Isabella Rosselini has a new perfume. As I watched the program where she was talking about the process of making this perfume a reality, she said that her logo for the perfume was that it should be a scent representing not this mystical thing that we strive to be but who we really are.
Which, of course, made me think.
There is an entire set of products whose job is to make us look and feel better. Perfume and makeup are easy to recognize members of such a club. Most of their function is in distorting reality. In hiding the blemishes and highlighting the strengths.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
For all intensive purposes, striving to be better is wonderful. It gives you drive, motivation and direction. Nothing wrong with a healthy dose of self-competition.
Healthy being the operative word.
I think these industries have gone so overboard that we feel ugly without make-up. We feel obligated to buy seventeen skin products to look decent. There’s nothing wrong with trying to accentuate the positive and go the extra mile on special occasions. As long as they don’t distort our idea of who we are.
I know many people who won’t even buy milk without putting makeup on, or wearing heels. Argh. Looking spiffy is nice, but who you are is so much more than that and why do you really have to be this “mystical entity” all the time?
I like the idea of celebrating who we are. Putting light makeup, dressing comfortably, being happier in your own skin. I wish more of us did that. We’re so busy being fed the person we have the potential to be, that we never enjoy being the person we already are.
It’s like people who live for the freedom they’ll have once they’re retired but their entire life is torture until that moment. We live in a society where plastic surgery and diet programs thrive. One where size 2 is the norm and one where normal-looking people are never good enough. Images get doctored, blemishes covered. Views are skewed.
What’s so bad about just being you?
Previously? Trust.
I tend to make friends easily.
Well, maybe not friends but acquaintances. For the most part, I’m outgoing and it’s easy to hold conversations with me. So at a party, I mingle well and make many acquaintances. I’m also often spread thin so I know many people from different situations/commitments. During college, I knew just about anyone in my year and the two years above and below me.
Becoming my friend, however, is a complicated and time-consuming task. Probably as a result of my past, I take a real long time to truly trust a person.
Having said that, once someone becomes my friend, it’s pretty much a done deal for life. I try to always to my best to be there for my friends and make sure that they always feel comfortable coming to me for anything. I’m not trying to boast, I believe that’s what friendship is all about, so I’m no more special than the next person.
So what do I do when a friend hurts me? How much do I forgive? How far is too far?
Such questions occupy my mind at times. Some people would say that you should always forgive accidental malice and others would say friends should know better. I would assume the ranges of unacceptable behavior would change from person to person. I have my own list. What’s on yours?
I’ve lost friends from not having kept in touch. I’ve lost friends from our priorities and routes having split. I’ve lost friends due to large distances that came between us. But all of those are temporary losses. As soon as our paths cross once more, it will be like we never parted.
The ones who’ve hurt me will have a totally different fate. Over the years, I’ve learned to forgive, but I don’t think I will ever learn to forget. I never forget my own fuck-ups, why should I forget others’? To be totally honest, even though I forgive my friends things never really are the same.
That’s the problem with trust, once it’s broken it’s not truly replaceable.
If you break a vase and then glue it back together, you can still see the break marks. As much as both parties might try to ignore them, if we were all being honest, we’d have to admit that you can’t go back.
So don’t fuck with other people’s trust.
Previously? And the Chicks for Free.
Each time I go to another “for women” meeting, I get more and more disappointed in members of my gender.
As a way of celebrating Women’s History Month (which pisses me off in so many ways that I won’t go into it) my firm organized a session on women and money. I ran to the session twenty minutes late cause I had a meeting, so I can’t vouch for the first part of the meeting. But the second part gave me enough frustration to last a few weeks. It also confirmed my suspicions that I must not be female.
The first thing the presenter does is ask people what their parents taught them about money. Several hands go up. Women say: “My dad told me never to pay on a date.”, “My mom used to sing ‘Daddy’s coming home, he’ll give us all his money.'”, “My mom told me to marry rich.”, and this went on and on.
Holy Fucking Shit! Is this the 21st century or not? Every single woman in this room is working at quite a prestigious firm, so we’re not talking people who went to college to find a husband. Or why would they be working?
My mom never graduated high school. My father never finished college. Both have worked pretty much every single day I’ve been alive. Neither ever told me to make the man pay or that I’d never be able to make money on my own. I don’t mean to imply that my parents never disagreed about money. They fought all the time, even though we were fortunate enough to have enough to go around.
