“Sure” is officially one of my least favorite words.
At least one of its uses, that is. I have absolutely no problems with it when it’s used in the following context:
“Are you positive John’s going to show up to work tomorrow?”
“I am 100% sure.”
Or
“Are you sure that was Jenny with James?”
“Absolutely”
Using the word sure to mean ‘confident’ doesn’t aggravate me. But then there are these cases:
“Do you want to go out to dinner after work?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Or
“Is it okay if I bring Ellen along?”
“Sure, sure.”
To normal people, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the above sets of dialogue. But, they drive me absolutely mad. I’ve noticed this unnerving sensation a while ago and couldn’t put my fingers on the exact source of the problem. Then, last night, it hit me: I don’t like the non-committal undertone of the word. I think it’s ironic that even though the actual meaning of ‘sure’ is ‘certain’ which is a strong, absolute emotion, it’s often used in cases where one’s trying to say “it’s fine” or “I don’t mind” neither of which are confident phrases.
You might think I’m insane, and it might even be true, but I seem to be surrounded by people who are using ‘sure’ in that very context, continuously. Since I’m an opinionated person, one would think I’d like to be surrounded by people who are easygoing. Amazingly, that’s not the case. I like people who stand for something. Even something as stupid as what sort of movie to see or where to eat dinner. To me “sure, sure” sounds like someone who’s going along with what I say. Someone with no preferences or opinions of his own.
It just sounds so wishy-washy.
Or maybe I’ve gone mad.
I could tell you stories on how “interesting” is climbing up the charts, too, but I think I’ve said enough for today.
Previously? Living.
It’s like this.
Since September, I’ve been struggling to keep writing. Not because I don’t want to, but because most of the topics I used to find interesting don’t seem to be anymore, at least not to me. I’m sure things will eventually work themselves out and I will find the time and energy to ponder random things once again, but till then I apologize for the lack of consistent updates, especially in my side sections like tidbits, learned things, and aiptek pictures.
I spend many nights sitting at my laptop trying to will myself into writing, but I can’t. I don’t even want to sit at home anymore. I want to go out, be with people. Somehow remind myself that life is going on, in its charming, annoying, delightful, fun and sad ways. I want to talk until I’m blue in the face, I want to listen until I’m falling asleep. I want to laugh and hug.
At the times I don’t crave human attention, I long for the opposite. I take a good book and curl up or turn the TV up all the way, enough to block my thoughts. Part of me wants the days to pass and another part wishes she could stop time. There are moments I want to hang on to badly.
As if to reassure me, my laptop broke yesterday. I was trying to take out one of the books it’s stacked on and I dropped it, causing the A/C adapter to split in half, inside the machine. I spent all of yesterday running from uptown to downtown, trying to replace the part, only to find out that it’s not possible. I have to order it directly from Toshiba. At night, when I finally collapsed on the couch, I ordered the part and decided to relax. It’s amazing how stressed a tiny glitch can make me at times. Yet when the world falls apart around me, I manage not to freak out.
So I might not write very often lately. If you like my site, take this as an opportunity to explore the archives. I’ve got a lot of words on this site and I guarantee they’d keep you busy for quite some time. I will be writing again real soon, I’m sure. Knowing me, I’ll even update tomorrow, after having said all this. But it’s important to say it anyhow. This way, when I look back years later, I can remember why.
Just a little down time.
I want to temporarily stop thinking so much and start living more.
Previously? Tidbits of Conversation.
I pick up the receiver and put it back down. I want to call. I think I want to. I know I want to. But I can’t. A call I made thousands of times, a call that used to be a routine part of my day.
Not this time. Not anymore. Now it comes loaded with ‘issues.’ Bits of conversations we never had, words that will not be exchanged. And each time I dial the digits, I wonder how the conversation will go. Will it be lively and fake or cordial and short? Will I play along or will I blow up? Should I play along or should I push it?
It feels like it’s been so long. It’s well past the irrevocable stage. I try to recall the past. More than anything, I remember the laughter. And then the tears. The problems. The distance. I wonder whether I’d been imagining it all along. Maybe it was never more than what it is now. It’s so easy to fall into the pit of self-pity. So easy to stop fighting. So easy to back off. To stop dialing.
Yet it’s so hard to let go.
~~~
“Are you lonely?”
The words sound so odd coming from this practical stranger. I act defensively. “I’m not lonely,” I say, hoping he didn’t hear the tone of indignation in my voice. “I mean not really,” I add, smiling. I list my friends, all over the world. Ireland, Canada, Missouri, and Turkey. Some I haven’t talked to in over a month, most I haven’t seen in over a year. “I have two really close friends in New York,” I say. But I don’t add the recent downturns in either. “Not to mention my wonderful boyfriend, who’s my best friend.”
