forward is so difficult.
I love that line, “It’s not political stuff, it’s human being stuff” because, although it’s completely vague, it’s also completely perfect. “The human being stuff.” Just perfect.
He continues,
I cannot have political debates with these people. Our disagreement is not merely political, but a fundamental divide on what it means to live in a society, how to be a good person, and why any of that matters.
Replace “political” with religion, and that’s where I’m at. But really, replace it with parenting, sexuality, or anything else that deals with the human being stuff and that’s where many families and friendships are at – divided and broken.
Like Pavlovitz, I find it difficult to carry on a conversation with anyone whose basic foundation of what it means to be human is completely different than my own. And when those people are called family, it gets even harder, and when family hardships and differences are constantly shielded by the “let’s pray about it” comments, it becomes nearly impossible.
Anyone who knows me, or my family, knows we are a splintered mess. We don’t talk, we judge before we speak, and we choose ourselves over others time and time again.
Maybe you can relate?
From the outside, however, my family looks okay, sometimes even healthy, but behind the whitewashed exteriors of ourselves, we are rotting, dying, and full of crap. If we’re honest.
A few weeks ago, I stumbled across a tribute to the comedian George Carlin. In it, Louis CK shares some thoughts on what made Carlin so great and how his approach to comedy saved Louis’ career. While watching, I couldn’t help but wonder if his advice could also save Pavlovitz’s friendships and, possible, my family.
One night, in Louis CK’s early years, after yet another disastrous show, he found himself alone, in his car, wrestling with the reality that after fifteen years of diligent work, all he had to show for it was fifteen years of the same “shitty material,” and he was mournfully ready to give up. Until he heard George Carlin talking about his comedic process: at the end of every year, he threw all of his material away, and started over. Louis couldn’t believe it. It took him years to build up his material, how was he supposed to throw it all away?
But he did. And now, he is one of the most respected comedians of our time.
“When you’re done telling jokes about airplanes and dogs” Louis explains, “you throw those away,” forcing yourself to find new material and to “dig deeper.” Deeper into everyday life and deeper into what makes us, us. “You start talking about your feelings,” Louis continues, “and who you are. And then you do those jokes and when they’re gone, you gotta dig deeper and then you start thinking about your fears and your nightmares and doing jokes about that.”
Fears and nightmares and the things that we try so hard to hide and disguise, even though they are the raw and real part of humanity, the human being stuff that every family has to deal with because it too is part of life, part of us, and part of growing and living and loving together.
But my family doesn’t go there. Maybe you can relate?
Instead, we talk about airplanes and dogs and prayer. We talk about forgiveness and love and what God would have us do in our lives and how to serve and read and worship His holy name, and when things get a little messy, a little hard and raw and real, we again talk about prayer, never our fears and nightmares. Never our sins and guilts and mistakes for those are better left locked behind closed doors so no one can see them, just hear them, as they scream and yell and cry in the darkness. “Lord reveal us” we pray, backs pressing against the door, legs straining against the pounding and thrashing, “give wisdom on what to do and how to reconcile” we pray, and the pounding and screaming lurches through the walls, down the halls, and through bed covers that are tightly held over little heads and jammed into little ears.
Then, when prayers continually go unanswered, when the family remains broken and yet another holiday passes us by, we reach for pen and paper, or sometimes a blog, and write the same shitty material we’ve been rehearsing for the past fifteen years.
So what now?
Where do we go from here?
How does prayer and prayer alone reconcile? Does it bend the hearts of the wicked to see the right and true path and the error of their ways?
If so, which one of us is the wicked and which is the righteous?
More importantly, how do we deal with all of the human being stuff? Because, after fifteen years of the same rhetorical sweeping, it no longer fits under the prayer rug.
THANKS FOR READING.
I posted a bit ago about a few movies I was looking forward to watching and perhaps brewing coffee for. One of them was The Big Sick, and tonight, Josey and I finally got a chance to sit and watch it. We loved it.
Over the past few years, the role of conflict within literature has been a major focal point in my teaching. More recently, however, it's truths and lessons have jumped from the pages and fled from the classroom, attaching itself to my everyday life and opening my eyes to its simple truth: the purpose of conflict is to reveal truth. For the individual, and for the community.
The best of stories us conflict to reveal something about ourselves.
"Love isn't easy. That's why they call it love"
This movie is brilliant.
I'm terrified to see this movie. The book was so crazy good that, one of the best I've ever read, because the conflict of good and right and innocence and "best for he child" is just so poetic and raw that I found my stomach literally in knots. I think I even threw the book a couple times, I was so angry and sad and frustrated and unable to hold such beautiful and difficult pages. If this movie botches it even slightly, it will ruin the everything. Especially my breakfast.
In a world of "Tiny Homes" and #vanlife, a movie that takes downsizing to the greatest extreme seems brilliant - especially since it will probably (and hopefully) deal with much more than the idea of simply living smaller, because, "sometimes you think you're living in the real world, and then something happens, and you realize, you're not."
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I've never really been a Leonard Cohen fan, but this song got me.
In a posthumous new video for Leonard Cohen's "Leaving The Table," an animated paper cutout of the late singer dances and flies over a cityscape of Montreal, free as a bird, untethered from the mortal world.
