Warning: pet peeve follows
I’ve discovered that most people aren’t really interested in discussing ideas.
Many of the people I’ve met in the last six years seem to already have formed opinions and gear their conversations towards recruiting for “their way.” I feel like most people don’t’ listen when they’re in the middle of a conversation with someone else. While of course it’s doesn’t help if they feel extremely strongly about the subject matter, it doesn’t even have to be something they’re emotional about. People seem to be strongly invested in their beliefs and ideas. Considering the big world we live in and the rate at which everything around us changes, this strikes me as odd.
In today’s world, I always have to reconstruct my ideas and opinions about things. What might have appeared as obvious to me yesterday becomes really complicated today. I think that being surrounded by tons of people gives me the huge luxury of having different perspectives on issues, daily. I also feel like each person has a different, yet just as significant point of view about life.
Who am I to say my opinions are the right ones? Who am I to say my morals are the right ones?
I think most things in life aren’t as clear-cut as I, a person with a very mathematical mind, would like them to be. By sticking to my own opinions with a closed mind, I’d miss out way too much in life. I also feel like this means I don’t value other people’s experiences, which takes me back to “who makes me the boss of it all?”
I think if more people listened to each other instead of coming into a conversation or situation with a preconceived agenda, it would make life a lot more pleasurable. Maybe that’s why I’m not particularly fond of many politicians. I feel like they already have their mind set up. For a person who’s job is to represent a group of individuals to not listen to each individual seems really counter-productive, or even downright rude. I understand that the mechanics of listening to each individual might be unrealistic to manage, but we all know what you make out of u and me when you assume. And if you are too busy convincing everyone else to think like you, are you truly representing them?
Besides the conceitedness of assuming “my way is the right way” I’d also hate the idea of everyone thinking exactly like me. How incredibly boring would life be if everyone thought the same way I did? Really boring. Trust me.
I guess I just wish people would respect the fact that we all go through different experiences in life and we all have differing significant contributions we can bring to the table when discussing an issue. The more information I hear about an issue, the more informed my choices can be. And maybe I am naive but at least I listen.
So I really don’t understand why some people even bother having a conversation with others when they already formed all their opinions on the subject matter. Why waste your time and mine?
pet peeve over
Seven weeks and at least nineteen hours of diversity conversations later, I still don’t know what wording to use.
I was born and raised in Istanbul, Turkey, a place that lacks the racial diversity of the United States. So I apologize ahead of time if this issue is plan as day for others but it’s gotten to be extremely complicated for me.
I know that this is a sensitive issue for many, which is exactly why I need help. I apologize ahead of time if anything I write is insensitive or plain offensive. I can assure you it’s not meant to be that way. If anything it stems from lack of experience or knowledge. Not that it’s an excuse, but it is the truth.
Ok, with that disclaimer I’ll explain my dilemma. I am about to start teaching in a school where I am racially in the minority, and people seem to claim that the reference issue will come up quite often. As in, how do I refer to each racial group?
If I say African American, I’m assuming the person’s family originated in Africa. What if they are not from there? The same goes for European American. Let’s not forget Latin American or Asian American. What if the student’s not even American, like me?
I’ve been told black is offensive but white is not. Caucasian sounds way too odd to me. Latino also assumes Latin American roots. I’m not sure if Hispanic is offensive or not. Don’t even get me started on the word colored. White is the sum of all colors and black is that lack of any, so I can’t even figure out how that terminology began.
I genuinely don’t know what to do and would be open to any and all advice on this issue. I am extremely concerned that in my lack of knowledge I’m going to offend someone and that’s the last thing I want to do. I am obviously not going to refer to my students or their parents by their skin color, so that’s not the context in which I fear the issue will come up. I am thinking of a case where we’re reading a book or talking about a third party and his or her race becomes a part of conversation. I don’t want to avoid the issue because I don’t know what the right words to use, but I also don’t want to offend anyone.
So I am open to suggestions. What wording is the best? Which one would be least likely to offend anyone? What’s my safest bet?
Thursday was possibly the worst and best day of the last month for me.
On the good side, I finally got a placement, which meant I knew what school and grade level I was going to be teaching in the fall. My grade level might still change (and please please cross your fingers for me that it doesn’t) but my school is pretty much set.