My father used to hate the enormous phone bills so much that when my sister and I were teenagers, he had machines installed on the phone lines to cut us off after three minutes (cost multiplies in Turkey every three minutes so the longer you’re on the phone, the more you pay). It wasn’t that we didn’t have the money to pay; he just got irritated by how much we took advantage of the situation. Most money related issues were handled similarly. If we really wanted something we got it but not if it was merely caprice. For some reason, I don’t think that either my sister or I never took anything for granted. We never assumed that all we wanted could be ours. Even now, we’re more likely to not buy something than go crazy with shopping.
So I don’t know whether my parental education on issues of money was any healthier than other people’s but I was never ever told that I would need a man to provide the cash in my life.
The presenter says that a large population of women fear being a “bag lady”. Huh? She claims this is a common fear in wealthy, professional women. Huh? Maybe I’m snotty, but I have never ever had that fear. Or anything equivalent. Is that cause I’m fortunate enough to have a family who’s financially secure? Nope. I know better than to assume that money today has any guarantees. My parents could get sick and that money would disappear literally within days due to doctors’ fees. They could make bad investments. There are a million things that could go wrong. I could even lose my own savings overnight and be forced to start from scratch.
So what? Don’t I still have a brain? Even if all technology jobs dried up and I couldn’t get something in my field, I could learn a new skill. How is it that women question their capacity to mold to different situations? And don’t even get me started on the presenter’s opinion on women and math. I’m so sick of women becoming victims and I’m even sicker of women who victimize themselves.
I have many fears, but the ability to make money has never been one of them. It seems that makes me a minority in my gender.
What a shame.
Previously? Unspoken.
Last week, I started reading Dangerous Liaisons. Between that and the Decameron I’m remembering why I used to love such books.
They mastered the art of suggestion.
These novels are dripping with sexual acts yet the word sex is not mentioned once. The creativity of the author in weaving the appropriate words in with the beautifully amusing and intelligent characters makes me smile each time. I love these people. I admire this author. Not just for his ingenuity and wit but for not assuming that his or her readers are dumb.
I have the same problem with movies. What bothers me about recent movies is not as much their lack of creativity as their assumption that the audience is stupid. Characters have no depth, plots are rarely complicated and just about anyone can figure out the ending of most current movies.
I don’t mean to imply that I want movies to have open endings. On the contrary, I enjoy when the story has an ending. I don’t need every single knot tied but I don’t like the ending left to the moviegoer’s imagination, either. But the recent movies are so shallow that just viewing the preview is enough to get the entire plot. There are no surprises.
I’m offended by the implications of the recent movies and novels. Either the authors and moviemakers are dumb or they think that the population is. The characters are so unbelievably one-sided. No good characteristics on the bad guy and nothing bad about the good guy. It’s so sad.
If the characters aren’t going to be totally realistic, like in The Taste of Others, then I want them to be witty. I want them fun and interesting. I want them unpredictable. I want them to be worth my time.
I know it takes longer to read novels that dance around the issues. You need to pay attention to the words, you need to read between the lines. But that’s what makes the reading so much more rewarding. You can read it once and then strip the layers and discover another level of meaning, like in Shakespeare. These novels are fun to read on the surface but they offer so much more to the person who’s looking for it.
Especially since these deliciously wicked people are so much fun.
Sometimes what you don’t say can mean so much more than what you do.
Previously? No More.
You’re always free to change your mind and choose a different future, or a different past. from Illusions by Richard Bach
Many years ago, I went through a Richard Bach stage. I read almost everything he wrote and devoured his thoughts. Until Jake’s parents ruined it for me, Jonathan Livingston Seagull was my favorite book.
After a while, I started to grow tired of his style and his ideas became less and less plausible. For some reason, the above quote always stuck in my mind. Obviously choosing a different future is no big whoop. Most people believe in the idea that they have the ability to change their future.
On the other hand, changing your past might require some more work. I’m not sure what exactly Richard Bach meant by that but here’s my interpretation:
What I call my past is a collection of memories my brain stores from events that I believe occurred. It’s pretty much proven that, in some cases, what we remember is an accurate version of the event and, in many cases, it’s not.
Most popular sayings tell you to forget the past and the future and concentrate on today. They claim you have no ability to change what has already occurred or what’s yet to come. But I disagree. I know that I don’t like the way I remember my past and I’ve decided I’m going to change it. Memory is selective and I’m electing to no longer remember things in their distorted way.
