Previously? Jundgmental Banter.

I never see a movie without reading the book first.

When I see a preview for a movie whose book I'd meant to have read for a long time, I use the movie as an excuse to speed up my procrastination. The book moves up in my list and I avoid seeing the movie until I've had the chance to read the author's words.

There are several reasons why I do this. One obvious one is that the movies often suck when compared to the original story. This often happens because it's difficult to fit in every aspect, side stories, the thoughts of the characters, the full range of emotions expressed. The depth of a book is rarely represented in a several-hour movie.

More significantly, I cannot possibly read the book after I've seen the movie. Not because I already know the ending but because I cannot use my imagination. One of the most delightful aspects of reading a novel is getting to visualize the characters and the settings. Knowingly or not, I attach a lot of information to the characters in the novels I read. Some of the traits may be mentioned by the author but others aren't. If a book is written well, by the end of the story, I have a world of information on the characters and they are three-dimensional in my mind's eye. A movie limits this infinite world and disappoints me often.

I've taken my imagination for granted. Until recently, I wouldn't have considered myself an imaginative person. I'm not particularly creative. I don't paint, compose or write poetry, and my fiction isn't that good. I always thought that imagination and creativity were correlated. And that if I lacked one, I must lack the other.

But now I realize that as an avid book reader, I do have extensive imagination.

As with everything, practice tends to strengthen my imagination. And since I read a lot, imagining the characters feels like second nature to me. I never even notice that I use it. I have a friend whose imagination isn't very active. And talking to him makes me realize how much I use mine. It also makes me wonder how we, as adults, can learn to stretch our imaginative muscles.

Some things come much easier to children and I wish we could capture the overflowing energy and imagination. And hold on to it.

Previously? Priceless.

I'm taking a graphic design class this semester.

I've always wished I could be good at the arts. When I was young, my mom sent my sister and me to a weekend drawing course. Every Saturday morning she would drive us over and we'd spend five hours or so staring at a bunch of apples in a bowl. Even though my creations during those five hours surpassed anything I did elsewhere, claiming they were anything besides 'a decent effort' would be an outright lie.

My mom is an amazing artist. At nineteen, she won a scholarship to an art school in Italy, which she turned down by choosing to marry my father instead. She's done jewelry design, Koran art, interior decorating, and plain drawing. Some of those genes could have come my way.

But they didn't.

I've taken classes in art, 2-d animation, 3-d graphics, graphic design, and pottery. Some of them, I took several times. Some of them, I even enjoyed.

But not graphic design.

My graphic design teacher is treating us like real graphic designers. She's giving us real assignments. Critiquing our work as if she were a client. That's why she's a good teacher. So I know it's not her fault. I'm not even taking the class for credit, and yet I stress before each assignment. I annoy everyone around me, asking for reaffirmation, begging for approval.

This week's assignment is to create a self-identity. Since I'm not taking the class for credit and since I've been thinking it's time for a redesign, I asked her if I could do my web page instead. She said okay.

I spent yesterday going through the 250 fonts on my machine, trying to pick one that represented me. I didn't know what I was looking for but I figured I'd find it when I saw it. Not true. When I finally settled on one, it was mostly cause it looked like handwriting, giving me a diary-ish feeling. I started with my typical purple, and went through seventeen color changes before settling on these. I put black and white photos, changed them to color. I put them on the side, on the top, on the bottom. I moved everything around too many times. After hours, everything started blending into each other and I decided it was time to stop.

So here it is. A new page. Some color.

I'm not changing the archives, I'll integrate it as I go along. I'm not done with this design, it might change. Got opinions? Tell me publicly, tell me privately. Tell me either way.

At least it's got color.

Previously? Thankful.

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.

I'm not a good fiction writer.

To be fully honest, I'm not the greatest writer to begin with, but I'm even worse at writing fiction. I'm not telling you this so you can tell me how good I am and stroke my ego. I'm saying it cause I know it to be true and I'm thinking that putting it down on paper might make me stop struggling with it so much.