"I'm leaving the table," he sings as the animated Cohen spins, dips and flits by scenes from his past life. "I'm out of the game / I don't know the people / In your picture frame." It's a tribute that's both heartbreaking and beautiful, revealing an artist who left the world content that he'd lived every moment to his fullest.
The video, conceived and directed by Christopher Mills, premiered at last night's Polaris Music Prize ceremony. "Leaving The Table" is from Cohen's You Want It Darker, released in October 2016, just days before the singer's death (via).
I'm leaving the table
I'm out of the game
I don't know the people
In your picture frame
If I ever loved you or no, no
It's a crying shame if I ever loved you
If I knew your name
You don't need a lawyer
I'm not making a claim
You don't need to surrender
I'm not taking aim
I don't need a lover, no, no
The wretched beast is tame
I don't need a lover
So blow out the flame
There's nobody missing
There is no reward
Little by little
We're cutting the cord
We're spending the treasure, oh, no, no
That love cannot afford
I know you can feel it
The sweetness restored
I don't need a reason
For what I became
I've got these excuses
They're tired and lame
I don't need a pardon, no, no, no, no, no
There's no one left to blame
I'm leaving the table
I'm out of the game
I'm leaving the table
I'm out of the game
Kinda reminds me of Johnny Cash's remake, Hurt.
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"He (John Proctor) is a sinner, a sinner not only against the moral fashion of his time, but against his own vision of decent conduct. These people (the Puritans) had no ritual for the washing away of sins. It is another trait we inherited from them, and it has helped to discipline us well to breed hypocrisy among us. Proctor, respected and even feared in Salem, has come to regard himself as a kind of fraud."
This quote, from Arthur Miller's The Crucible, was penned in the 1950's and stands as a defining critique against our current humanity. But it doesn't need to be.
Over the past few years I have been wrestling with the idea and role of apology because, from what I can gather, it seems to be the only ritual we have that can "wash away our sins." Where deep and sincere apologies are present, and where both parties willingly and lovingly choose to lay their faults and mistakes down before another, the sweetest of reconciliation suddenly invades the room, empathy replaces justification, and wounds of separation become battle scars of a beautiful victory. For just as light beats away the darkness, so too does vulnerability erase hypocrisy, trapping it in the darkness from whence it came.
However, where defensiveness and justification dwell, hypocrisy reigns, enslaved to a life much like Proctor's: feared by many and a fraud to all.
Until the music starts to play.
For the past week or so, in preparation for The Crucible, my Junior English class and I have been researching the life and ideas of the Puritans - the breaking off from the church of England in hopes of religious freedom, their emphasis on hard work, and their unrelenting suppression of emotions and sin. As a wrap up as well as an introduction to the play, we watched the opening scene to Jaws - Chrissie's Last Swim. But before starting the short clip I asked the students, "What role does the music play in this scene?" Then I pressed play.
Even before Chrissie is tugged beneath the water, because of the iconic "duuh-duh" we know something bad is going to happen - that disaster is eminent. Just like life for the Puritans.
"Reading about the Puritans, there should be a sort of "duuh-duh" playing in the background," I said to my students, "Why?"
"Because the conditions we're perfect for disaster," they said. And they're right.
Conditions for the early settlers were extremely harsh. Food was scarce, the weather cold and difficult, and the religious freedom they were hoping to escape from was as distant as their family and friends back in England. To make matters worse, they were expected to live and think and be perfect - because they believed themselves to be like the Egyptians of old, God's chosen people headed to the Promised Land. And God's chosen people don't lust, lose their temper, or envy thy neighbor's land. Because they're God's chosen people.
And as such, they had no need for repentance.
Duuuuh-duh. Duuh-duh.
As Arthur Miller said, "it is a trait we inherited from them, and it has helped to discipline us well to breed hypocrisy among us." Respected and even feared, we have come to regard ourselves as a kind of fraud, and we're terrified of being found out.
Because, "there are aspects to all of us that, if they were exposed to a harsh or unsympathetic critic, would result in sever humiliation and mockery . . . From close up, we are, none of us, reliably impressive. We get agitated, fretful, cantankerous, and panicky. Under the pressure of events, we shout, slam doors, let out screams, or wails" (via).
We are clumsy and constantly worried about how others will see us, how and where our careers and families are going, and we worry that we may not be loved (or loved the right way), all the while, forgetting to love, give, and think of others.
Just like the Puritans (duuh-duh),
It's no surprise, then, that, because of our hypocrisy, we struggle to gain and keep sincere relationships: because we don't quite grasp the importance of vulnerability.
There are moments where the revelation of weakness, far from being a catastrophe, is the only possible root to connection and respect. At points, we may dare to explain, with rare frankness, that we are afraid, we are sometimes bad, and that we have done many silly things. And rather than appalling our companions, these revelations may serve to endear us to them, humanizing us in their eyes, and letting them feel that their own vulnerabilities have echoes in the lives of others.
Vulnerability can be a bedrock of friendship. Friendship properly understood, not just or primarily as a process of admiration, but as an exchange of sympathy and consolation for the troublesome business of being alive.
Why don't we do this? Why don't I do this?
Because swimming naked in deep, dark water is dangerous. Better to stay on the beach and get defensive, to find ways my wife has hurt or failed me so I can quickly cover my inadequicies and truly unimpressive self with excuses and stories.
Fortunately for me though, my wife is a terrible Puritan.