On the bad side, we got our lease renewal contract on Thursday night. I have lived in the same apartment for the last six years and Jake’s been in it with me for the last five. Each year, when the lease renewal form comes, we have weeks of agonizing conversation. They all start the same way:
He: “We really need to move.”
She: “Must we? It’s such a pain.”
He: “We’re paying way too much here and we don’t even like it.”
She: “Yeah, you’re right but it’s such a pain!!”
And from there, he gets progressively more practical whereas I get progressively whiney.
The fact is, it’s a pain to look for an apartment in New York City. You have to call 900 people to see 10 apartments, 2 of which are maybe in livable conditions. I don’t have the time or patience to travel all over the city to look for apartments. Especially this year cause we’re also looking in the Bronx, Harlem and Brooklyn. Talk about all traveling over the place.
Assuming we get even close to finding a decent apartment, I then start having nightmares about the moving process itself. Jake and I are both packrats to the nth degree. I’m talking computers from Freshman year in college, ten years ago, or newspapers that are now three years old, or wrap of a gift a friend gave me five months ago. We have five bookcases, floor to ceiling, that are all triple-stacked in each row and we still have books piling up on our dining room table and the floor. We have every issue of Wired, and New Yorkers for the last two years.
A few years ago, I read a book on simplifying your life. It suggested putting a bunch of things you didn’t use into a box and then putting the boxes away. If you didn’t open the box in six months, you could throw it away since you obviously didn’t need the stuff. I decided it was a good idea and filled about six boxes of stuff. The boxes are still in my closet.
I just simply cannot throw anything away. It’s as if each item has a piece of my soul attached to it. talk about dramatic, eh? Well, this is why moving is giving me nightmares once again as it’s time for the yearly “we should really move out of here.”
This time, I agree with Jake even more so than before. I’m ready to move into a new neighborhood. With my recent salary cut, I’d love to pay less. I like the idea of shedding some of my stuff which I assume the move will force. It’s like sort of starting over.
Tonight, we’re going to see a place in Brooklyn. Cross your fingers for me. I want this year to be the year we didn’t renew our lease.
My friend Jenn has just resigned from Teach For America.
Jenn and I spent countless hours of the last forty days together. I probably, scratch that, I certainly spent more time with her than I did with Jake, my husband. We planned and replanned lesson plans. She gave me amazing ideas and copies of her materials. She helped me write up numerous directions, poems, and lists on chart paper (my handwriting still needs considerable work). She’s the reason we started our Thursday night dessert runs (even though I’m concerned about my next weight watcher’s weigh in, it was totally worth it). She spent hours talking to me when I was crying so much that my words were more like babbling mumbles. She made me laugh and helped preserved my sanity.
This might not seem like much to you, but try putting it in context of all this:
Seventeen summer school students who had one teacher on the first week of summer school, only to find out that they had three more the next week.
Fist fighting between two girls at 11:20am on our first day at school.
Changing the seating plans at least eleven times in the course of four weeks.
A girl on the first row who incessantly raised her hand, knew the answers but made loud disappointment noises each time she wasn’t called on.
A boy who raised his hand before we even asked a question because he wanted to participate so badly, but rarely answered correctly.
A really intelligent boy who had no patience for our simple assignments, would lose patience quickly and start walking around the classroom or belittle the other students.
A small boy who hit every girl taller than he any second we looked away and would deny any wrongdoing vehemently.
A quiet, sweet girl who couldn’t read at all.
A boy who continually walked in late and proceeded to sit at his desk and do nothing. As time progressed, he’s tap or bang on his desk. He also made fun of the other students.
A boy who never listened in class but responded thankfully and with interest during one-on-ones.
A quiet boy who didn’t get much attention as he deserved.
A boy who could never physically sit in his chair.
Two girls who chatted incessantly no matter how far apart we seated them.
A boy who got moved around no less than eight times because he’d behave no matter where we seated him and thus got the default leftover seat.
A boy who came to school tired everyday and couldn’t hold his head up.
A boy who cared, listened and shared.
A girl who slept or felt sick every day.
A class that knew how to use the three inexperienced teachers against each other. A class who has incredible potential. A class that made me cry several times this summer. A class where we felt like we tired everything but succeeded at nothing. A class where each student was special.