I started writing fiction about two years ago. It was a whimsical decision, not based on any other event in my life at the time. I signed up to a fiction web page, and even from day one, I could tell didn't have it in me. I loved the idea of having written but not writing itself. When I read over my stuff afterwards, it sucked so bad that I couldn't even begin to fix it so I'd leave it as is. I forced half the people in my life to read it and I hid it from the other half.

Here we are over two years later, and in no better shape. I'm struggling through what appears to be tidbits of my second novel, when the first one is far from completed. Its pages are collecting dust in the back of one of my drawers, alongside the research I left undone for it. I wrote the outline for this novel, last fall. The characters are nagging me constantly, making me feel bad for not sitting at the keyboard and telling their story. But each time I sit to write it, words refuse to cooperate. Bleak and two-dimensional characters exchange unemotional words. My descriptions are the opposite of vivid. It becomes so unbearable that I need to stop.

Yet I can't let it go. I can't stop writing. Well, in reality, I can't stop thinking of writing. I can't let my story go, even if it's a stupid one, it's my story. I want to tell it. The characters want me to tell it. In the middle of one story, I start getting ideas for another novel. Yet when I want to write a short story, all the ideas have disappeared. It's a lose-lose game.

When people tell me that my writing shows promise, I know they are being kind and not entirely truthful. When they criticize it, I feel this awful resentment and sadness in my gut. It's like someone ripped my heart. Neither extreme is healthy for a writer-wannabe. And I know all this.

Yet I simply cannot let it go.

Previously? Ideal vs. Ought.

I've been meaning to write.

Wednesday, I came home and stared at the TV.

Thursday, I fasted all day so I spent half of my day watching TV and the other, sleeping.

Today, it's 9pm and I just got home from Japanese class and I am worn out, tired and my back is exploding with pain.

So you can see that I've accomplished a tremendous amount in the last three days. And since I've had absolutely no intellectual input, it's been hard to produce output.

October is going to be a long month for me. I have applications to fill, essays to write, homework to do, a novel to keep writing, a short story to rewrite and another to write from scratch, GMAT to take, two volunteer jobs to maintain, not to mention my actual paying job. Each time I sit down to make a list, it gets so big that I just turn on the TV and watch it till it's time to sleep.

Of course, my back's acting up again doesn't help matters much.

The good news is that much will change after October. The applications will be finished, the essays and the GMAT will be completed. The novel? Well, the novel will probably still have a long way to go. Come January, things will be even further resolved because I will have received many of the answers.

In the meantime, I need to tear my face away from the TV, try and forget the piercing pain, and do what must be done.

So my writing may suffer in quality (and I will not entertain jokes on how it never had any and all that crap) or it might be intermittent and I apologize in advance. Right now it seems crucial to make sure I can accomplish the goals that will ensure my future and do them well, without affecting my health more. All right, enough cheese. I just got work to do. That's all.

If anything, this entry should make you happy that I'm not writing more often.

I must stop now, the Tivo is calling my name.

Previously? Pursuit of Happiness.

The New School Drama School has a very popular program called Inside the Actor's Studio. Yesterday's show was a rerun with the guest as Kevin Spacey.

During the last ten minutes of the show the audience, students, are given ten minutes to ask the guest questions. One of the students asked Kevin what he recommended the students do as they launch into their acting career. He said something along the lines of "what advice do you have for us for the road while we work to reach the prize." Okay, so I don't remember the exact words, but trust me they were something like that. The question doesn't matter, anyway, the answer does.

Kevin Spacey said, "There is no prize." He went on to say many more pithy words that I can not recall. But the first sentence stayed with me.

I spent the last decade of my life trying to reach a prize. A collection of prizes. Getting into college in the United States, graduating with two degrees, securing a job, and my green card. I had so many goals and plans that my friends thought it was impossible to reach them all. But I did. I kept thinking that I had no other choice.