Almost everyone has some horror stories from their past. One kid was teased mercilessly, another beaten by bullies regularly, and yet another had to go through much more severe problems. Some of these people get hung up on their past and others move on. I don’t know how one ‘gets over’ it and the other doesn’t and I’ve always subscribed to the notion that if you’re the type who clings to the past, you can’t just ‘get over it’.
I am now changing my mind. I’ve decided to get over it. And I’m going to. Enough is enough. It’s time to stop holding on to the negative memories. It’s time to remember the good times, the kind people, the laughter. It’s time to move on and make new memories.
It’s time to let go.
Previously? Right Moment.
“Have you talked to her yet?”
“To whom?”
“You know who I’m talking about.”
“What?”
“Look if I wanted to be more straightforward, I would have. Try to think back to our conversations the last time we saw each other.”
She’s silent for a while. I can’t tell if she’s thinking or distracted by something else. After a few seconds, she says, “You mean my mom?”
“Right. You haven’t talked to her, have you?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to?”
“No.”
“But you can’t keep repressing those feelings.”
“I’m not. I don’t care.”
“Are you trying to fool yourself or me? Cause I’m not buying it.”
“I don’t think it’s worth wasting my time talking to someone who’s too shallow to get it.”
“She’s your mother.”
“So?”
“How do you know she’s too shallow? Wouldn’t you be hurt if I thought you were too shallow? Maybe you’re really worried that she’ll understand and still not change. Cause then you can’t tell yourself that she’s doing it because she doesn’t know.”
“Maybe.”
“I still think it’s better to talk things out. Always better to know.”
“Maybe I’m waiting for the right moment.”
“Maybe. And maybe you make the moment.”
She pauses again. “Maybe.”
I don’t want to push her anymore, “I love you.”
“Me, too.”
I put the phone down and hope the right moment comes soon.
Previously? Girlie.
I’m learning to play the saxophone. When I told my dad about the classes, he said, “Are you sure you want to play that? It’s not really a girly instrument. Why not the piano?”
My first reaction was to laugh. I work in an investment bank and I am a computer programmer. Neither of which are ‘girly’ environments.
As a child, I was quite far away from a tomboy. To the day, I have never climbed a tree. I used to sew clothes for my Barbie dolls. I spent most of my time playing with them or reading. I cried often and I was extremely shy. So I spose I was a girly girl.
And then I started school. Since I suck at history and adore math, I leaned towards the sciences and math. I went to all-girls middle and high schools, so I never knew that girls weren’t supposed to be good at math. Or at being leaders.
I moved from one ‘boy-field’ to another. I studied computers at a college where the ratio of women to men is 1 to 7. (thankfully, that’s not the case anymore) I worked at Bell Labs and then joined the investment bank. Never even paid attention to the fact that I was surrounded by men. I guess I never read the memo explaining that since I was a female, I was supposed to feel inferior. So I just kept on doing what I liked, learning as much as possible.
I pretty much suck at all the ‘girly’ stuff, now. I can’t cook and I hate to clean. I’m pretty messy and I hate shopping for clothes. I never remember to put creams on my skin. Makeup is an effort. I have never ever thought of my wedding day. I don’t even know why TV and film producers think that all women dream of their wedding day. Almost all my good friends are men.
I guess I’ve been lucky that no one ever made me feel less important. No one said, “You’re a woman, you don’t know.” And at this point, I’m confident hell would break loose if they do. I may have many hang-ups but being female has never been one. No one can tell me what I can or cannot do.
So after I was done laughing, I replied, “I love you, Daddy, but I want to learn the saxophone and not the piano.”
Previously? Falling Sky.
It’s pouring outside. When we were little, my sister would say that rain is God crying. During earthquakes, she’d say it’s the devils fighting down below. Quite funny, cause we were never ever a religious family.
I don’t like rain. Over the years, I’ve observed that people either love it or hate it. Rain always depresses me. It makes me think of mud. In the non-paved streets of Istanbul, rain doesn’t cause a pretty mixture. Maybe it’s due to my having lived in big cities all my life, but rain is people rushing home, subways overflowing, and the unbearable traffic
I could imagine a beautiful house with large glass panes, facing the ocean, by the beach. In that case and assuming I don’t work or that I work from home, rain might not conjure up such bad emotions. If I lived by some trees, I might like that, too. I love the smell of wet trees.