This summer was incredibly rough for me. I could explain but I don’t think it’s possible to understand unless one has been through it personally. After all how difficult can it be to manage a bunch of third graders?
I don’t think there are enough words.
Which is exactly why Jenn made a significant difference in my life in the first month I’ve known her. Which is why I feel traumatized knowing she won’t be there with me in the next two years. Which is why I miss her already.
Especially since I got my new job yesterday.
South Bronx, here I come.
Third grade, here I come.
I kept journals since the age of ten. I used to write every single day. Ask any friend who’s known me from those days and she’ll tell you that I never traveled anywhere without an oversized diary. I’ve been teased endlessly by friends who claimed they’d read it the minute I walked out the door. Since I was extremelyprivate in those days, many friends got upset at me for choosing my notebooks over them.
But just as many wondered how I found something to write about each and every night. Was my life so interesting that I could write about it pretty much non-stop? The fact is, it wasn’t my life that was so full, it was my mind. My thoughts, my feelings, my observations. Life is so interesting for everyone if only they’d pay attention to their surroundings more. I’d try to explain this to my friends but it’s one of those things that cannot be told, you either know it or you don’t. When I started college, I felt it was more necessary than ever that I keep up with my diaries and record the changes that I was bound to go through.
That lasted all of a month.
If you look through my last dairy. You’d see that it has the same trickling effect I’ve had on the site. My entries from those days started getting shorter and more hurried. Then months came in between and most of the time was spent writing about how it’s been so long since I last wrote.
For years after I graduated college, I regretted never having kept diaries. I had so many memories, so many changes, so many interesting friends and conversations that it sucked not to have a record of it all, not to be able to go back and revisit it. But now I understand it. Now that the same thing is happening.
I’m going through another one of those times when there are a lot of interesting people in my life. People who share their thoughts with me, who listen to my thoughts, who are an outlet for my excessive thinking and feeling problem. And just like in college, I want to maximize my time with them. And just like in college, all my other free time is downtime and I am in need of rest then. Therefore, just like in college, I am falling out of the habit of writing. There is a limited amount of time and I’m spending mine making memories instead of writing about them.
But the guilt about not writing doesn’t go away. No matter how much I tell myself that I need not apologize and that this is for me and etc. I feel bad about the lack of updates and I feel like I’m not fulfilling some sort of duty. So I’ve decided to cut myself some slack. Here’s the story for the next three months:
May – I am getting married in two weeks. My family is coming next week and I’m quite overwhelmed.
June – I am ending a six-year career and starting the new one on the deep end of the pool.
July – I will be living in a dorm in the Bronx for five weeks, teaching and learning how to teach.
Therefore I think it’s only healthy that I stop writing for a bit. At least try and stop the guilt. If you enjoy reading my page, thank you and I have almost two years worth of archives and you can always email me and I will do more than my best to reply asap and make sure to come back in August, I will be writing again. I might even be writing sooner, who knows? I will still try to update the excerpts and pictures as often as it can.
In the meantime, be well. Go out and live.
And wish me luck.
I like to mess with people’s minds.
I am not willing to fit into the boxes people are so ready to place me in. (yes, I know it’s bad to end a sentence with a preposition and I don’t care.) I am not willing to play along just so they can simplify their own definitions of the world and its people. I am not willing to be a representative of anything but myself. I am not all women. I am not all Turkish people. I am not all managers. I am not all anything. I am only me and I am not generic. (wow, Rony would be proud.)
I curse. I tell people that I am going to ‘pee’ or that ‘I have my period’ just to see their reaction to the words being uttered. I have true male friends. I hate to shop. I am overly emotional and extremely analytical all in one. I can be incredibly mean and truly compassionate. I say it like I see it. I don’t fuck around or play games with people. I like to wear heels. I am clumsy and not dainty. I am not your typical woman. I don’t believe in the existence of a typical woman. While I understand that stereotypes exist for a reason, I am frustrated by the way in which people use them to make people feel alienated.
When I moved to the United States there were several circumstances in which people assumed I’d like a particular food because I was Jewish. Examples? Bagels and Chinese food. I had never had the former and hated the latter. Expectations lead to disappointment. And I’ve spent too many years not meeting other people’s expectations of me.