In the midst of my selfish rants, my wife will often take a risk and become vulnerable. With tears in her eyes, she will apologize, and when I don' hear it for what it is, she apologizes again - even for things that aren't completely her fault, and completely disarms the situation. Suddenly, everything changes. Suddenly, my need to be good and perfect and strong seem petty and stupid and completely selfish. Suddenly, instead of moving further away, we come move closer and begin to share and acknowledge the troublesome business of being human, together, neither caring who is right and who is wrong.
This vulnerability, this willingness and ability to admit fault and seek forgiveness is our "washing away of sins" that keeps us from the vicious pits of hypocrisy. We are all wounded, worried, and damaged. Pretending not to be is mere pretense, and it is a denial of our membership of the human race. A human race full of imperfections and blemishes that are just waiting to be revealed and then forgiven.
It is something of {major} tragedy that we should spend so much of our lives striving to hide our weakness when it is in fact only upon the dignified sharing of our {failures} that true friendship and love can arise."
Only then, will we no longer hear the music.
Refugees, primarily from Syria, Afghanistan and Iraq prepare to board a train at a refugee transit camp, or reception center for refugees and migrants, in Gevgelija, Macedonia on October 2, 2015.
The refugee crisis is inescapable in today’s news. Striking visuals emerging from Europe, the Middle East, and Africa illustrate a story of both desperation and hope. These images allow viewers to stand for a moment alongside migrants and refugees fleeing their home countries in search of a new life and new opportunities.
Refugees and migrants enter a registration and transit center in Opatovac, Croatia, on October 7, 2015. Approximately 4000-5000 people, mostly from Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria, pass through this border town every day on their way to Western Europe.
On November 14-15, the Tufts Institute for Global Leadership (IGL) and VII Photo Agency mark 10 years of collaboration with a series of seminars and workshops at VII Perspectives: Migration. VII founder and Chair of IGL’s Program for Narrative and Documentary Practice, Gary Knight, will be joined by leading VII photojournalists for two days of dialogue and hands-on experience. A selection of several of the photographers’ work on the refugee crisis is highlighted below (via).
One thousand migrants and refugees from countries including Iraq, Syria, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, as well as regions of the Balkans and Africa at an emergency shelter at Olympia Stadiom in Berlin, Germany on September 24, 2015.
Ashley Gilbertson’s images capture refugees – mostly from Iraq, Syria, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, as well as regions of the Balkans and Africa – on their way into and through Europe during September 2015.
The exodus of people from Africa, Central Asia, and the Middle East to Europe is the largest movement of people since World War II. Working in the refugee transit centers, which see thousands of people daily, the photographer notes that conditions at some of the camps are getting slightly better. However, some conditions – such as five hour train rides packed so tightly there is no room to move beyond the spot people are standing – reflect challenges in addressing the scale of the crisis.
Refugees primarily from Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan are called to by volunteers as they land near Scala, on the island of Lesvos, Greece on September 30, 2015.
Refugees primarily from Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan are helped by volunteers as they disembark boats near Scala, on the island of Lesvos, Greece on September 30, 2015. The Agean sea is particularly rough, with the first signs of winter storms beginning today. Many refugees were sea sick, some to the point of life threatening conditions due to dehydration and cold.
Kadoni Kinan, 26, a volunteer, helps a young Syrian boy as he disembarks a boat near Scala, on the island of Lesvos, Greece on September 30, 2015. Kadoni Kinan left his home in Saragep, Syria five years ago. Kinan successfully filed for refugee status, and today lives in Belgium, where he studies Flemish at school and volunteers for the Red Cross.
In November 2013, photographer Ed Kashi went to Iraq and Jordan, working with the International Medical Corps (IMC). IMC is a humanitarian non-profit organization that provides aid and relief to those affected by conflict and crisis.
The photographer’s work reflects IMC’s efforts to increase awareness and improve not only the physical, but also the mental health of young refugees plagued by depression, fear, suffering, and the sense of a life turned upside down. His images intimately llustrates the plight of this lost generation.
Children gather in an enclave of tents at the Al Za'atri refugee camp for Syrians near Mafraq, Jordan on Nov. 25, 2013.
A young girl enjoys a lollipop while watching shoppers in the Domiz Camp for Syrian Refugees just outside of Dohuk, Iraq on Nov. 23, 2013.
Refugees walk through the overcrowded Al Za'atri refugee camp for Syrians, near Mafraq, Jordan on Nov. 17, 2013. There, International Medical Corps, IMC, is pushing to increase awareness and improve not only the physical, but also the mental health of young refugees plagued by depression, fear, suffering, and the sense of a life turned upside down.
Photos by Ron Haviv
Like Maciek Nabrdalik’s, this selection of Ron Haviv’s photographs are centered on the Lesvos, Greece. There, he has captured the work of volunteers helping refugees to arrive safely, as well as the migrants’ journey once they have made it to shore.
A refugees looks towards Turkey after arriving on the Greek island of Lesbos.
Refugees arrive on the Greek island of Lesbos.
A Spanish volunteer lifeguard helps refugees arrive on the Greek island of Lesbos.
While looking at these images of hope and love, I couldn't help but think, "Where is America?"
Then I remembered. We're building walls.
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A typical classroom possess an endless variety of instructional strategies, assessment types, and teacher caps that service the needs of the vast variety of students and all their quirks, personalities, and interests.