I suppose the other factor would be the temperature. If it were raining but warm, like in Florida, I could go out in the rain in my shorts and twirl around. I might even do cartwheels. In Turkey, during the summer, we get short, fast showers. I remember many times where I’d be walking at Burgaz from my house to the club as I got caught in one of them and I’d get soaked. And then, just as quickly as it started, it would all be over and the sun would cover the sky, the last few drops decorating it with rainbows. It never bummed me out then, I just jumped in the sea with my clothes on.
I guess it’s closely related to my frame of mind. In the ideal setting, with no work to do, rain is delightful, but in New York, during lunch or the commute home, it’s a pain.
I’m definitely ready for spring.
Previously? Silence.
Today was the last day of my sign language class. The classes at my school go until level eight and I just finished level seven.
At this high level, most of the grammar and basic concepts are long covered. We spend the class time on vocabulary and deaf culture. One of the reasons sign language vocabulary is harder to learn than most other languages is cause it has only one-way lookup. A dictionary can only tell you the sign for a specific word. If you watch two people signing, you can’t take note of the sign one made and look it up in the dictionary. The only way to learn the meaning of that sign is by asking that deaf person. If you make a note of the sign and ask another deaf person, you’re likely to have missed a subtlety of the sign or the context, which would change the potential meaning of the sign immensely.
Even more frustrating than acquiring vocabulary is understanding deaf culture. There are so many aspects to a hearing person’s life that we take for granted. One of the discussions we had last week in class was about a deaf person going to the emergency room. Imagine your friend bleeding and you’re both deaf and you need help. Trust me when I say that it’s overwhelmingly frustrating. Or imagine being mugged and you approach a police officer. The possibility of getting immediate help is completely nonexistent for deaf people in a hearing world.
My firm hired its first deaf employee a few weeks ago. She is a network specialist. When you enter my firm, there is a four-month training program that is organized to prepare you for your job. After she was given interpreters, the girl insisted that she needed note-takers as well. I know that, initially, the coordinator thought that the girl was being picky and greedy. The fact is we take for granted that we hear with our ears and write using our eyes. We don’t need to look at something to be able to write it down. Deaf people hear with their eyes. If she’s watching the interpreter, she can’t take notes. Any second she takes her eye off the interpreter to write, she’ll be missing words.
Tonight, our teacher took my class to a restaurant after class. She told us that we’re not allowed to speak, so we can have a better understanding of what the world is for her, as she’s deaf. The six of us walked into the restaurant, signing and laughing and we were lucky to have a waitress who had a deaf mother so even though she knew Polish Sign Language, she knew enough to help us out.
The little trip made me realize more and more about what I take for granted. Sitting there, I knew that at any moment, I could speak if I got frustrated enough. I could explain what I really wanted to say with one word. Instead of having to use paper or mime. No matter how hard I try, I will never truly be able to live in the shoes of a deaf person, cause deep down I’ll always know that I have the choice to opt out while real deaf people don’t.
Previously? Intentions and Expectations.
I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty decent person. I try to be nice to people and I make an extra effort not to harm anyone.
What differs between levels of kindness is a combination of expectations and intentions.
When my boss asks me for a favor and I do it, I can be classified as a good employee (or a kiss-up depending on the favor). But I think it’s fair to say that I have reasons to want to keep my boss happy.
Similarly, I am kind to my family and friends. I care about them and I want to make them happy. I don’t want my friends to be sad, hurt or in difficulty. Therefore, I take the time and effort required to help them out, to work with them and to do their favors.
So it’s fair to say that, in measuring whether you’re nice or not, we can exclude those people. How nice are you to strangers? Do you hold the door to someone whom you know is walking into the room after you? Do you help someone if they drop their stuff in the middle of the street? If someone asks a question about something you know, do you take the time to help him out?
I used to have two teammates. When stuck in the middle of a piece of code, one would give me an idea to try while the other actually sat with me and we worked through different alternatives until we came up with the best solution. In my book, they would both be considered nice since neither of them ignored me, but the second guy went above and beyond the call of duty. In the process, he gained a loyal teammate. I knew that I would always take the time to help him no matter what the circumstances.
So part of being nice is doing more than expected. Giving when it’s not required. Going out of your way when you don’t need to. Having pure intentions.
The other part is tied to what you hope to receive as a result. I often hear people complain about how so and so wasn’t thankful enough. If you spend all night helping someone out and then he blows you off when you ask him a question, don’t you have the right to get mad?
Probably. But I think you should never help someone with the intention of getting something as a result. If I help a person because I know they have the connections to get me a job, am I really being nice? What if initially I didn’t know that he could get me the job? My intentions were nice but then my expectations took over.