So now I fuck with them.
I say it out loud. I do it in public. I force the judgmental people in my life to face their incorrect assumptions. It is my punishment for their not taking the time to get to know me as a person. If you’re placing me in the same box as everyone else, if you’re going to be lazy, you deserve it.
If there’s one common theme across all my friendships, it’s that these people aren’t simple. I have yet to meet someone who doesn’t have layers. Some hide it better than others but all humans are less simple than we often assume. And I am tired of other people making the call on what I should and should not do. What’s okay for me to feel. What’s acceptable for me to say. What’s acceptable for me to think.
The sad thing is we all do it in some way. We all have assumptions about categories of human beings and we all categorize humans, as an intelligent commenter noted earlier this month. But what we don’t do is to rethink it. We don’t work all that hard to get to know an individual. We don’t allow for people to be multi-faceted, living in multiple boxes, having multiple sides.
Somewhere in our childhood, the norms become clearly defined and straying from the norm becomes a sign of abnormality, and therefore, inferiority. The funny thing is that by the time we’re adults, almost all of us have strayed from the norm in one way or another. For many years, I’ve handled my abnormalities with a sense of shame and downplayed them as much as possible.
Not anymore. Somewhere along the line, I decided that ‘I’m me and if you don’t like it, tough’ and I’ve also decided that what makes me me are those abnormalities. Those exceptions to the rules. So I wear them with pride and mess with people’s assumptions. That’s my way of letting them know it’s not okay to categorize and then chastise people for not fitting in.
I am so much more than a category. Aren’t you?
Previously? Jitters.
I’ve been freaking out about the upcoming wedding.
For one reason or another, I seem to find an opportunity to break down about it weekly. A good friend of mine says I have the jitters.
I guess it depends on your definition.
I’ve always associated wedding jitters with worry related to the person you’re marrying. If we use my definition, I definitely don’t have the jitters. I’ve been with Jake for over seven years and I’ve had a lot of time to think whether he’s the sort of man I can spend forever with or not. I’ve had opportunities to meet tons of other people and still am fully convinced that he’s my favorite person in the world.
Bar none.
So if Jake’s not the problem, why are you freaking out? one might ask. It appears there’s more to getting married than the man with whom you’re tying the knot.
One big part of it is the actual wedding party. What has become apparent to me is that it’s impossible for us to have a truly low-key wedding. So the bigger the wedding gets, the more concerned I become. The more chance things might not go as planned, especially since I didn’t plan all that much. Not to mention, I have only been to three weddings in my life, one of which was my sister’s, none of which was American. So I can’t even swing it since I don’t know the list and order in which things are done.
But the bigger issue isn’t the day, it’s the ‘forever.’ The fact that I am old, adult and mature enough to make a decision that will last forever. Before you go into your diatribe on how marriages aren’t necessarily forever and I’m allowed to change my mind and stuff, I would like to note that I plan for mine to be forever. I understand that things can change and it might not end up being forever but, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to plan on having it last forever. Marriage, to me, is the first step I’ve made as an adult. College, moving to the United States, moving into my own apartment, starting a job, quitting a career, moving in with my boyfriend have all seemed less permanent. Less daunting.
And I can’t exactly put my finger on why this is so daunting, but I know that it is. I know that it means more responsibility. It means more mature behavior. It is a door to more responsibility, such as having children. It’s a step where I can see the tunnel that is the rest of my life. Jake is someone I want by me for each of the steps I will make down that tunnel. So I know I chose the right person.
But I’m just scared that I could have chosen the wrong tunnel. And I’d like to reserve the right to switch. And somehow, until now I felt like I could move around and take different paths, but now that I will be married, everyone will be expecting me to walk down this one specific path and I am more likely to screw up.
So would that be categorized as having the jitters?
Previously? Richter at the MOMA.
Here’s something I’ve learned from having spent ten years in a foreign country: it’s easy to judge others.
One would think I could have had this lesson in my home country. Or that it should have nothing to do with countries at all. And one would be right. Being judgmental seems to be human nature. It’s our way of vocalizing something that we don’t approve. It’s our way of criticizing and speaking up. All of which is within one’s right, or it should be. Each person is entitled to his or her own opinion on all matters. The fact that it’s your opinion means it’s yours and no one can tell you otherwise.