Then, after months of sweat and toil and learning everything is stripped down and discolored into a standardized test. A test which "may help us learn a little about a lot of people in a short time, but they usually can’t tell us a lot about a single person."
And t's been going on for thousands of years.
Think of a standardized test as a rule. A ruler’s usefulness depends on two things: First, the job we ask it to do. Our ruler can’t measure the temperature outside or how loud someone is singing. Second, the ruler’s usefulness depends on its design.
Rulers can’t measure the circumfrince of an orange, only length, because the ruler doesn’t have the flexibility required for the task at hand. “So, if standardized tests are given the wrong job or aren’t designed properly, they may end up measuring the wrong things.”
Like a child’s grasp of literacy or cultural familiarity, rather than their understanding of the content at hand.
Standardized tests can also have a hard time measuring abstract characteristics or skills such as creativity, critical thinking, and collaboration.
Perhaps the most crucial skills required and needed in our world today and in the future.
It's like measuring the hight and weight of an athlete, rather than their actual play, and deciding if they'd make the team or not.
It's passing the students who writes brilliant essays by skimming the text yet failing the ones who cry when Piggy dies because they forget to turn in their homework.
This, according to Sir Ken Robinson, is what's killing creativity and, possibly, the future.
Our only hope for the future is to adapt a new conception of human ecology, one in which we start to reconstitute ourselves of the richness of human capacity. Our education system has mined our minds in the same way that we've strip-mined the Earth for a particular commodity, and for the future, it won't service. We have to rethink the fundamentals with which we are educating our children.
We have to use {human imagination} wisely . . . and see our creative capacities for the richness they are, and seeing our children for the hope that they are."
A hope that can't be measured with rulers or dots on paper.
"The hardest part of learning something new isn't embracing new ideas, but letting go of old ones."
So what if we get rid of standardized tests? What do we replace it with?
Is the education then left to the teachers? Administrators? Is there no longer any accountability and everyone is free to teach and learn and grow (or not) as they please?
Just because it has been thousand years of standardized tests, does that mean we should get rid of it?
If so, what? What do we fill it with?
Sir Ken is fully inspiring and completely spot-on, and he never once mentions standardized testing. Is simply investing in the arts the answer?
How can we truly measure all that humanity has to offer?
How do we quantify creativity, ingenuity, and relationships? How do we measure humanity?
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-N- Stuff : On Creativity : Don't do homework, publish! : Smartest Kids in the World
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Ever since I was a child, I wanted to travel the world on barge. This video makes the regret palpable.
Jeffrey Tsang is a maritime vlogger, sailor, and photographer on a container ship that travels across the globe. His latest video is a timelapse that captures 30 days of the barge’s journey, tracing its path from the Red Sea all the way to Hong Kong. The 4K video is composed of nearly 80,000 photos which capture breathtaking views of quickly shifting skies, deep red sunsets, and brilliant blue lightening amidst ferocious storms (via).
“Sailing in the open sea is a truly unique way to grasp how significantly small we are in the beautiful world,” says the Canadian photographer. “Chasing the endless horizon, witnessing the ever changing weather, and appreciating the bright stars and galaxies.”
Pay attention, too, to the small captions at the bottom. Pretty great stuff.
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-N- Stuff : Getting Out More : A Peace with the Storm : Cycling to the tip of South America
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These three videos have stolen my attention for the last several days, and not only because I love these songs, but because of their interwoven stories and their wrestling with the effects of simple choices.
Like a battered wife wondering when to leave and find home at last because,
The strangers in this town,
They raise you up just to cut you down
Oh Angela it's a long time coming
Let the exits pass, all the tar and glass
'Til the road and sky align
Notice the taxi at the end?
It's driven by a mother whose wrestling with loneliness and who could have had the love of her life but couldn't. Because of a black dress and her father in a casket.
So I drive a taxi, and the traffic distracts me
From the strangers in my backseat, they remind me of you
But I was late for this, late for that, late for the love of my life
And when I die alone, when I die alone, when I die I'll be on time
But what if?
What if we pack a toothbrush, take a withdrawal slip, and take all of our savings out?
What if we rail against our dying day?
Cause if we don't leave now, we might never make it out.
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Yesterday, all day, Judah missed his home, China. He missed his teachers, his friends, his room, his house, and his neighborhood. From the moment he got up to well after he should have been asleep, China was on his mind. He even asked if we would consider moving back, "Because it's home," he explained, "And it's better than America."
So, naturally, I asked if I could take his picture. "Why?" he asked.
"Because I think it's good to remember the hard times too." Then, we spent the evening writing old friends and reminiscing about our days in China. Judah said it all just felt like one long dream.
Then today, things were better, but I couldn't stop thinking about some of our discussions and how, within a few months, Judah's memory of China had changed so much. It wasn't that he ever hated China, it was just that he was so excited to be here, in America, with green grass, beautiful skies, and several planned camping adventures.
So, out of curiosity, I looked up how many days he and I have been back in the US: 87. Then, I looked up day 87 on my "Last Hundred Days of China" countdown.
Here's what I found:
When it's not always raining there'll be days like this
When there's no one complaining there'll be days like this
When everything falls into place like the flick of a switch
Well my mama told me there'll be days like this
This evening, when I sat down to write, these lyrics, "There'll be days like, there'll be days like this" ran through my head and I had to look it up. I didn't know it was a Van Morrison song, but I recognized the tune. The lyrics also seemed appropriate.
