Nickelodeon Actual Reality commercial
Jun 15, 2010
in the multi-planar sphere, all functions are simultaneously one and zero
ast night, i had a dream about quantum physics.
when we lived in mexico, someone told me that you knew you knew a language when you dreamed in it. in mine, at the bottom circular drive at valle escondido, (if you chuckled, even a little, the other part of the neighborhood is hacienda valle escondido) monica was there, but her hair was still long so she didn't have cancer yet. it was easter.
my cousin goes through food in phases. they are always gross things, such as cheez-whiz and that yogurt that comes with a capful of little oreo pieces and is definitely not a healthy snack. well, neither is cheez-whiz, i suppose. you have to be careful with cheeze in strange states of matter, and make sure that when you look at the label it doesn't say "cheese food" or "cheese product". i think innovations in the field of cheese food are the reason we can buy a five dollar hot and ready.
it all started last thursday, when i decided to go listen to a guy called Christopher Payne talk about his book, Asylum. the premise of his lecture, as paraphrased by me, was that he was an architect who got bored and decided (thanks to an idle suggestion by a friend) that his new creative project would be photographing mental institutions/abandoned buildings. how original. before he opened his mouth, it seemed as if it would be at least slightly intriguing, but, unfortunately, not only was he irritating and slightly offensive at times, it was apparent that he was not really interested in what he was doing.
i stepped out for a drink of water and didn't go back in, partly because it was hot in there and we were standing awkwardly in the back of the auditorium and partly because i was busy thinking about what i had heard before leaving. Payne apparently spent a bit of time at the Pilgrim Psychiatric Hospital in West Brentwood, New York. he gave some historical background on the place, noting the thousand acres of farmland purchased by the state of New York in 1930 that would less than one year later open as the largest hospital of any type in the world (a size yet to be surpassed). bizarre sidenote: the largest haunted house in the world is abandoned-mental-institution-themed. it is in japan somewhere.
later that night, i decided to look into Pilgrim a bit more, largely because i'd spent an hour fuming about the guy's inaccurate portrayal of the historic trends of psychiatric care with a friend of mine (as an architect, she was particularly aggravated with his use of the word 'picture' rather than 'photograph', and postulated that he most likely had a trust fund, what an ass). as it turns out, the place was a spectacle in and of itself, without even considering its actual purpose.
essentially, it was a self-contained city, complete with police and fire departments, courts, post office, Long Island Railroad Station, power plant, swinery, potter's field, cemetery, and staff housing. at its peak in post-WWII 1954, Pilgrim had 13,875 patients and over 4,000 employees.
unfortunately, the 1960s brought about a shift in attitude in the field of psychiatry; institutionalization was losing its footing as the predominant form of psychiatric treatment as pharmaceutical interventions gained momentum (it's always about money), and the hospital was forced to downsize, even selling off some of the land to Suffolk County Community College.
what does quantum physics have to do with this hospital? maybe nothing, maybe everything. i got a little curious and decided to look into the concept of being a pilgrim as well as that of engaging in a pilgrimage. that story is worth holding out for.
when we lived in mexico, someone told me that you knew you knew a language when you dreamed in it. in mine, at the bottom circular drive at valle escondido, (if you chuckled, even a little, the other part of the neighborhood is hacienda valle escondido) monica was there, but her hair was still long so she didn't have cancer yet. it was easter.
my cousin goes through food in phases. they are always gross things, such as cheez-whiz and that yogurt that comes with a capful of little oreo pieces and is definitely not a healthy snack. well, neither is cheez-whiz, i suppose. you have to be careful with cheeze in strange states of matter, and make sure that when you look at the label it doesn't say "cheese food" or "cheese product". i think innovations in the field of cheese food are the reason we can buy a five dollar hot and ready.
