I have a friend who is a fantastic storyteller. After my mom, he is the best. He went to the New York Public Library today, the City Hall branch, and made these observations:
"Elaine, everyone in the city's crazy. There are too many characters. I got to the library right before it opened and there was a line of people waiting outside. There was this man with a suitcase. Probably carried it with him everywhere. Probably filled with newspapers. Then there was a woman. She had lots of little bags. You start thinking what the hell are people carrying in these bags.
We get inside and one dude falls asleep. Then he farts. And this other dude with big, long hair, he had been there yesterday. He was reading a book called The Curse. I just wonder what they're all doing in the library.
Then some other guy, decent-looking white guy in his sixties with a big belly, he came in with twins. They both had white sneakers, old-man sneakers. They had white, knee-high socks. And short shorts. One twin was wearing blue short shorts and the other red short shorts pulled up to here [indicating an area directly below his pectorals], and white short-sleeved shirts that were tucked in. I thought, man, they're losers. I just didn't get it. How can you dress a kid like that. Like an old man."
28 July 2007
26 July 2007
officer's small
It took man five days to go from Houston to the moon in 1969. It took Swiss Army 34 days to replace the battery in my watch in 2007.
On June 22, I visited the Swiss Army store in SoHo because my watch had stopped. With a straight face, the clerk told me it would take a minimum of four weeks to replace the battery. I didn't ask questions and submitted to the insanity. I left the store with a lightness in my wrist I hadn't felt for 11 years.
For the first two weeks I felt strange and incomplete. I kept glancing at my left wrist only to find a pale oval where my watch once rested. I didn't feel loss. Not the panic of sudden and permanent separation. What I felt was closer to longing, as if my lover had been sent on assignment overseas. By the third week, I learned to tell time by lifting my head and searching for wall clocks, asking other people, and looking at my cell phone. I had grown used to the absence of my watch, but I didn't forget it. Longing turned into missing, as if I was a mother and my children had stopped writing to me from summer camp.
When I finally retrieved my watch, I was surprised by how big its face was. Of course it hadn't grown. That would have been impossible. But the band did hang looser. (Had I lost weight? How had they managed to stretch the metal?) I thought I saw more scratches. (Was it this battered last month? How could I not have noticed?) It felt heavier. It felt like falling in love with an old love all over again.
On June 22, I visited the Swiss Army store in SoHo because my watch had stopped. With a straight face, the clerk told me it would take a minimum of four weeks to replace the battery. I didn't ask questions and submitted to the insanity. I left the store with a lightness in my wrist I hadn't felt for 11 years.
For the first two weeks I felt strange and incomplete. I kept glancing at my left wrist only to find a pale oval where my watch once rested. I didn't feel loss. Not the panic of sudden and permanent separation. What I felt was closer to longing, as if my lover had been sent on assignment overseas. By the third week, I learned to tell time by lifting my head and searching for wall clocks, asking other people, and looking at my cell phone. I had grown used to the absence of my watch, but I didn't forget it. Longing turned into missing, as if I was a mother and my children had stopped writing to me from summer camp.
When I finally retrieved my watch, I was surprised by how big its face was. Of course it hadn't grown. That would have been impossible. But the band did hang looser. (Had I lost weight? How had they managed to stretch the metal?) I thought I saw more scratches. (Was it this battered last month? How could I not have noticed?) It felt heavier. It felt like falling in love with an old love all over again.
20 July 2007
the meaning of present
If you don't believe in a past and you don't believe in a future, then you must be lost, for a present without anchors can only float aimlessly.
If you don't believe in a past and you believe in a future, then the present is like a burden. You are impatient to die.
If you believe in a past and you don't believe in a future, then the present is a pioneer, mitigating the nostalgia for a vanished past and the terror of an uncertain future. Be brave.
If you believe in a past and you believe in a future, then the present is a frontier, the imaginary time delineating your memories and your hopes. When you can remember and still hope is when you know you are in the present.
If you don't believe in a past and you believe in a future, then the present is like a burden. You are impatient to die.
If you believe in a past and you don't believe in a future, then the present is a pioneer, mitigating the nostalgia for a vanished past and the terror of an uncertain future. Be brave.
If you believe in a past and you believe in a future, then the present is a frontier, the imaginary time delineating your memories and your hopes. When you can remember and still hope is when you know you are in the present.