Working and living in a small community, at times, is like living in a crawl space; it's confining, dark, and it stinks. There aren't many days like this, but when there are, like a thick blanket of pollution that steals away the joy of the sun, they're suffocating.
When everyone is up front and they're not playing tricks
When you don't have no freeloaders out to get their kicks
When it's nobody's business the way that you wanna live
I just have to remember there'll be days like this
I've been wrestling with several ideas this past week, ideas about unity and thoughtful disagreements and how to be promotors of the Faith through mindful discussions, but very limited time to actually write them out. I've also been wanting to document my final days in this country I've loved and lived and worked in for just under five years. I've been trying to find a balance between working hard, leaving well, having a baby, loving my kids, finding a job, serving my wife, and maintaining my sanity; I've been trying not to check out early (as I am often prone to do) and be present, to keep investing.
When no one steps on my dreams there'll be days like this
When people understand what I mean there'll be days like this
When you ring out the changes of how everything is
Well my mama told me there'll be days like this
But days like these have me wanting to pack my bags and leave it all behind (minus the baby, kids, and Momma of course . . . and perhaps a few books).
Oh my mama told me
There'll be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There'll be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There'll be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There'll be days like this
Days like this. I want to remind myself of days like this because, as much as I love China and my job and the people I work with and the people I meet on the streets, I also want the last 100 days of me being here to be appropriately represented, not fabricated or dishonest. I want it to be a true goodbye.
Right now, Josey and I are battling the tendency of accidentally making America heaven. The "Just wait till we get to America," or, "In America we'll . . ." but they come without warning and bring great devastation because America isn't the promised land, and our baggage and weaknesses and faults will hop on the plane with us. We will still have days like this.
But I also don't want to look back and read through this blog and think, "Wow, in China, there was no hurt, no struggles, and no broken relationships. It was heaven!" Because it isn't.
Leaving well, I think, also means leaving honest. It means reconciling what can be, affirming those we'll miss, and nodding at the things we won't, with a sort of, "It's okay, really, but goodbye" sort of understanding and a no-hard-feelings handshake. Literally, and metaphorically.
I'm not there yet, ready to say goodbye with a good attitude, but I hope to be. That's even why I started this 100 Days thing . . . to walk through the process of saying goodbye, and to one day be able to look back and remember. All of it.
The beauty and the pain. The joys and the sorrow. The triumphs. The disappointments.
The days like this.
Reading it again today was encouraging, but also enlightening. Especially when compared to a small posting by Retro Ramblings and their remembrance of "When eating at Pizza Hut was an experience."
I miss the “glory days” of Pizza Hut. That magical time in the 80’s and early 90’s when it was a destination, and not just somewhere to eat. I’ve found recently that those days of yore are long gone, and what is left is what seems like a company struggling to hang on . . .
From the moment you walked in the place, you knew it was something special. You knew this was going to be something you’d remember, and it all started with the decor. The interior didn’t look like a fast food joint with it’s huge, sprawling windows, and cheap looking walls, or tiled floors. When you walked in, you were greeted by brick walls, with smaller windows, that had thick red fabric curtains pulled back, and a carpeted floor. It just felt higher-class than walking into McDonalds or Burger King.
The booths were high-backed, with thick padded vinyl seats and back rests. The high backs was also different from your usual eating out experience. These high backs gave you a sense of privacy, which was great for a date night. Also great for a date night were the candles on the tables. Those little red glass candles that were on every table, and were lit when you got to your seat. It was a little thing, but when added to everything else, it was quite the contribution. Your silverware was wrapped in a thick, cloth napkin that beat the heck out of the paper napkins everyone else was using at the time. And you could always count on the table being covered by a nice, red and white, checkered table cloth.
Exactly. For me Pizza Hut was one of the first places I was allowed to go to without parents, which meant traveling a few miles away from home and entering the dark adult world where my friends and I could get lost in those high-backed benches and our own personal-panned pizzas. Remember those? How you could earn a free one just for reading a few books? I never read any but I sure had more than a few free four-sliced pizzas.
Also, there was this: "The arcade game they featured at my local Pizza Hut, and I believe most of them is kind of iconic in it’s own way. It was a machine that featured two games. Mrs. Pac-Man and Galaga. The unique feature was that it was a sit down cabinet, with a chair on each side in which you and a partner / opponent could both sit comfortably and play."
It's easy, I think, to look back on the "glory days" of years past and remember how great it was, mainly because we tend to forget how shitty it was.
It's also easy to always want and anticipate what's next because, like America from China, it can't be anything but perfect.
Yet, we allow both to completely steal from the now.
In a recounting of the time she almost cheated on her husband and ruined her marriage, Jane Green has this to say about life in the past, present, and future.
"The grass isn't always greener on the other side. The grass is greener where you water it."
It's always good to remember those we've known and loved and the places we've seen and miss. It's also important to dream, to know where you want to go, and to strive and work at achieving those goals. But spinning the record too fast will bring us to the end too soon.
Today, I've been given right now, and although there's pain and sadness and longings for things past and things to come, the music playing is still pretty damn good. And whenever I stop long enough to actually listen it, pretty quickly I realize the song that is playing is actually really, really good.