I've read and repeated many of those "don't worry about the past or future but concentrate on today" quotes. I know that the past is past and the future is anyone's guess. But still. I couldn't stop making plans. Until a year ago, I worried that unless I thought about my future, it would never happen. All I needed to do was keep my eyes on the prize and I was sure to earn it.

And I did. I earned them all. I got to come here, I graduated with honors, I got my green card, I even got to work part time when I decided I wanted more than a job. I found myself, at twenty-six, without a prize to work towards. I had collected all the so-called prizes and there weren't any more. None that I cared to have, at least.

It took me more than a decade to realize the four little words Kevin used. Life is not about prizes. Each day is a prize. Each smile, each hug, each touch, each sunrise and sunset. I know it sounds cheesy, but it really is true. Don't get me wrong, I am proud of my accomplishments. I consider my degrees and my green card to be major prizes, but I also recognize that they don't fulfill you in the way you think they will. A green card doesn't suddenly make you stop worrying. It only makes you stop worrying about getting a green card. There is no ultimate prize that makes everything perfect.

My friend Eric's favorite quote was, "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making plans." I'm a planner, it's not possible for me to stop it, but it is possible for me to not create mock prizes. It is possible for me to recognize the value of little daily things. It is possible for me to appreciate the journey. To start paying attention.

And I intend to.

Previously? Safe.

I've always favored high Renaissance art over most other periods.

I think there are two reasons for my fascination and awe with that specific period. The first reason is not specific to the artists of that time, but it was strongly exercised. Most of the elements in the paintings of that time either present a story or have objects which represent icons of some idea or belief.

I'm quite sure I've mentioned previously how I like that this sort of art rewards its viewer for having done his homework. If you know that a pair of shoes symbolizes marriage the painting containing them takes on a new level of meaning for you. I like that almost every item has a purpose. It somehow implies that the artist's job was harder since he had to adhere to certain symbols and tell a specific story and the artists relaying the same story found profoundly differing ways to envision the same scenario.

The other reason I love Renaissance art is the preciseness of the strokes. The realness of the imagery. The incredible resemblance of the picture to an actual scene. It is the lack of that very essence that gave me a dissatisfied feeling when I looked at an impressionist painting. The blurry look made me feel like the painting was unfinished. Like the artist cheated and gave us the feeling of being there without having to work hard to create the details. They lacked the meticulousness I enjoyed.

For me, it was as if the fact that you could replicate real world with its minute detail made you a qualified artist. Cause anyone can splash paint onto an empty canvas, but not everyone can draw the curves of a woman's body or the branches of a tree realistically.

Last week, I went to the Metropolitan Museum and spent a long time looking at the works of some of the most famous impressionist painters. I had never previously seen these works anywhere besides a book. I'd never seen them in their full three-dimensional glory. As I stared at the canvases, I was awed by the dichotomy of the lack of meaning when viewed close-up and the scenery that emerged as I moved back, away from the painting. It seemed that with each stroke, the painter must have always kept the big image in his head and had total control over what the stroke meant for the painting as a whole.

Today I watched one of Jake's friends paint a scene here in Martha's Vineyard with watercolors. I marveled at how quickly a picture emerged with each movement of her brush. I was fascinated at how she wasn't really concerned with each angle being correct and each color matching the world precisely. I loved the idea of letting go of the need to be so tightly coupled with the subject of the painting.

I realized that even my favorite painting style represented something about my personality. That I had enjoyed the methodical, mathematical world of exact replication and symbols over the loose and relaxed. The more I thought about it, the more it felt good to let go. Suddenly, making your own paintings, listening to something from within and combining that with the beauty of nature seemed so much more powerful and rewarding.

Maybe this is how letting go starts: one painting at a time.

Previously? Tradition.

Some things are best done alone.

There is a long list of actions which are more fun with a multiple people. For me, traveling, dancing, going to the movies and dining are some of those.