18 July 2007
this is why
Why I love Orhan Pamuk's My Name Is Red:
On my second visit after twelve years, she didn't show herself. She did succeed, however, in so magically endowing me with her presence that I was certain of being, somehow, continually under her watch, while she sized me up as a future husband, amusing herself all the while as if playing a game of logic. Knowing this, I also imagined I was continually able to see her. Thus was I better able to understand Ibn Arabi's notion that love is the ability to make the invisible visible and the desire always to feel the invisible in one's midst. (Black 115)
"It is the story that's essential," our wisest and most Glorious Sultan had said. "A beautiful illustration elegantly completes the story. An illustration that does not complement a story, in the end, will become but a false idol. Since we cannot possibly believe in an absent story, we will naturally begin believing in the picture itself. This would be no different than the worship of idols in the Kaaba that went on before Our Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, had destroyed them. If not as part of a story, how would you propose to depict this red carnation, for example, or that insolent dwarf over there?" (Black 109)
"To God belongs the East and the West. May He protect us from the will of the pure and unadulterated." (Enishte Effendi 161)
Seeing a woman's bare face, speaking to her, and witnessing her humanity opens the way to both pangs of lust and deep spiritual pain in us men, and thus the best of all alternatives is not to lay eyes on women, especially pretty women, without first being lawfully wed, as our noble faith dictates. The sole remedy for carnal desires is to seek out the friendship of beautiful boys, a satisfactory surrogate for females, and in due time, this, too, becomes a sweet habit. In the cities of the European Franks, women roam about exposing not only their faces, but also their brightly shining hair (after their necks, their most attractive feature), their arms, their beautiful throats, and even, if what I've heard is true, a portion of their gorgeous legs; as a result, the men of those cities walk about with great difficulty, embarrassed and in extreme pain, because, you see, their front sides are always erect and this fact naturally leads to the paralysis of their society. Undoubtedly, this is why each day the Frank infidel surrenders another fortress to us Ottomans. (Storyteller 353)
"My mother, may she rest in peace, was more intelligent than my father," I said. "One night I was at home, in tears, determined never again to return to the workshop because I was daunted not only by Master Osman's beatings, but by those of the other harsh and irritable masters and by those of the devision head who always intimidated us with a ruler. In consolation, my dearly departed mother advised me that there were two types of people in the world: those who were cowed and crushed by their childhood beatings, forever downtrodden, she said, because the beatings had the desired effect of killing the inner devils; and those fortunate ones for whom the beatings frightened and tamed the devil within without killing him off. Though the latter group would never forget these painful childhood memories—she'd warned me not to tell this to anybody—the beatings would in time enable them to develop cunning, to fathom the unknown, to make friends, to identify enemies, to sense plots beings hatched behind their backs and, let me hasten to add, to paint better than anyone else. Because I wasn't able to draw the branches of a tree harmoniously, Master Osman would slap me so hard that, amid bitter tears, forests would burgeon before me. After angrily striking me in the head because I couldn't see the errors at the bottoms of pages, he lovingly took up a mirror and placed it before the page so I could see the work as if for the first time. Then pressing his cheek to mine, he so lovingly identified the mistakes that magically appeared in the mirror image of the picture that I never forgot either the love or the ritual. The morning after a night spent weeping in my bed, my pride violated because he chastised me with a ruler before everyone, he came ad kissed my arms so tenderly that I passionately knew I'd one day become a legendary miniaturist. Nay, it was not I who drew that horse." (Olive 377)
As she recounted, I thought about where my unfortunate father was. Learning that the murderer had received his due punishment at first put my fears to rest. And revenge lent me a feeling of comfort and justice. At that instant, I wondered intensely whether my now-dead father could experience this feeling; suddenly, it seemed to me that the entire world was like a palace with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another. We were able to pass from one room to the next only by exercising our memories and imaginations, but most of us, in our laziness, rarely exercised these capacities, and forever remained in the same room. (Shekure 407)
No more. Or I shall give everything away!