I just need to turn up the volume.
The Atlantic has just put up a previously unpublished short story by Kurt Vonnegut, The Drone King. It’s about bees.
He examined the card for a long time. “Yes,” he said at last. “Mr. Quick is expecting you. You’ll find him in the small library — second door on the left, by the grandfather clock.”
“Thank you,” I said, and I started past him.
He caught my sleeve. “Sir—”
“Yes?,” I said.
“You aren’t wearing a boutonniere, are you?”
“No,” I said guiltily. “Should I be?”
“If you were,” he said, “I’d have to ask you to check it. No women or flowers allowed past the front desk.”
I paused by the door of the small library. “Say,” I said, “you know this clock has stopped?”
“Mr. Quick stopped it the night Calvin Coolidge died,” he said.
I blushed. “Sorry,” I said.
“We all are,” he said. “But what can anyone do?”
An audio version of the article is available.
The story is one of five that Vonnegut wrote in the early 1950s that were recently discovered in the author’s papers. These five, plus all of Vonnegut’s other short stories, will be out in book form later this month.
* This post was cut and pasted from kottke.org
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How does one person’s actions influence the next person’s actions in a shared space? Sol LeWitt’s wall drawings explore this intricate visual butterfly effect in the collaborative art entitled Wall Drawing 797, a conceptual piece that can be drawn by following LeWitt’s instructions. (He died in 2007.)
Scandinavian countries call it the "red thread," the thing that ties all of us together in theme, message, and purpose.
The first drafter has a black marker and makes an irregular horizontal line near the top of the wall. Then the second drafter tries to copy it (without touching it) using a red marker. The third drafter does the same, using a yellow marker. The fourth drafter does the same using a blue marker. Then the second drafter followed by the third and fourth copies the last line drawn until the bottom of the wall is reached.
The drawing was conceived with student participation in mind and was first executed by four Amherst College sculpture students. "The wall drawing represents a return to the linear repetition that Sol LeWitt explored in his wall drawings of the late 1960s and 1970s. The instructions for the drawing direct draftsmen to copy, without touching, the line made by the previous draftsman. The repeated process becomes an exploration of the intricacies of the line. This reflects LeWitt’s belief that the draftsman’s contributions are unable to be predicted by the artist . As the draftsman repeatedly copies the line, it becomes drastically altered from its original state, and the smooth original line becomes more and more nervous as it is redrawn."
Before drawing the initial line, the head draftsman drew test lines on paper and copied them in order to see how the different lines would evolve. The line that he eventually chose to draw in black marker on the wall was inspired by the hills of the surrounding Berkshires landscape. Each copy of this undulating line took the draftsman between ten and twenty minutes to execute. The process of copying takes intense focus. If draftsmen feel that they are about to lose focus and deviate from the previous line, they take a break, making sure to start at the exact spot from which they lifted the marker.
I have a giant wall, both in my classroom and in my house. Kinda want to draw a thick black line and see what happens. Maybe an Art Starts?
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“Humans of New York began as a photography project in 2010. The initial goal was to photograph 10,000 New Yorkers on the street, and create an exhaustive catalogue of the city’s inhabitants" (via). Since then, it has become one of the most popular ongoing documentaries of humanity, expanding over twenty different countries, and gaining over 18 million followers world wide.
Recently, the premiere episode of Humans of New York aired. Filmed over four years with more than 1200 interviews, BRANDON STANTON is sharing the lives of the people of New York, one story at a time (via).
"These stories focus on specific populations, examining their experiences and the challenges that they face" (via), which is both encouraging and heartbreaking.
Encouraging because we can be reminded that we are not alone in our hardships and difficulties, and heartbreaking because they are us and we are them. And when they ache, we all ache.
Or, at least we should.
You can follow Brandon Stanton and the humans of New York on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
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-N- Stuff : Humanity : Regular People, like us : Real People, Real Stories
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"It's about exploring the limits of what we can do . . . It just depends on how much you want it."
"It would be easy for me to just be bummed out on {spina bifida}, but for me I just found the positive . . . It's wheels, stuck to your butt. How is that not a great time?
The wheelchair is a great opportunity"
"It's a trail for one who wants to be in fellowship with nature. No matter whether your running it, or walking it, or you're taking ten years to do it. When you're walking that trail you have a vibe, and you feel it."
"You've got bigger balls then most of the men!"
"You have to keep going because you have a collective responsibility and you don't want to let the team down."
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-N- Stuff : Humanity : Life of Adventure : Great Big Stories
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Our core needs are simpler than we're lead to and choose to believe. In reality, we can do with a lot less in our lives. Our hearts and minds have "become dominated by the fear of losing, or never getting things that we could, in fact, do perfectly well without."
Josey (@storyanthology) started posting "we don't have (blank)" pictures as a joke at first, because we truly don't have much, but then, as we thought more about it, we decided to embrace it, because there is something there. A reminder, perhaps, that we're okay without all those things, even though they'd be nice to have, because they're just not needed.
As long as we have each other.
Last night was our first night in our new home. We've been slowly moving in all week, but with Judah away for a two-night school trip, we decided to wait till Friday for the official ceremony.
The first night felt like camping; the first full day felt like the very opposite of camping. It felt like work. Hard work. And a whole lot of selfishness.