Then I have the ones that I often do alone but enjoy much more in couples. Like bathing and sleeping.

Finally, I have a whole set that I prefer to do alone. Reading, writing my book, and watching people make that list.

So does going to the museum.

After I left the hairdresser, I decided I had to finally see the Blake exhibit at the Met. My hairdresser is six blocks from the Met and it was a lovely day so I started strolling along Fifth Avenue. The Blake exhibit had just closed but thanks to a recent post in photographica, I knew my first stop would be the roof garden, displaying the works of Shapiro.



Up until recently I didn't know much about African art and hadn't had any exposure to it. Last fall, in my art class, our teacher talked so much about tribal arts that I became completely fascinated with these works. I love the incredible level of detail given to each piece. These works are symbolic and most were used as part of a performance. They represented so much of the culture and belief system that we can deduce a lot about their priorities through these. I can sit in the room and stare at these carvings for hours at a time.




I believe that enjoying a piece of art is an experience best lived individually. Each person gets something different from being in a museum, especially one as large as the Metropolitan. There are pieces that I just walk by and ones that make me want to sit and stare for literally hours at a time. When I'm with someone else, I feel pressure to enjoy each piece equally. I worry about my friend being bored or feeling rushed. It's one thing to visit a small showing of a few paintings, though I would still probably prefer to go to it on my own, and a completely different one to visit a large museum with some of the world's most awe-inspiring works of art.

Today I felt really glad to live in New York City. Glad that I could just walk a few blocks and take however long I wanted to look at the brushstrokes of Seurat. I didn't have to rush it into a weekend and drag my friends along.

I had the luxury of enjoying it on my own.

Previously? Movies.

This was an imaginary compilation that I was assembling in my head; all my happiest and proudest moments, cut together into a five-minute edited greatest hits of my life.

"What would you have in your lifetime highlights video, Neal?" I asked him.

He thought for a while and said nervously "Getting a B in my geography O' level."

He looked hurt when I burst out laughing.

"Oh come on..." I said, "You've got to do better than that. You can't have that on your tombstone - Here lies Neil Evans. He got a B in his geography O' level. What have you done that you really loved and will always remember? What are you really proud of?" - John O'Farrell, Walking into the Wind.

Reading the above dialogue made me think of what would be in my five-minute movie.

Happiest moments are easy: getting into Carnegie Mellon, getting my green card, most of my days with Jake, and my sister's giving birth to my twin nephews.

Most of my happiest moments revolve around school, reaching a goal I'd been striving for for a long time, and my family.

The proudest, however, are a bit more complicated. I'm proud of my family and their accomplishments, most importantly their incredible capacity for love. But this movie is supposed to be about my proud moments. So I'm not sure their achievements qualify.

My first proud moment would probably be the same as a happy one. Getting into a college in United States, especially one that has a good reputation for computer science, was a huge accomplishment for someone with my grades and it was something I'd been dreaming about since I was twelve.

During college, I've done a few things I'm proud of, but one of my most taxing moments was when a male friend of one of my residents (I was a Resident Assistant on two floors of an all-girl section of one of the dormitories) was depressed. Suicidal is probably more accurate. I didn't really know this boy all that well but he'd been on my floor before and I spent most of the evening talking to him and I stayed in that room and listened to him for hours. While I'm totally aware that it most likely has nothing to do with my actions or words, seeing that boy around a few days later and having him hug me made me feel proud of myself. That would probably make it to my video.

So would graduation. I am the first member of my family to graduate from college. My mom dropped out of high school and my dad out of college. My sister didn't even attempt at college. So graduating and getting my undergraduate and graduate degrees simultaneously was a very proud moment for my family and me.

Most recently, I am proud of the fact that I didn't let New York and the investment banking life get to me. That I had the balls to give up a lot of money and reduce my work to part-time so that I could do more volunteer work.