it all started last thursday, when i decided to go listen to a guy called Christopher Payne talk about his book, Asylum. the premise of his lecture, as paraphrased by me, was that he was an architect who got bored and decided (thanks to an idle suggestion by a friend) that his new creative project would be photographing mental institutions/abandoned buildings. how original. before he opened his mouth, it seemed as if it would be at least slightly intriguing, but, unfortunately, not only was he irritating and slightly offensive at times, it was apparent that he was not really interested in what he was doing.
i stepped out for a drink of water and didn't go back in, partly because it was hot in there and we were standing awkwardly in the back of the auditorium and partly because i was busy thinking about what i had heard before leaving. Payne apparently spent a bit of time at the Pilgrim Psychiatric Hospital in West Brentwood, New York. he gave some historical background on the place, noting the thousand acres of farmland purchased by the state of New York in 1930 that would less than one year later open as the largest hospital of any type in the world (a size yet to be surpassed). bizarre sidenote: the largest haunted house in the world is abandoned-mental-institution-themed. it is in japan somewhere.
later that night, i decided to look into Pilgrim a bit more, largely because i'd spent an hour fuming about the guy's inaccurate portrayal of the historic trends of psychiatric care with a friend of mine (as an architect, she was particularly aggravated with his use of the word 'picture' rather than 'photograph', and postulated that he most likely had a trust fund, what an ass). as it turns out, the place was a spectacle in and of itself, without even considering its actual purpose.
essentially, it was a self-contained city, complete with police and fire departments, courts, post office, Long Island Railroad Station, power plant, swinery, potter's field, cemetery, and staff housing. at its peak in post-WWII 1954, Pilgrim had 13,875 patients and over 4,000 employees.
unfortunately, the 1960s brought about a shift in attitude in the field of psychiatry; institutionalization was losing its footing as the predominant form of psychiatric treatment as pharmaceutical interventions gained momentum (it's always about money), and the hospital was forced to downsize, even selling off some of the land to Suffolk County Community College.
what does quantum physics have to do with this hospital? maybe nothing, maybe everything. i got a little curious and decided to look into the concept of being a pilgrim as well as that of engaging in a pilgrimage. that story is worth holding out for.
kinfolk
my grandfather finds equality in new configurations.
the renaissance humanistic movement of the early fifteenth century centered around the words of Leon Battista Alberti, who held that "a man can do all things if he will." within this theoretical framework, individuals who strove to excel in disciplines of intellectual, social, artistic, and athletic concern were held as gifted or genius. today, we use the term renaissance man as a means of describing individuals who embody the innate and infinite capacity for learning described by early humanists.
I revisited the term in an attempt to provide a fitting description of Mark’s brief, but accomplished, life, though I still remember the first time I heard it. we were in baldy’s second hour class (at Greengates in Mexico), and he was talking about leonardo davinci, calling him the prime example of a reh-nay-sonce man. when I looked down at the backwards cursive blueprints printed in my textbook, I didn’t think of beards or walking on water, but instead of my grandfather’s broad, square hands.
my grandfather, hulki aldikacti (all-duh-kahtch-tee), has lived a life that would make any renaissance humanist proud. he was born into a wealthy family in 1934 in Istanbul, Turkey; in his early life, not only did he excel in school, but was also an accomplished gymnast and had already constructed his first motor boat by scratch at the age of twelve.
by the time he was eighteen or nineteen, my grandfather had finished university in turkey, and decided to move to the united states to study engineering here at the university of michigan. the picture of him leaning against the car was actually taken somewhere on campus sometime in the early 1950’s. my grandfather’s drive to produce work that represented nothing less than his absolute best effort led to his employment at general motors (no pun intended).
http://www.nytimes.com/1983/02/08/science/detroit-innovation-in-bold-stroke-produces-car-with-shell-of-plastic.html?sec=health
in 1983, the above new york times article was published. the Pontiac fiero represented my grandfather’s constant search for efficiency and innovation. its design was unlike that of any previous produced automobile; rather than using steel body plates which were expensive to repair and produce, the fiero relied upon dozens of plastic plates that could be replaced easily and cheaply. with its sporty look, energy efficient engine, and low sticker price, the fiero was chosen by car and driver in 1984 as one of the ten best cars in the year, and was also chosen to be the indy 500 pacecar that same year. my grandmother was excited because she got to spend the weekend with that year’s indy 500 celebrity sponsor, paul newman.
alongside his successful career, my grandfather had always pursued his interests in art and design. when he decides he wants to do something, he follows through; his garage is full of tools and machines to do everything from delicate woodwork to carving marble sculptures. sometimes we laugh at him, because he goes through phases, for example, the arctic tundra, and we all get a marble polar bear or a painted wooden penguin. his work is beautiful, though, always beautiful.