Just before Judah left for Malo Camp, we sat them down with ice cream and thanked them for their flexibility and easy attitudes because, truly, they have been pretty great. They've moved from room to room and house to house all summer long, they've shared a king bed since school started, have had to brave new schools, and are now moving away from Grammy and Pappa's house and all that they know. Life has been a shaken rug for them, and they've endured it and embraced it with smiles and obedience, even though, at times, tears run from their eyes.
But this morning, I didn't care about any of that. All I cared about was getting work done and working hard, with a good attitude of course. Judah had other plans, and from the beginning, he and I butted heads. By 2pm, I had had enough.
Ever since this house became an option for us, I've looked forward to the day we would move in. I envisioned us sleeping on the floor together, watching a movie and making a memory, and I fantasized about the good time we would share making this place our home.
I envisioned a blog post about family and beauty of creating something together. When it became abundantly clear that it wasn't going to happen, I found my spirits flailing, my temper shortening, and Judah sitting next to me while I drove to Home Depot, listening to me yell about respect, role of family, and the characteristics of men. When he started to cry, I made things worse. "Stop crying," I yelled, "You are a ten year old boy, you don't need to cry about consequences that you rightly deserve" (I don't write these words proudly, just honestly).
He choked back his tears and tightened his jaw as I pulled into my parking spot. "Stay here," I said, "And when I come back, I want to hear an explanation for your actions." I closed the door then poked my head through the window, "And I don't want to hear, 'I don't know.'"
What I really wanted to do was spank his little butt until this attitude left or cowed into submission, but I knew that was wrong and probably wouldn't help. An afternoon of hard work, however, could accomplish much the same, so I bought him a pair of gloves and a long scraper, and by the time I got back into the van, I was a bit calmer and Judah had an answer: he was tired from Malo Camp.
"So Malo Camp is to blame for your attitude today?" I asked.
"No," he said, "I'm just more frustrated than normal, because I'm tired." He looked me in the eye, "Don't you act different when you're tired?" and my heart sunk.
Since school started, we've been non-stop, working late evenings, living in two homes, wrestling with new schedules, bills, and emotions of moving, new schools, and life. We are exhausted, and I have been more than just a little impatient and "different."
"Yes," I said, feeling like a bucket of ice water had just been dumped on my head, "I do." Then it was my turn to apologize.
Some of the best memories I have growing up are from the times when I got into deep and serious trouble. Some of my worst memories are from those times as well, but looking back now, as a father, I can give a bit more grace to my dad for not always acting and doing the right and perfect thing (hopefully, someday, Judah will too). However, the times where my dad did take the time to be with me and not merely punish were the best. I remember splitting wood, working in the garage, and going fishing with my dad as all part of my punishment, and I could not be more grateful for those times because not only did they teach me how to work hard and endure, but they also taught me that my dad loves me, that he likes me, and that he truly and sincerely does care and want what's best for me.
So I put Judah to work scraping the back room of our new home. Beneath a sort of padded flooring is tile, and for almost five hours, Judah scraped and pulled and cleaned the floor while the rest of us worked on the house. Whenever he asked me for help because a particular section was too hard I told him he had to find a way, "This is your job. It has to be done." And for most all of it, he found a way. Until the end. Which was what I was waiting for. Because it's what my dad taught me. So, for the last bit, we worked together. Me scraping up places where the previous contractor thought it best to lay way too much glue, and Judah clearing away and pulling up pieces of flooring. When it was over, we high-fived and took a break, together.
When Judah's aunt came into the room and congratulated him for all his work, he smiled his bashful smile and said, "Dad helped me too," and my heart was restored. The lessons from my father had passed to my son.
It's a pretty easy habit to get into, pushing everything and everyone away whenever things get hard. Because that seems to simplify things and makes them controllable. Which us why I found myself today, more than once, wanting to push Judah away and not be around him, because I was so friggen frustrated with his attitude and selfish demeanor that I just couldn't handle it!
When I did this at first, our relationship and his attitude didn't improve, it only got worse.
My dad understood this when I was a child so he hung out with me, worked with me, and fished with me. He wasn't this way all the time, but he was this way enough of the time, and that was enough, and it's still enough. Those moments, more than any others, have lasted time, distance, and hardship. Not the great and perfect days, but the imperfect ones, the ones where Dad shrugged of the weight of disappointment and frustration in me and simply loved his son anyway.
Today, for Judah, I hope my scraping away a dirty floor was enough, even though it doesn't feel like it.
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Official sources, like dictionaries, only document currant usage. New words don't originate from above, but ordinary people, spreading words that hit the right combination of useful, and catchy.
Kory Stamper, lexicographer and author of Word by Word, expounds a bit more on dictionaries and the role they play with words:
“Many people believe that the dictionary is some great guardian of the English language, that its job is to set boundaries of decorum around this profligate language like a great linguistic housemother setting curfew. Words that have made it into the dictionary are Official with a capital O, sanctioned, part of Real and Proper English. The corollary is that if certain words are bad, uncouth, unlovely, or distasteful, then folks think that the dictionary will make sure they are never entered into its hallowed pages, and thus are such words banished from Real, Official, Proper English. The language is thus protected, kept right, pure, good. This is commonly called “prescriptivism,” and it is unfortunately not how dictionaries work at all. We don’t just enter the good stuff; we enter the bad and ugly stuff, too. We are just observers, and the goal is to describe, as accurately as possible, as much of the language as we can” (pg 35).