He nods kindly. We both know that’s not what he means.
“In some ways, ” I relent. “Maybe.”
Someone interrupts and we never come back to it. Almost twenty hours later, I’m still pondering the honest answer.
~~~
I promise myself that I won’t ask. I repeat it over and over again. Not this time. I’ll just sit there and wait until he feels ready to share. I’ve never been good with silence. Not with him.
As if to prove my point, I blurt it out several minutes into the evening “What’re you thinking?” I make a mental note to kick my ass when I get home and smile awkwardly.
He smiles back. I wonder if it brings back memories for him, too. I already know his reply before it leaves his lips. “Nothing.” It’s always is. I don’t know why I bother. Yet I do, time and time again. I squeeze his hand and give up. Only to repeat my question ten minutes later.
I simply can’t let it be.
~~~
Previously? UBC.
I found something new that makes me horny.
This is less a trait and more like an event that gives me the same rush as being turned on. In the last two weeks, I’ve had the inklings of two new friendships.
There’s something mentally titillating about making a new friend. You’re with this new person who knows so very little about you and vice versa. There’s an unlimited amount of potential conversations. There are no preconceived notions, no assumptions, no dirty history to drag up. It’s brand new and full of possibilities.
New friends open up new worlds. Boundless conversations. New ideas. Someone else’s story, their life, their thoughts, their creativity. When I meet someone new, I can’t stop thinking about them. I want to hang out with them continuously. When I recall tidbits of our conversations, I smile. It’s like my mind is on overdrive. The fun thing is that of my two new possible friends one is a female and the other a male, so I know my excitement is not gender specific.
It’s the same exhilaration I get from learning. The idea of knowing something you didn’t, the way it changes your mind, your thought process. A new friend, to me, is a new perspective. A new pair of eyes to see life through. Someone who introduces me to a new set of paths.
My two new friends are completely different from each other. They have different pasts, different presents and most likely different futures. But they’ve both already added seeds into my life. They’re a part of my present and will affect my future in some way or another, even if they’re not physically in it. Since they help me expand my mind, I find myself horny for the mental stimulation.
Old friends, loved ones and family are indispensable. They are people who love you the way you are. They know your past, they’ve lived it with you. They have weathered the good and the bad with you. And you know they will be there no matter how far apart you might be physically. They are like a safety blanket.
New friends may come and go. They might turn into something more lasting, or they might never be more than momentary, but even that single moment leaves its traces in your life. Snippets of dialogue. Memories of a shared laugh. A new way to look at an old idea. All of these are just as indispensable.
New friends replenish my mind and revive my mood.
Previously? Satisfaction.
A person should be satisfied with his life not because he feels satisfied, but because he has good reason to be satisfied. – Bertrand Russell
I haven’t talked about the happiness class in a while. I like Bertrand Russell cause I agree with many of his thoughts and statements. Mostly because they are so common-sensical.
I haven’t read enough of him to say whether I agree with all of his thoughts or not, but I know I like the comments about satisfaction. The terrible thing about most of the people around me is that they have amazing lives and yet they are never satisfied. They live in anticipation. They keep waiting for the next step. The promotion. The raise in salary. More people reporting to them. The bonus.
There is no time to sit and ponder the current situation. There is no time to celebrate. There is no time to appreciate. Life is moving at an unbelievable speed. They need to live in anticipation of the next move. They need to worry about the next step and make sure they’re not passed up for the promotion. There is no time to be satisfied. Satisfaction requires a different point of view. It requires one to slow down and deliberate.
Even if they managed to slow down, they’d never notice the problem. Their views are too distorted. They have absolutely no concept of how much money is ‘enough.’ They don’t know what success is. They don’t understand that life is passing them by and that they’re giving up their youth to corporate America. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing with working in corporate America or making a lot of money. But there is something wrong with a twenty-some year-old who doesn’t think that 100grand is a lot of money. There’s something wrong with a kid who’s only six years out of college and doesn’t appreciate the power of having forty people report to him.
These people have long forgotten the feeling of satisfaction. Which is why I find Russell’s words sensible. It’s not about how you feel, it’s about how things are. If you can’t see it clearly, ask around. Try to remove your distorting glasses and look again. I’m not simply saying “Be glad you have arms and legs” though that’s a more valid point than most make it out to be. I’m not saying be satisfied if you don’t have a home to go to. I’m just saying that most of us have an incredible amount to be satisfied about and, for some reason, many of us can’t seem to recognize that. I think we’re so busy running around, trying to achieve the next thing that we can’t feel satisfied. Or the satisfactions are too short and in between struggles.