I have a long way to go. I want my life to be full of happy and proud moments. I want to look back and say that I had a great life and I did everything I wanted to do. I want to make sure I had the guts to live it to its fullest.

What would go on your five-minute film?

Previously? Intelligent.

I've always enjoyed classical music and I love the opera. But I never really liked the ballet.

It always seemed boring to me. I do appreciate the strict regimen required to develop the level of flexibility and strength. I also love that it is a sport and an art. I'm not trying to put its value or importance down by any means.

I'm just saying that I don't enjoy it.

Let's change that to didn't.

Over ten years ago, my parents convinced me to go out on a school night (yes, I know how convoluted that sounds, but things worked slightly differently in my household.) I complained that I didn't like ballet and I had an exam the next morning, was it really a good idea for me to see this?

"Trust me," said my mom, "you'll like it."

So I went and it was one of the most amazing nights of my life.

This wasn't just any ballet, it was the Bolshoi.

I was so mesmerized by the performance that I'm sure I forgot to breathe at times.

Maybe ballet didn't have to be so boring after all.

A few years later, yet another legend visited Turkey and this time my mom didn't need to mention it twice. If Baryshnikov wanted to come to Istanbul, there wasn't a way I was missing it. I watched him from the sixth row and I didn't dare blink.

So when my friend Natalia called me to say that he was performing in Brooklyn, I leapt at the chance of being swept away in his magic once more.

Last night's performance was quite different than the one I'd seen around a decade ago. Baryshnikov and his dance group, the White Oak Dance Project, were honoring the Judson Dance Theater dancers. The performance was much more modern than I anticipated but it certainly didn't disappoint me.

On the contrary, it overwhelmed me. I watched hungrily, eating up the energy and creativity that poured out of these incredibly talented people. I envied their freedom and joy.

Most of all, I envied their boldness. These people are some of the best ballet dancers in the world, yet they don't perform Swan Lake and other classical acts. They express themselves in their own original ways. There are acts where people are simply walking from one end of the stage to another, not even using their dance skills. They're urging you to think out of the box and change your preconceived notions. Your expectations.

I have the utmost respect for them. Not only because of their talent and vigor.

But because they dare to be different.

Previously? Strangers.

I'm not a perfectionist. Doing the number of things I do each week, it'd be impossible for me to be anything less than miserable if I were.

For the longest time, I'd feel shitty about not being able to speak more than two languages fluently. It might sound stupid to someone who doesn't speak any foreign languages, but I grew up bilingual, mostly. My parents have always spoken French and Turkish to me. I've studied many languages. By the time I came to the United States, I had studied German, English and Italian in some form or another. I've never officially studied French, though, and after I came here, each time I brought up the subject of taking Italian, my dad would say that I should first learn French. He figured if I couldn't speak it perfectly, it doesn't count. For the longest time, I agreed with him. Even though I'd already started learning sign language, I felt frustrated and didn't know which language to concentrate on first.

And then I went to Japan. I started learning Japanese and I loved it. I also decided it was better to speak seven languages half-assed than to speak three perfectly. So now, I study a language for as long as it's fun and I don't worry about how well or, not well, I speak it. I'll take more French classes when I'm good and ready, dammit!

Talking to my friend, Cheryl, tonight, I realized that I categorize the things I do into two categories: ones where I am a perfectionist and ones where I'm not.

I'm a perfectionist at my job. I try to give it one thousand percent. I figure since it's my main field, I should be the best at it that I can be.

I'm a perfectionist with my relationships. With my family and Jake and even my friends, I try really hard and beat myself up when things go wrong.

I'm a perfectionist with school. I work hard and attend all my classes. I spend umpteen hours studying to get a good grade. But mostly to learn.

But there's a long list of things where I don't feel the need to be a perfectionist. I feel it's okay for me not to be flawless with the saxophone, even though my teacher would claim otherwise. Actually, I don't feel the need to be perfect at most arts, like design, drawing, and architecture.