So I’ve been working hard at reminding myself that when people criticize my choices, my actions, my thoughts, my feelings and my country, they have a right to feel or think the way they do. What bothers me, however, is the quickness with which people judge. Most people I know never bother to learn all sides of a matter and never care to listen to an opposing view.
If a person wants to upgrade a thought from opinion to declaration or even something that they believe is worth discussing, I think it’s crucial for that person to have completed the appropriate research. I could come to you and say, “I think three-year-old boys are stupider than three-year-old girls.” And if you have any interest in discussing this subject matter with me (which might be debatable after you hear the biased and ignorant way in which I worded my claim) you’d ask me what my sources are. Where is my data? How exactly do I define “stupid”? What is the pool of three-year-olds I have researched? Was this a controlled experiment? For my statement to be anything more than something I pulled out of thin air, I must have some examples and data to back it up.
The same goes for history. It’s easy for someone to have opinions on who did wrong when it comes to some of the world’s major historical blunders. But even with 20/20 hindsight, it’s nearly impossible to prove that one’s opinion is more valid than another’s. It’s easy for you to sit in your chair and say that a country that’s oceans away from your living room should do such-and-such to put a stop to the terrible situation over there. Yet, who are we to say exactly what’s going on?
I’m always amazed at the way people react when they find out that I’m Turkish. Over the ten years, I’ve heard just about anything and everything. How this was our fault and that was our fault, etc. Not that I’m disagreeing about anything specific but I really do doubt that most of these people know anything about Turkey besides the few lines they’ve read in their history books or heard from another opinioned source. At least I’m honest enough to admit that my education and exposure was biased and that I don’t know all the facts. I don’t know the situation and such I am not really willing to pass judgement.
While I completely agree that taking any human’s life is an awful act and we shouldn’t be killing people, especially as aimlessly as it appears to be lately, I also understand how complicated the world is and how near impossible it is to place blame. It’s never one person’s fault. Often times, there are deep-rooted problems that require years and years of work to reach a possible resolution. And maybe I am naive, but I do believe that people don’t enjoy killing others. Even the most evil-seeming ones do it out of a corrupt or confused sense of justice, but not for the sake of senseless murder. Not that it makes it excusable. It just allows me to keep my sense of faith in the world, I suppose.
I love America. To me it’s the homeland I never had. I feel like it’s where I was meant to live all along. And I also love Turkey; it’s a crucial part of my identity, one that I have always been proud to vocalize. And when I hear people criticize either nation, I feel protective urges rise within me. I feel like telling people that they are unappreciative and bitter. But then I listen. In case they have something valuable to say. To hear the meat behind their opinions. To see if they’ve done their research. To find out if it’s anything besides judgmental banter.
So that I can learn.
Previously? Shedding.
Spring might finally be coming to New York City.
This winter has been one of the most eventful and thrilling in my life. The roller coaster ride that is my life has reached new levels and promises to get even steeper. It’s not that I don’t think of writing my site all the time like I used to, it’s just that I recognize it for what it is now. I began it cause I thought it would be fun to unleash my thoughts onto the web. I went through the “please read me” obsession and made a lot of adjustments over the first few months. As a good student I complied with my inner regulation that I shall write every day. A little voice in me kept repeating that people would stop coming if I stopped updating regularly. I accomplish. I finish the things that I start. And nothing, no trip, or person was to stop me from doing my daily homework by posting my site.
And then September came and went and my belief system, which was already on its last legs, shattered.
I like the fact that snakes shed their skin. I wish I could shed my skin each time I wanted to. In the last few months I’ve realized that I live my life according to other people’s priorities more often than I’d like to. We all grow up listening to rules that the adults around us present. Between birth and adulthood, there are many adults who come in and out of our lives like parents and other family members, teachers, baby sitters, mentors, managers, etc. Each person comes with his or her own baggage and each person pushes us different ways. In my life, I have met very few adults who’ve encouraged me to find out what I want and who I am. People have promoted me and helped me walk the path that I claimed I wanted. But no one pushed me to discover myself.