So maybe Russell’s right. It’s not about feeling satisfied, it’s about being satisfied because you have much reason to and maybe it’s not a good idea to involve feelings. Maybe it’s just a matter of being rational.
Previously? TV.
I watch every show on TV.
I kid you not. I’ve always been a total TV-addict. As a kid, I couldn’t do my homework unless the TV was on and in college, the first thing I did when I walked into my room was to turn on the TV. It doesn’t really matter what’s playing; I rarely watch it. I just like the background noise it provides. I know most normal people listen to music for background noise, but that distracts me much more than the TV.
With the addition of Tivo into our lives, it’s gotten even easier to watch obscene hours of TV and now, with the shows I choose. I record about five hours of TV a day on week days and two to three hours on weekends. That makes up twenty-nine hours on the recorded stuff alone. Not to mention award shows, one-time movies, etc.
I’ve met many parents who refuse to have a TV at home because they believe it’s bad for their children and that they will become antisocial, etc. I’ve heard everything from TV makes you lazy to it makes you stupid. I would personally like to be the example case for how it doesn’t necessarily do either.
We might be able to debate my level of intelligence but I’m definitely drawing the line on stupid. Or lazy. And it’s not like I watch only the science or educational shows. I watch everything. More trash than education. I don’t assume TV is there for me to learn from. It’s my noise, it’s my way to empty out my brain. Some people need a drink when they have a long day. Others exercise.
I watch TV.
I think we should do a study. Compare the kids who grew up watching TV and the ones who weren’t allowed. I bet we’d find that the kids who grew up without TV become complete zombies when in front of one. Not to mention the scars from the alienation they must have suffered, at school, when their classmates discussed last evening’s episode of a TV show. I want to know whether watching TV truly produces lazy and stupid adults. I want to see numbers. I want to see proof.
Each time I hear of a parent who claims their kids are better of without any TV, I want to remind them that bans are only made to be broken. If you tell a kid she or he can’t do something, suddenly that very thing becomes extremely enticing. I know men who only eat sugar cereal now because they never could as children. Think of all the college freshmen. Think of the alcohol. Can you really tell me that banning works?
As in almost everything, maybe moderation is the answer. I’m not saying my twenty-some hours a week would be considered moderation but then again, I never claimed I was exemplary.
I just like to watch TV.
Previously? The Power of Mundane.
Funny how one cares about these things, how desperately one wishes to make a good impression, how frightened one is of failure. It’s pure vanity of course. Or perhaps, to be kinder to oneself, professional pride. There are so many other more important things in my life to worry about, and yet what matters most to me at the moment is thinking of something clever to say at the last session tomorrow. Messenger’s the same – totally wrapped up in the conference, paying attention to every speaker, making sure everything is going smoothly, schmoozing his star speakers, keeping the TV people happy. Nobody would guess that he’s waiting for the result of a blood test that could mean the difference between life and death. I suppose it’s a blessing really, that we both have something to distract us. – David Lodge’s Thinks…
Life is defined by extreme moments, the up or down spikes that break the monotonous straight line. When I look back on my past, I always remember the spikes. Sometimes they are major events: my college acceptance, my first kiss, my sister’s wedding, my grandfather’s death. Sometimes they’re minor occurrences: a fabulous day with a good friend, a whispered secret, a broken trust. I don’t remember much about my daily life.
Yet while these major or minor events were going on, life still continues. In the last five years, I’ve had many personal struggles, but I put on a normal face and took the subway to work. I sat through meetings, fixed my code and talked to users. I might have even chuckled once or twice. Not only did I show up to work everyday, but I worried about my code, making sure it’s tested properly. I spent hours trying to solve a user’s production problem.
Tragedies happen. Even without considering the freak events like what happened over a month ago. People get old and die. People that you love let you down. People that you always thought you couldn’t live without, leave you. Most of us are emotional beings, we cannot move on in a few minutes. It takes time to develop a coping mechanism. Some recover quicker and some never really do. Regardless of your personal timetable, life continues on. In most cases, one has to report right back to work and meet deadlines. Or take midterms.
Ironically, I think it’s these small tasks that keep us alive, that keep us from falling into a deep depression. The fact that you have to go to work gives you a reason to get up and dress in the morning. Your midterms stop your mind from constantly replaying scenarios relating to your tragedy. The trivial, day-to-day activities ensure that you have at least split seconds where you’re not fully concentrating on the tragedy. I think that’s what starts the healing process. After the first week, you spend a single minute thinking of something else. But a month later, you spend a full day. A few months later, maybe you move up to a week. The misery slowly disintegrates. Sometimes it lingers for years but it’s not the debilitating emotion, it’s a whisper that’s barely audible.