On my second visit after twelve years, she didn't show herself. She did succeed, however, in so magically endowing me with her presence that I was certain of being, somehow, continually under her watch, while she sized me up as a future husband, amusing herself all the while as if playing a game of logic. Knowing this, I also imagined I was continually able to see her. Thus was I better able to understand Ibn Arabi's notion that love is the ability to make the invisible visible and the desire always to feel the invisible in one's midst. (Black 115)
"It is the story that's essential," our wisest and most Glorious Sultan had said. "A beautiful illustration elegantly completes the story. An illustration that does not complement a story, in the end, will become but a false idol. Since we cannot possibly believe in an absent story, we will naturally begin believing in the picture itself. This would be no different than the worship of idols in the Kaaba that went on before Our Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, had destroyed them. If not as part of a story, how would you propose to depict this red carnation, for example, or that insolent dwarf over there?" (Black 109)
"To God belongs the East and the West. May He protect us from the will of the pure and unadulterated." (Enishte Effendi 161)
Seeing a woman's bare face, speaking to her, and witnessing her humanity opens the way to both pangs of lust and deep spiritual pain in us men, and thus the best of all alternatives is not to lay eyes on women, especially pretty women, without first being lawfully wed, as our noble faith dictates. The sole remedy for carnal desires is to seek out the friendship of beautiful boys, a satisfactory surrogate for females, and in due time, this, too, becomes a sweet habit. In the cities of the European Franks, women roam about exposing not only their faces, but also their brightly shining hair (after their necks, their most attractive feature), their arms, their beautiful throats, and even, if what I've heard is true, a portion of their gorgeous legs; as a result, the men of those cities walk about with great difficulty, embarrassed and in extreme pain, because, you see, their front sides are always erect and this fact naturally leads to the paralysis of their society. Undoubtedly, this is why each day the Frank infidel surrenders another fortress to us Ottomans. (Storyteller 353)
"My mother, may she rest in peace, was more intelligent than my father," I said. "One night I was at home, in tears, determined never again to return to the workshop because I was daunted not only by Master Osman's beatings, but by those of the other harsh and irritable masters and by those of the devision head who always intimidated us with a ruler. In consolation, my dearly departed mother advised me that there were two types of people in the world: those who were cowed and crushed by their childhood beatings, forever downtrodden, she said, because the beatings had the desired effect of killing the inner devils; and those fortunate ones for whom the beatings frightened and tamed the devil within without killing him off. Though the latter group would never forget these painful childhood memories—she'd warned me not to tell this to anybody—the beatings would in time enable them to develop cunning, to fathom the unknown, to make friends, to identify enemies, to sense plots beings hatched behind their backs and, let me hasten to add, to paint better than anyone else. Because I wasn't able to draw the branches of a tree harmoniously, Master Osman would slap me so hard that, amid bitter tears, forests would burgeon before me. After angrily striking me in the head because I couldn't see the errors at the bottoms of pages, he lovingly took up a mirror and placed it before the page so I could see the work as if for the first time. Then pressing his cheek to mine, he so lovingly identified the mistakes that magically appeared in the mirror image of the picture that I never forgot either the love or the ritual. The morning after a night spent weeping in my bed, my pride violated because he chastised me with a ruler before everyone, he came ad kissed my arms so tenderly that I passionately knew I'd one day become a legendary miniaturist. Nay, it was not I who drew that horse." (Olive 377)
As she recounted, I thought about where my unfortunate father was. Learning that the murderer had received his due punishment at first put my fears to rest. And revenge lent me a feeling of comfort and justice. At that instant, I wondered intensely whether my now-dead father could experience this feeling; suddenly, it seemed to me that the entire world was like a palace with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another. We were able to pass from one room to the next only by exercising our memories and imaginations, but most of us, in our laziness, rarely exercised these capacities, and forever remained in the same room. (Shekure 407)
No more. Or I shall give everything away!
16 July 2007
2007 saja convention
I attended a conference organized by the South Asian Journalists Association on July 12–15. Here are some of the things I heard and learned:
"Learning a skill doesn't count until you do something with it."
"Become a better writer by reading."
A good story should be internally cohesive, have good transitions, and contain a healthy dose of suspense.
"Old news" that follows the inverted triangle model is only good if it is explanatory. "New news" need not review the whos, whats, whens, wheres, and hows of a story, but instead should be forward looking; it should answer the question, "So what?"
"Write a headline in your mind. Ask yourself, What is this story about?"
Interview, research, and writing are essential journalism skills across all specialties. Also, be well-read and knowledgeable. This will be a fount for ideas and provide direction.
Differentiate pitches, as you would your resume based on the organization you are applying to. Practice the "art of the possible." Ask what is possible, logistically, economically, and otherwise.
Be mindful of proportions when it comes to digesting news: "be informed but not consumed."
Quotes can be dangerous. In representing another person's way of speaking, we can reveal our own biases. Use quotes to illuminate the way someone thinks, the way someone talks, and to show something characteristic about that person or his personality.
"We've programmed our own audience. We've lowered their expectations." (Bill Weir)
"We give them too much of what they want and not enough of what we need." (Bill Weir paraphrasing Charlie Gibbson)
"Whatever your story is, it's a great one." Find the right buyer later.
Let your cultural identity be your opportunity, not your opponent. You are not defined by your cultural identity or membership in elite institutions. You are defined by the quality of your work. Your cultural identity accords you an outsider status that will allow you to be impartial and insightful. Let your strength be your ability to see across continents. Let your creativity stem from a balance of fear and curiosity. (Martin Bashir)
Negative space is useful for the eyes to rest on, and then move on to the rest of the page.
A designer is concerned with aesthetics; an editor with a customer's perception and cost; and the reader with the ease of use or functionality.