Okay, maybe not that long.

About two years ago, I decided to take up writing. And I've struggled since day one. I continuously thought that I sucked and the act gave me about equal amounts of grief and pleasure. I kept agonizing. I kept stopping and restarting.

Tonight I realized why.

Being an okay writer isn't fine with me. I want perfection.

And, unfortunately, there's no shortcut to perfection.

Previously? Introvert.

My friends, Natalia and Akshat, and I went to the opera tonight.

Natalia goes to the opera pretty much every other week and this was Akshat's first time. While I'm nowhere near Natalia's extreme, I've seen quite a few operas. As we sat in at the Metropolitan, Akshat asked about the average age of operagoers.

In my experience, the average age of opera viewers is in the forties. We tried to delve into the reasons of the lack of interest in younger people and we came up with some theories. The first issue that sprang to my mind is the cost. Good seats at the Met can go upwards of 150dollars. Natalia, rightfully, noted that our seats were a mere 25 dollars. Which might not sound high compared to the 150dollar Orchestra tickets, but 25 bucks is still quite a lot of money for some people.

Even if the opera were free, I still don't think it would be popular among teenagers. I'm not exactly sure why. I can think of a few possibilities, but nothing that I can put eloquently enough to say (as opposed to my regular level of eloquence here). If we were to start stereotyping enough to say teenagers don't like opera, we could also say the same thing about men. Most shots of men at the opera imagine the wife crying and the husband trying not to snore too loudly.

Obviously those are just stereotypes. But even stereotypes exist for a reason.

Almost every single opera has a ridiculously tragic and predictable plot. Here's a run down of tonight's plot: Gypsy puts a spell on man who has her killed because of it. Gypsy's daughter wants revenge and grabs one of the sons of the man to burn him at the fire the gypsy was burned at. The daughter makes a mistake and burns her own son and so she keeps the other one and brings him up as if he were her own. The man has another son who grows up thinking his brother is dead. The other son is in love with this woman who, of course, falls in love with the brother. The man finds out about the woman loving the brother and after a lot of hoopla, the woman they were in love with drinks poison to sacrifice herself. So the son kills the brother and then the gypsy's daughter tells him that the man he just killed was his brother. Tragedies galore. (the met's synopsis in case mine left you extremely confused.)

So I can't imagine anyone watches an opera for the enticing story, and from the seats we had the set is almost invisible. People look no bigger than ants. The only thing left is the music.

I'm not sure why others love or hate the opera, all I know is that I love it. I always have. The music pierces through my soul. I apologize if it sounds cheesy, but it really does. I feel totally engulfed and overwhelmed by it.

To me, opera is magic.

Previously? Motivations.

If I haven't mentioned earlier, my mom came to visit last weekend. Since I am unable to fly, she took the eleven-hour trip from Istanbul to New York. This inability to sit on a plane extends to other annoyances. For example, my back doesn't allow me to visit a museum with her. I can't go shopping either. All we could really do outside is eat and go to the movies. Only cause the theater is close to my house and I could return home if needed.

So we went to the movies last night. To be totally honest, it was a stupid movie, but still, I never realized how much we depend on people's manners. The couple sitting next to me must have confused the dark setting and Jennifer Lopez's soothing voice (or whiny as the case may be with her) for their own living room. They kept chit chattering and giggling throughout the movie. After a half hour of this maddening whispering, I turned to the guy and asked him to please stay quiet. I normally hate people who do that but it was truly unbearable.

So the couple practically ignores me and within a few minutes, I am fuming. I ask him to please shut up and he says that if I'm not happy I can move somewhere else. Which is when it hit me that there was absolutely nothing I can do. If the guy wanted to be a totally jerk and talk throughout the entire movie, I have no capacity to stop him. If this were a classroom, the teacher would act as the chaperone. In a museum, we have guards. In the library, librarians. But no one in a theater.