At the heart of it all, it is us - the people - who create language. And this makes sense because like clothing, it's a form of expression and identity. And like clothing, it is ever evolving and molding to who we are, and who we wish to be.
The question is though, which comes first? The chicken or the egg? Do the words help define and create our identity, or does our identity define and create the word?
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-N- Stuff : The Language of Love: When English words aren't enough : What Literature is for
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Brian Rea
I was asked today to check out a band, Manchester Orchestra, and it sent me into a deep spiral where I spent my lunch, planning period, and a decent chunk of my after school time listening to and watching some pretty fantastic music. For most of the day, Shake it Out was one of my favorites.
Until I stumbled across these guys, Seafret. To articulate their brilliance, currently, the only phrase that comes to mind that feels fully sufficient is, "Ho-ly shit."
Not only is their music enticing and lyrics full, their videos are like little movies that I could watch over and over and over again. And then again.
Like this one.
Ho-ly shit, right! Seriously, what else comes to mind? Okay fine, "brilliant" would also work, but it lacks the fireworks.
And speaking of the mind and fireworks, this one is just about the most mind blowing music video I have ever seen.
Prepare yourself.
I just L-O-V-E LOVE this video. The faces, the tangible awkwardness that slowly turns to comfort, intrigue, and a willingness to open up. The sliding of the foot under the table.
There's no place to hide; no tricks to perform. It's just them, talking, and staring into each others eyes.
I love question 31, "Tell your partner something that you like about them already" because we can, that quickly, truly begin to like something about an individual and we can, that quickly, choose to focus on it, grow on it, and love it. And I love that they have to say it, not just think it.
While watching this one, I began to wonder what would happen if I did this with family? With the ones that won't talk to me, and the ones I don't want to talk to? Especially after considering question 35.
Could we choose to love again? After 36 questions, could we find something that we liked about them, something new or something renewed? Or would we choose to cling to what we hate?
But also, and a little further, what if we (everyone) did this with anyone we come into contact with that scares or intimidates us? What if we asked questions instead held judgements? I've only ever really done it once in my life, while visiting Hawaii, and the experience was one of the most profound ever.
But then I stopped. Because sitting and asking questions beyond the norm takes time, effort, and vulnerability, which, for me (and probably for many of us), is completely exhausting. For others, its just terrifying.
But what if we did it anyway? Even if only once and a while, to remind us that with only 36 questions, we can get to know, like, and perhaps even love complete strangers?
What would happen to our world, our countries, and our communities then? What would happen to my family?
Truly, I believe the answer is that we would heal. But who has the time to sit and talk that long?
The 36 questions are as follows:
1. Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?
2. Would you like to be famous? In what way?
3. Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?
4. What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?
5. When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?
6. If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?
7. Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?
8. Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.
9. For what in your life do you feel most grateful?
10. If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?
11. Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.
12. If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?
13. If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?
14. Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?
15. What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?
16. What do you value most in a friendship?
17. What is your most treasured memory?
18. What is your most terrible memory?
19. If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?
20. What does friendship mean to you?
21. What roles do love and affection play in your life?
22. Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.
23. How close and warm is your family? Do you feel your childhood was happier than most other people’s?
24. How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?
25. Make three true “we” statements each. For instance, “We are both in this room feeling …”
26. Complete this sentence: “I wish I had someone with whom I could share …”
27. If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know.
28. Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you’ve just met.
29. Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.
30. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?
31. Tell your partner something that you like about them already.
32. What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?
33. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?
34. Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?
35. Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?
36. Share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how he or she might handle it. Also, ask your partner to reflect back to you how you seem to be feeling about the problem you have chosen.
The 36 questions that can make you “fall in love with anyone” were first published in 1997, in an academic paper by psychologist Arthur Aron and others, under the title The Experimental Generation of Interpersonal Closeness: A Procedure and Some Preliminary Findings. The questions appeared in the appendix, along with the instructions that the team had given each pair, which began “This is a study of interpersonal closeness, and your task, which we think will be quite enjoyable, is simply to get close to your partner.” Participants were told to work their way through the questions in order, each answering all 36 questions, over a period of about an hour. Six months later, two of the participants were married to each other (via).
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In late 1997, a runaway teenager and her yellow toy robot travel west through a strange USA, where the ruins of gigantic battle drones litter the countryside heaped together with the discarded trash of a high tech consumerist society in decline. As their car approaches the edge of the continent, the world outside the window seems to be unraveling ever faster as if somewhere beyond the horizon, the hollow core of civilization has finally caved in (via).
Simon Stålenhag is the internationally acclaimed author, concept designer and artist behind Tales from the Loop and Things from the Flood. His highly imaginative images and stories depicting illusive sci-fi phenomena in mundane, hyper-realistic Scandinavian landscapes have made Stålenhag one of the most sought-after visual storytellers in the world.
Now, Stålenhag turns his unique vision to America in a new narrative artbook: The Electric State. With your support, these amazing images will turn into a top-quality narrative artbook, truly doing justice to the extreme attention to detail and quality of Stålenhag's work.
The book will also add Stålenhag's own texts to supplement the images, giving you an even deeper understanding of the universe of The Electric State.
His artwork truly is fascinating and his imagination crisp. Each piece could be a story in and of itself.
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