I don’t mean to imply that people stood in my way or that I wasn’t allowed to be me. I mean I don’t think I knew what “being me” was. Looking around me, I don’t think this is a rare phenomenon. I guess what’s unusual is my need to work on getting to know me, getting to be me. Which is an ongoing challenge since who I am seems to change constantly. This makes me think that the struggle – and joy – of getting to know me could take forever.
My life until now has been all about the destination. All about the path that would take me there. All about reaching, working, struggling and achieving. I think that now I’m ready for some living. You might think that quitting a part-time, somewhat cushy job for a challenging and scary new career might not be the best way to start living, but I think that’s exactly the way.
Leaving the old skin behind to grow a new one.
One that might not lead anywhere. One that might just be a side trip on my journey. One that might even be the biggest mistake I will have made. One that I am determined to make the most of. One that will change my life. One that has already changed my life.
While I see the value of a destination, I want to take a break and enjoy the journey. Sink into the moment. Pay attention inward. Pay attention outward. Pay attention in general.
That might be why I am not so sad about not writing my site daily anymore. I know that when the need comes back, it will still be there and I will do it again. Until then, intermittent is good enough for me.
Spring is coming to New York and I am ready for it.
Previously? Together but Apart.
The Almitra spoke again and said, what of Marriage, master?
And he answered saying:
You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of heavens dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow. – Khalil Gibran – The Prophet
There were days when I would have been shocked by the above words. Together yet not too near together? What do you mean, I would have thought, aren’t we supposed to want to stand completely by each other and depend on each other and give up part of who we are? Marriage and partnering for life are all about compromises, after all. Right?
Well, it appears my opinion on those matters has shifted somewhat in the recent days/months/years. Not that I don’t still believe that marriage is about compromise. Actually, I think most relationships, whether they be romantic, friendly or professional are all somewhat about compromise. But I no longer think that choosing to be with someone means being one with that person. I don’t believe that partnering for life equals giving up self-identity. On the contrary, I love the idea of choosing to be beside one person and sharing and caring and fulfilling each other.
It appears I am marveling in the glory of individuality and sense of self. The idea of joining to perform miracles without having to become one thing appeals to me. It no longer seems necessary to make the eternal sacrifice or ask for it in return. Instead, it feels joyous. Like something I want to do. Like something I can do. Like something I choose to do. Not something I must do.
It’s not about giving up me, it’s about having someone alongside of me forever. Growing together but separately.
Individually.
Previously? Perfetto.
Want to know a quick way to get someone to fail on a task?
Tell them it has to be perfect.
Perfection by its nature is near impossible to reach. Perfect. Flawless. Impeccable. As soon as I hear those words I can almost see the pressure. The stress. If everyone reached perfection the definition of perfection would change. It would become ordinary. I know that as a meaning, the word perfection doesn’t exclude repetition. It doesn’t imply doing better than others or being the best at something. It merely means doing that thing without any flaw. That’s all.
But who defines something as perfect? When is a painting perfect? Is Monet perfect? What about Boticelli? How about a musical piece or a book. When is a movie perfect? To me, perfection in any of those categories is a personal opinion and varies too much to be able to pin down. I can even say that people disagree every day on what qualifies as perfect computer code. Two functions that do the same thing can have extremely different code and one might be perfect for some people while the other is perfect for others. People have fights over this daily. And I am of the belief that anything that’s hard to define is hard to achieve.
I can almost hear some people saying, “So what are you saying, should we all just try hard enough but never aim for perfection?” Well, hard enough is also a difficult term to define. First of all, the amount you choose to push/challenge yourself is and should always be your own call. No one but you can get you to do the things you want to do. Secondly, I’m not telling you not to aim high or not to do the best you can, I’m just saying that when you’re working on a story and you’ve rewritten the story eleven times just to fix a single sentence, maybe it’s time to take another approach: cut the sentence out or leave it as is.
I find perfection to be highly overrated. There’s beauty in imperfection just the same way as there is in perfection. Most things in nature are slightly imperfect and somehow it feels more right to me. Perfection seems to inhuman, too calculated, like someone trying too hard. And too often it ends in disaster.
I think most people know their limit. They may never admit to it or show it to others, but we have a good understanding of how far we can go. I’d say combine that knowledge with how hard you’re willing to push.
It may not result in perfection but, it sure is close enough.
Previously? Brown Thumbs.
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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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