That’s where I need improvement. Just because you’re nice doesn’t mean the other person has to be nice to you in return. Being a good person isn’t about that. It’s about having the right intentions with no expectations. That’s when you know you did something good. That’s when it’s rewarding.
I need to work on that.
Previously? Genius.
I don’t believe in the idea that there are a few peculiar people capable of understanding math, and the rest of the world is normal. Richard Feynman at an interview with Omni magazine
I’ve always believed in the theory of “there is no such thing as can’t.” Each time someone claimed I couldn’t do something, I’d work incessantly and accomplish it, just to prove them wrong. I never liked the idea of others claiming they could judge the range of my capacity.
Any human’s capacity.
I’ve often wondered if there is such a thing as human capacity. Are we all born with a set of abilities or do all babies come to the world with the same set of competences and somehow, some people learn to tap into this well of knowledge better than others?
I guess like most nature vs. nurture questions, the answer lies somewhere in between. It’s highly likely, to me, that there is some kind of genetic wiring that allows for one baby to be more artistically inclined than the other. It’s also plausible, even probable, that two babies with equal capacity in this area might not grow up to have the equal artistic ability in practice. One baby might have parents who recognize this inherent talent early on and they may hire the best tutors for the child early on, expanding and honing this skill while the other kid’s parents are oblivious. Therefore, in my mind, it makes perfect sense to say that both nature and nurture have an effect in the resulting genius.
The fascinating question, however, is whether such a genius can be the result of mostly nurture. What if I don’t have these special genes that make me an amazing artist? (Let’s call these the Leonardo genes.) Can I still be a master painter without the Leonardo genes? What if I worked with people who had these genes and I practiced night and day? Are you saying that even if I made it my sole purpose in life, I couldn’t become a Leonardo without his genes?
What a depressing thought.
I often suffer from lack of perspective. When I see something amazing, I get overcome with despair that I am incapable of producing such a thing. I’m not talking about achieving an outcome at the level of a Leonardo or a Nobel Prize winning physicist. Some amazing drawing someone my age did. Some program a fellow teammate wrote. Some idea a teenager had that’s truly unique and clever. I see all these as achievements within my reach and I feel depressed that I am incapable of producing such outcomes. I don’t mean to say that I feel animosity or jealousy towards the originator of it. On the contrary, I have huge respect and admiration towards them. I just feel bad that I couldn’t be such a person, too.
Therefore the idea that genius cannot be learned is upsetting to me and I refuse to believe it. If I can’t hope that by hard work and determination, I can reach just about any goal, I might as well lose hope.
And I don’t ever want to lose hope.
Previously? Taboos.
I’ve never been good with using the right words when I have to.
As my friend Jessica would fondly tell you, during my first few months in the States, I made a few boo-boos. If someone pissed me off by not meeting my demands immediately, I’d say, “If you don’t give me your notes, I will fuck you.”
As you can tell, these threats didn’t go over very well. My sweet friends would laugh at me and tease me mercilessly. Actually, Jessica retold that story to just about everyone we met for the next four years of our college life. Even today, if we’re together and she is telling someone about me, she’ll ask me if it’s okay to tell the “fuck story.”
Even after I learned how to curse properly, I seem to enjoy using words that push people’s boundaries. I almost always say “I’m going to pee” or “I have my period.” I don’t really understand why certain words are never meant to be used.
I understand that there are cases where manners are crucial. I don’t get up in a meeting and tell the vice presidents and partners in the firm that I have to pee. I just excuse myself. But why can’t I tell a male friend that I have my period? How come shaving and periods are only acceptable subjects to be discussed among women? They’re natural. They occur consistently. What’s the big deal?
So yes, I get my period. If I’m lucky, every month. If not it’s bad news, I guarantee you. And yes, I pee. Several times a day. If not, I’m not drinking enough. And I shave. As often as possible, so little forests don’t grow under my arms, on my legs and anywhere else I don’t want them. When I want to look pretty, I get a manicure or a pedicure. I might even get a facial if I feel in the mood. So there.
Since “it’s that time of the month” is already socially unacceptable to mutter to your boss or such people, I think it’s okay to use the actual word “period” with the rest of the people in your life.
I’m gonna start a taboo-breaking revolution. Even if it’s a one-man one. (or one-woman one as the case my be here.) No more tiptoeing around the issues, dammit.
And if you don’t like that, I will fuck you!
Previously? Look Ma, I’m Bonding.
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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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