I don’t mean that we should forget about our tragedies. I never do. Even if I really would like to. But life does go on and human beings have an amazing capacity for pain. And tragedies remind me how thankful I am for the mundane.
Previously? Greatness.
Jake and I have spent one day each in the last two weekends leaving the house and doing some good.
I’ve listened to many people talk about how they feel helpless and how they want to do something, which is why they buy flags, light candles, visit fire stations, donate money, etc. Many have visited ground zero to do all they can. Some, more than all they can.
Two weeks ago, I logged into my company’s volunteering site, to lookup some information for my applications. The site listed ongoing volunteer projects as well as ones coming up in the next month. As I read one after the other, I decided that’s all I wanted to do. I wanted to spend all my time volunteering. Not down in ground zero, but in the millions of other places that needed it and have been needing it for quite some time. I don’t mean to put down anyone who’s helping down by ground zero. They have all my respect and then more. I am not sure that I’m emotionally prepared to face the scene so I appreciate others who do.
I think what I like about volunteering is how little effort it takes to make a visible difference. Selfishly, I love the sense of accomplishment I get from helping others. I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s the truth. Not to mention it’s loads of fun.
Last Sunday, Jake and I took a trip to Brooklyn to volunteer at BARC Shelter’s Dog Show and Festivities. We helped raise thousands of dollars for the shelter and had tons of fun watching the dogs with their tricks and costumes.
   
On Friday, we drove to Boston to spend our Saturday volunteering at City Year’s annual Serve-A-Thon. Since Jake’s an alumni of City Year, he’s gone back to Serve-A-Thon for the last ten years. I’ve joined him on the seven that he’s attended since we start dating. The Serve-A-Thon always inspires me. Seeing thousands of people up at the crack of dawn in the Boston cold, energized to make a difference would win over even the more cynical citizens, I hope. Over the years, we’ve painted, scraped, washed, weeded and always had tons of fun.
  
There are opportunities to serve every day, every minute and every second. If you don’t like animals, you can work with the elderly, the blind, children, or the sick. You can paint, read, mentor, teach, build, or simply keep someone company. I don’t do it because it sounds good, I do it cause I have fun, I meet new people, I learn and I receive just as much as I give. If not more.
Martin Luther King said, “Everyone can be great because everyone can serve.”
Don’t you want to be great?
Previously? Theory of Relativity.
The city morgue is a mere three blocks from my house.
I’ve been completely exhausted in the last two weeks. Maybe it’s because my back has been aching on and off, enough to stop me from falling asleep easily. Maybe it’s the essays I run over and over in my mind. Maybe it’s the assignments I desperately try to keep on top of. Maybe it’s the 7am meetings that go for four hours. Maybe it’s the ongoing bomb threats in the subways I take.
I am taking a graphic design course. One of the six I signed up for. I’ve always thought I’d like to learn how to design better. I understand the basic principles so I thought the class might be fun and instructional. I thought I might learn about the process of design and maybe even get some insight on how designers get their ideas or inspirations.
Not so.
Since the class began, I’ve been stressing twenty-four/seven. I can’t stop thinking about my assignments, I freak out about them a week before they’re due, and I am miserable each and every second I spend on them. I doubt myself nonstop and cause endless arguments between Jake and me.
So for the last week, since my teacher said she doesn’t like my background image, I’ve moved from just stressed out to a complete basket case. I’ve started housing others like heather, mena, rony and his wife over aim to ask for their opinions. Details. Whys? Exactly Whats? Trust me when I say these people are way too nice to still be acknowledging my presence. I spent six nights in a row obsessing about this assignment. I slept late, went to work like a zombie, came home in misery and restarted the whole routine. All this for a class where I get no credit and no grade.
Two days ago, I mailed part of my graduate school application. The part that contained my transcript, three recommendations, and some labels. The part that would be excruciatingly difficult to replace. That would be why I mailed it with overnight UPS. Because when you send it overnight, it doesn’t get lost.
Not so.
Today, I spent the entire day talking to maybe thirteen different UPS customer support people. I started scared, passed through angry, made a stop in self-pity, and ended the day completely spent. I cried. I yelled. I cursed. I begged.
Let’s just say it wasn’t my favorite day.