I was at their house three summers ago, when all of a sudden a UPS truck pulled into the driveway with the biggest box I had ever seen. as the ups guy, my grandfather, and I struggled the box into the garage, he told me he had decided to build a boat. when he said boat, he wasn’t talking about a little rowboat, but rather a twenty four foot long mahogany bottom old-style chris-craft. a year later when it was finished, he took us for a ride. my grandfather was not a good driver; my father’s imitation of a little girl being towed on a tube in front of us involves shrieking “daddy, don’t stop!! go faster!!”
our house is full of the things he has created. if you were to visit for dinner, you would first encounter him in the intricate, hand-carved mahogany front door, and if you were served hors d’oeuvres, you might notice the coffee table he made for my mother’s sixteenth birthday, and when your plate was set in front of you, if you looked down, you’d see a garden in the wood beneath the glass.
when he turned seventy-five, he told us he wasn’t taking any shit from anyone. it was funny, not because he said shit (one of his favorite words), but because he couldn’t take shit from anyone if he tried. my grandfather does not tolerate anything less than honesty and as such, despite his strange tendencies and fox news habit, moves through life with fairness. everything he does has a purpose, and for that, among other things, I am proud to be his granddaughter.
in pieces - Psalm 18: 5-6; 16; 19
the cords of death entangled me;
the torrents of destruction
overwhelmed me.
the cords of the grave coiled
around me.
in my distress I called to the
Lord;
I cried to my God for help.
from his temple he heard my voice;
my cry came before him, into his
ears…
he reached down from on high and
took hold of me;
he drew me out of my deep waters.
he rescued me…from my foes who
were too strong for me.
he brought me out into a spacious
place;
he rescued me because he delighted
in me.
and my come to jesus continues to be justified. it is almost scary how exactly parallel this psalm is.
the car is going to flip (cords of death)
we are going very fast (torrents of destruction)
we could all die (cords of grave)
dear god, please don't let us flip (cry
dear god, please let us stop flipping(for
dear god, please let us land on our wheels(help)
thank god it has stopped (he heard my voice)
thank god the doors open (took hold of me)
thank god i am alive (drew me out and rescued me)
thank god for giving me another chance (delighted in me)
the torrents of destruction
overwhelmed me.
the cords of the grave coiled
around me.
in my distress I called to the
Lord;
I cried to my God for help.
from his temple he heard my voice;
my cry came before him, into his
ears…
he reached down from on high and
took hold of me;
he drew me out of my deep waters.
he rescued me…from my foes who
were too strong for me.
he brought me out into a spacious
place;
he rescued me because he delighted
in me.
and my come to jesus continues to be justified. it is almost scary how exactly parallel this psalm is.
the car is going to flip (cords of death)
we are going very fast (torrents of destruction)
we could all die (cords of grave)
dear god, please don't let us flip (cry
dear god, please let us stop flipping(for
dear god, please let us land on our wheels(help)
thank god it has stopped (he heard my voice)
thank god the doors open (took hold of me)
thank god i am alive (drew me out and rescued me)
thank god for giving me another chance (delighted in me)
made, not begotten
↔↔↔
begotten, not made
you arrived in
a short circuit
of time that had
occupied the place
beneath the lines
of my face. my
teeth had grown
whiter and thinner
in your disappearing
half-life.
the neatness of
your cuticles
disarmed my pupils
into narrowing.
a gun held
to the temple
ignites circles
of candles.
inhales taste loudly
of hasty justifications in
the form of prayer.
our father,
who artfully wore
a silk necktie
over the hollow of his throat,
knew when to come
and when to be done.
let’s go let’s go let’s
go now into the world
with pieces
of imprinted love
remembered
with fingers to forehead.
punishment is
scar tissue rolled between
thumb and pointer
while begging for
time to pass and
stay the same in
a single pulse
of blood.
alleluia, alleluia.
the rent check has cleared.
therefore let us
keep the feast.