Principles of Good Design:
Visibility. The user can tell how to operate the device, and what it is currently doing, just by looking at it.
Mental Model. The designer provides a clear conceptual model of how the device works.
Good Mappings. The user can determine the relationship between controls and their effects.
Feedback. The user receives full and continuous feedback about the results of his or her actions.
(Adapted from The Design of Everyday Things by Donald Norman.)
"Learning a skill doesn't count until you do something with it."
"Become a better writer by reading."
A good story should be internally cohesive, have good transitions, and contain a healthy dose of suspense.
"Old news" that follows the inverted triangle model is only good if it is explanatory. "New news" need not review the whos, whats, whens, wheres, and hows of a story, but instead should be forward looking; it should answer the question, "So what?"
"Write a headline in your mind. Ask yourself, What is this story about?"
Interview, research, and writing are essential journalism skills across all specialties. Also, be well-read and knowledgeable. This will be a fount for ideas and provide direction.
Differentiate pitches, as you would your resume based on the organization you are applying to. Practice the "art of the possible." Ask what is possible, logistically, economically, and otherwise.
Be mindful of proportions when it comes to digesting news: "be informed but not consumed."
Quotes can be dangerous. In representing another person's way of speaking, we can reveal our own biases. Use quotes to illuminate the way someone thinks, the way someone talks, and to show something characteristic about that person or his personality.
"We've programmed our own audience. We've lowered their expectations." (Bill Weir)
"We give them too much of what they want and not enough of what we need." (Bill Weir paraphrasing Charlie Gibbson)
"Whatever your story is, it's a great one." Find the right buyer later.
Let your cultural identity be your opportunity, not your opponent. You are not defined by your cultural identity or membership in elite institutions. You are defined by the quality of your work. Your cultural identity accords you an outsider status that will allow you to be impartial and insightful. Let your strength be your ability to see across continents. Let your creativity stem from a balance of fear and curiosity. (Martin Bashir)
Negative space is useful for the eyes to rest on, and then move on to the rest of the page.
A designer is concerned with aesthetics; an editor with a customer's perception and cost; and the reader with the ease of use or functionality.
Principles of Good Design:
Visibility. The user can tell how to operate the device, and what it is currently doing, just by looking at it.
Mental Model. The designer provides a clear conceptual model of how the device works.
Good Mappings. The user can determine the relationship between controls and their effects.
Feedback. The user receives full and continuous feedback about the results of his or her actions.
(Adapted from The Design of Everyday Things by Donald Norman.)
04 July 2007
on forgiveness
When your lover betrays you, how do you forgive?
First, there is no forgiveness, only attempts at forgetting, denying, or rationalizing the cruelty and humiliation you've suffered: Let's not speak of it anymore; let's move on. He could never do that; don't say such lies. He's sorry; he's changed; he didn't mean it; he was drunk; he wasn't thinking clearly; he was confused; he still loves you.
The most spiteful consequence of betrayal is not the hurt feelings from the act itself, but the dehumanizing manner in which your free will has been revoked. In an instant, your ability to be an equal participant in your relationship is ended. You are left with a false choice (if any choice at all): to stay or to leave.
If you stay, and you don't wish to forget, deny, or rationalize, what do you do? If you leave, and you don't wish to forget, deny, or rationalize, what do you do?
I believe betrayal is a brand our lovers burn onto our hides. It serves as a constant reminder and acknowledgment of the offensive act. Nevertheless, we should also be reminded and acknowledge that it is an act that has lived and died in the past, like recalling the incurrence of an injury that has long healed. We need not forgive nor need we spread the betrayal like a cancer and infect our potential for happiness in the present.
First, there is no forgiveness, only attempts at forgetting, denying, or rationalizing the cruelty and humiliation you've suffered: Let's not speak of it anymore; let's move on. He could never do that; don't say such lies. He's sorry; he's changed; he didn't mean it; he was drunk; he wasn't thinking clearly; he was confused; he still loves you.
The most spiteful consequence of betrayal is not the hurt feelings from the act itself, but the dehumanizing manner in which your free will has been revoked. In an instant, your ability to be an equal participant in your relationship is ended. You are left with a false choice (if any choice at all): to stay or to leave.
If you stay, and you don't wish to forget, deny, or rationalize, what do you do? If you leave, and you don't wish to forget, deny, or rationalize, what do you do?
I believe betrayal is a brand our lovers burn onto our hides. It serves as a constant reminder and acknowledgment of the offensive act. Nevertheless, we should also be reminded and acknowledge that it is an act that has lived and died in the past, like recalling the incurrence of an injury that has long healed. We need not forgive nor need we spread the betrayal like a cancer and infect our potential for happiness in the present.
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