At 5:30, I decided I couldn’t sit at my desk any longer and left to stand at the bus stop on the corner. Since I stopped taking subways, finding a transportation alternative has been an experience. I waited in the bus station, realizing that my design assignment isn’t all that important. Relative to this missing UPS envelope, the assignment doesn’t even matter. As we cross 28th street, I see the posters of missing people covering the walls of Bellevue Hospital. Right before NYU hospital, I see the police cars and emergency people outside the morgue. I start thinking clearly for the first time in two weeks: the envelope doesn’t matter either.
Tonight, I am going to get lots of sleep and try to keep things in perspective.
Previously? Two Weeks.
The last two weeks:
Envelopes with signatures across the seal.
Hitting the submit button in a web site that might actually change my life.
A celebration for two of my favorite people deciding that they are meant for each other.
Rereading essays for the seventeenth time.
Human behavior, imitation and culture.
A red scarf, knit by yours truly, with only a few small holes.
Crossing fingers and toes for good friends trying to change or maintain their lives.
Four-hour meetings, three days in a row.
A new team member.
Learning about the writing of the constitution, Aristotle and the stoics, the history of the United Nations, scientific tidbits, and the Medicis.
A movie poster designed by me, one that’s based on wishful thinking.
Resumes, too many iterations.
Anthrax, mail, fedex, subway, bomb threats.
Reading, writing.
Black roots rejuvenated, too chicken not to stay blond.
Five less pounds. Lifetime membership.
Stress, lack of sleep, anticipation, fear, worry.
Stolen moments of desire and love.
Hope.
Previously? Heels.
I wore heels this morning.
In November of 2000, I hurt my back, in December, I found out that it was much worse than my doctor had anticipated; I had two herniated discs. In June, my neck freaked. So it had been almost a year since I wore heels. As a person who used to wear extremely high heels daily, this was quite a major change in my life. I bought four pairs of flats, two summer ones and two winter ones, and alternated between the four.
On September 17, when the employees returned back to work, my firm held a department-wide meeting and advised the women to wear flat shoes for the next few weeks. You’d be amazed at how many women were wearing heels the very next day. But not me, flats had become my new friend.
This morning, I got dressed and fetched around for a pair of shoes that would go well with my outfit. My eyes kept drifting at the heeled brown boots. I picked up the shoes and looked at the size of the heels. Pretty high. I put them on. In the last few months, I lost a lot of weight and the heels helped accentuate my body, so I decided what the hell. I knew one day wouldn’t break my already broken back any further. If it helped me feel good about myself, I would wear heels for one day.
I had a few sciatica pains early on in the day, but overall the heels were fine. By the end of the day, I even ran from one building to another so my manager could have the letterhead he needed. I felt good about wearing the heels.
Around 7pm, I walked into the subway and took a seat. Since I take the station down by Wall Street, the train was packed at that time of the night. On Tuesday, I learned how to knit, so I took out my scarf and started knitting. We passed through the Wall Street and Fulton Street stops without a problem. Halfway between Fulton and Brooklyn Bridge, the train halted. The conductor said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have been told to stop immediately. I will pass along more information as soon as I have some.”
The woman to my left held out her hand to show to her friend how it was shaking. The two of them were looking through wedding dress pictures. The guy to my right kept reading his newspaper and me, my knitting. After ten extremely long minutes, the conductor comes back on the speakerphone and says, “There is a serious situation in Astor place and we have been told to move back to Brooklyn Bridge. This train is called back to Brooklyn Bridge.” The conductor repeated this four times, by the second one, people in my car were muttering him to move it already.
We sat there for another fifteen minutes and saw the train’s operator walk from one end of the train to another. The conductor kept repeating the same announcement, but the train would not move. I don’t even want to share with you the thoughts that raced through my mind at those moments. I only stared at my red scarf and mechanically knit. Another ten minutes later, the conductor came back on the speakerphone and announced that the police had cleared Astor place and we were going to move forward after all. We waited another ten minutes as the operator moved back to the front of the train. As he passed through our car, the New Yorkers cheered. Some girl said, “Hurry, some of us have to go to the bathroom.” People laughed. That thank-God-nothing’s-wrong sort of uncomfortable laugh. The operator walked back to the front and the conductor said, “All right, partner, let’s get this thing moving.” Everyone broke into applause.
The train pulled into the 14th street station and I got off to switch to the local line. As I walked down the street towards my house, I decided I’m not taking the subway again. Not for some time. Nothing can compare to feeling trapped several feet underground.
And tomorrow, I’m wearing flat shoes.
Previously? Imitation.
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projects for twenty twenty-six
projects for twenty twenty-five
projects for twenty twenty-four
projects for twenty twenty-three
projects for twenty twenty-two
projects for twenty twenty-one
projects for twenty nineteen
projects for twenty eighteen
projects from twenty seventeen
monthly projects from previous years
some of my previous projects
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