↔↔↔
begotten, not made
you arrived in
a short circuit
of time that had
occupied the place
beneath the lines
of my face. my
teeth had grown
whiter and thinner
in your disappearing
half-life.
the neatness of
your cuticles
disarmed my pupils
into narrowing.
a gun held
to the temple
ignites circles
of candles.
inhales taste loudly
of hasty justifications in
the form of prayer.
our father,
who artfully wore
a silk necktie
over the hollow of his throat,
knew when to come
and when to be done.
let’s go let’s go let’s
go now into the world
with pieces
of imprinted love
remembered
with fingers to forehead.
punishment is
scar tissue rolled between
thumb and pointer
while begging for
time to pass and
stay the same in
a single pulse
of blood.
alleluia, alleluia.
the rent check has cleared.
therefore let us
keep the feast.
↔↔↔
where is my mind?
no, i haven't been listening to too much of the pixies.
it's been at least six months, but more likely over a year. it isn't necessarily just my mind that is missing, rather, it might be my self. at least my sense of self, i suppose. i've described a schism that has wrenched apart who i want to be and who i have become through my actions. the cohesive element is my constant desire to be good, nice, respectable, honest in my movements. unfortunately, this underlying hypothetical essence of self is constantly disrupted by the poor choices i make (in situational haste and shortsightedness), leaving me feeling destructive and dangerous and generally unfit for human interaction. perhaps i would be better off if i didn't expect or want to be a good person in that the regret and grief i load upon myself - i can't even pretend anymore that my bad behavior is accidental - destroys me constantly, and yet, i still hold out the tiniest wet match hope that i will step up and away. i seemingly always choose situations that enable me to act stupidly but moreso manipulatively and i know when i'm doing it and i know how i will feel afterwards but i yield to some yet to distinguished force and feel momentarily good but constantly false. there is nothing that feels worse than not knowing why i lack the discipline to stop, except the fact that i have lost all concept of who i am anymore. blaming mental illness feels trite at this point. even being on meds for every emotion and sensation didn't enforce any sort of identity, and so i am left wondering if i either have some growing up to do or have some fatal character flaw. i have been in therapy for five years now. i have been on meds for four. what the hell do i have to show for it? am i not trying hard enough? have i not met the right person? what is wrong with me? most likely i am making poor choices.
it's been at least six months, but more likely over a year. it isn't necessarily just my mind that is missing, rather, it might be my self. at least my sense of self, i suppose. i've described a schism that has wrenched apart who i want to be and who i have become through my actions. the cohesive element is my constant desire to be good, nice, respectable, honest in my movements. unfortunately, this underlying hypothetical essence of self is constantly disrupted by the poor choices i make (in situational haste and shortsightedness), leaving me feeling destructive and dangerous and generally unfit for human interaction. perhaps i would be better off if i didn't expect or want to be a good person in that the regret and grief i load upon myself - i can't even pretend anymore that my bad behavior is accidental - destroys me constantly, and yet, i still hold out the tiniest wet match hope that i will step up and away. i seemingly always choose situations that enable me to act stupidly but moreso manipulatively and i know when i'm doing it and i know how i will feel afterwards but i yield to some yet to distinguished force and feel momentarily good but constantly false. there is nothing that feels worse than not knowing why i lack the discipline to stop, except the fact that i have lost all concept of who i am anymore. blaming mental illness feels trite at this point. even being on meds for every emotion and sensation didn't enforce any sort of identity, and so i am left wondering if i either have some growing up to do or have some fatal character flaw. i have been in therapy for five years now. i have been on meds for four. what the hell do i have to show for it? am i not trying hard enough? have i not met the right person? what is wrong with me? most likely i am making poor choices.
happy's mother's day
on this sixth sunday of easter, the lessons remind us of the power of love; god's love for his people has brought beauty and light into the world, and all we are asked for in return is an unwavering love and faith in him. although she may be a mere mortal, the gifts of god shine so brightly in my mother. in this week's gospel, john 14:23-29, jesus tells judas, " my peace i give to you. i do not give to you as the world gives. do not let your hearts be.. afraid." as i read these words, i couldn't help but think of my mother, whose capacity for love and compassion constantly amazes me.
in our relationship, my mother has never given to me as the world gives. a year after i was born, she wrote, "you have filled a place within us that we didn’t know was empty...I want you to always know how much I love you and that I’ll always support you and do whatever I can to ensure your happiness." she has never, ever broken that promise. i cry every time i read it (i'm crying a little now) because her love for me has been so dynamic and enveloping, even when i have been perfectly awful. her heart has so much room, it seems, and i know how blessed i am to experience such enveloping love - it feels as if we are physically connected.
my mother is filled with such beauty, and she transmits a sense of inner peace and love in every interaction with the world. when i watch her, i see it clearly and tangibly. i marvel at its constancy and its untiring, unyielding, and unrelenting presence and think of god. last week, we were told to love one another, and that this love would be the true marker of our faith in god and his son. in my opinion, this loving relationship is trust in the innate perfection of god's creations, or more simply, faith in the essential goodness in people or things. even in the most trying moments, i have seen my mother draw from some beautiful inner strength that i can only hope to find.
so yes, i have faith in god, but i also have faith in my mother. the vibrance of her radiating love is a living reminder that we were all created in the likeness of god, and that the peace offered through love for god, jesus, and each other most certainly exists. my mother embodies what we, as christians, strive to become, and is simply the best person i have ever known. the strength of her intrinsic love has carried me through times when i could not find any love in and for myself. saying thank you is not an adequate show of gratitude for such powerful gifts. to truly honor my mother, i must open my own heart to the love i have been offered, but even more, to the love i can offer. my mother has taught me that love is endlessly renewing, perhaps like nothing else in this world, and thus, to have love is to have the world.
i love you, mom.
in our relationship, my mother has never given to me as the world gives. a year after i was born, she wrote, "you have filled a place within us that we didn’t know was empty...I want you to always know how much I love you and that I’ll always support you and do whatever I can to ensure your happiness." she has never, ever broken that promise. i cry every time i read it (i'm crying a little now) because her love for me has been so dynamic and enveloping, even when i have been perfectly awful. her heart has so much room, it seems, and i know how blessed i am to experience such enveloping love - it feels as if we are physically connected.
my mother is filled with such beauty, and she transmits a sense of inner peace and love in every interaction with the world. when i watch her, i see it clearly and tangibly. i marvel at its constancy and its untiring, unyielding, and unrelenting presence and think of god. last week, we were told to love one another, and that this love would be the true marker of our faith in god and his son. in my opinion, this loving relationship is trust in the innate perfection of god's creations, or more simply, faith in the essential goodness in people or things. even in the most trying moments, i have seen my mother draw from some beautiful inner strength that i can only hope to find.
so yes, i have faith in god, but i also have faith in my mother. the vibrance of her radiating love is a living reminder that we were all created in the likeness of god, and that the peace offered through love for god, jesus, and each other most certainly exists. my mother embodies what we, as christians, strive to become, and is simply the best person i have ever known. the strength of her intrinsic love has carried me through times when i could not find any love in and for myself. saying thank you is not an adequate show of gratitude for such powerful gifts. to truly honor my mother, i must open my own heart to the love i have been offered, but even more, to the love i can offer. my mother has taught me that love is endlessly renewing, perhaps like nothing else in this world, and thus, to have love is to have the world.
i love you, mom.
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