If the guy had turned really obnoxious, I probably could have called someone to kick him out, but there is nothing I can do unless the actions are totally out there. Before last night, I never realized how much we rely on people self-policing their manners. The only reason we don't act rude in public is cause we think we shouldn't. Amazing how often that is enough.

And I am really glad it is.

Oh and I passed the Japanese test that I took in November, so I rule!

Previously? Heart.

Sunday, my mother and I went to see Sweet November. I'm not going to talk about how the trailers give away everything or about Keanu's lack of acting ability.

If you've seen the movie trailers, you know that Charlize Theron's character asks Keanu's character to live with him for one month so she can let him out of the "box" he lives in. She lives a more liberated life and wants to help him achieve the same. Charlize is lovely. People love her, she's kind, she never works (at least not during the movie) and she does whatever she feels like. As the trailers showed, Charlize's character is sick. Very sick.

Which, of course, led me to think, how come we only let go when we've got no hope of living? Maybe it is just in the movies. But when I think of my life and the people surrounding me, I can't see one example of someone who truly does what he or she wants to be doing. Most of my acquaintances work too hard, too many hours in a job they don't like.

When I tell people that I work part-time the first thing most of them say is, "Oh I wish I had that deal." But they can. Of course they can. At least most of them. But they're too scared to ask. Just like I'm too scared to go off and live on a farm.

It seems the rewards are only valuable when the risks are not so high. If I know I'm only going to live fie more years, I'd live my life totally differently. I wouldn't work so hard, I'd probably still program but mostly for myself. I'd stop trying to lose weight. I'd call my friends more often and spend more time getting to know them. I wouldn't let any criticism get to me. I would travel to Antarctica and pet the penguins. (Well, they wouldn't bite me if they knew I was going to die, would they?) I would go skydiving.

What would you do if you only had a few years left?

Previously? Blah.

Jake and I went to see Chocolat last night. I'd read the book during Christmas and knew it would make a good Valentine movie.

When I saw Shine a few years ago I thought the very same thing that I thought last night. It's a shame parents feel the need to impose their choices onto their children. Both extremes of this need bother me. One, as the case was last night, is when the mother feels uncomfortable and decides it's time to move on regardless of the child's feelings about the matter. The other, which is sometimes more severe in my opinion, is when the parents live vicariously through their children. Take a mother who wanted to be a ballerina as a child but somehow never got to fulfill that dream, and you can be sure she's making her kid take ballet classes.

I just hope that when I have children, I will be more considerate of their feelings. I know there are times when things are unavoidable and I know that most parents don’t consciously hurt their children, but I just hope that I will be more aware. Maybe that's one of the reasons I work hard at not having regrets. I really hope I can raise my kids by paying attention to their own personalities and wants and needs.

The other interesting detail I noticed in the movie was a major change they added into the screenplay version. The Count, who is the mayor of the town in the movie, is the parish priest in the novel. In the book, he's the only character associated with the church (directly that is, all the other characters do go to church). In the movie version, there is a young parish priest and, if I'm not mistaken the Count helps him out but is not the religious figure himself (the Count is quite religious, but he's not the priest in the movie). Without giving away too much of the story I'll say that this young priest is totally different in personality that the Count.

The reason this made such a strong impact on me is that when I read the book, I got a very negative impression of the church and religion in general. Since the Count was the only one (actually in the book, his father plays a much bigger role in this matter as well) who represented the church, his negative personality and anger reflected upon religion, in a way making religious people seem close-minded and hateful. In the movie version, the young priest's existence took away the relationship between negative personality and religion. I assume the distinction was made consciously and, even though I'm not particularly religious, I applaud the change. I can't be sure if the writer has anything against the church itself, but I'm confident that some readers could have easily interpreted her book that way.

I don't appreciate sweeping generalizations of any kind. To say all gypsies are bad is the same as saying all conservative people are narrow-minded. Until you meet every single person in a "category" you can not make judgements a group of people. Every single human being is different and should be given credit as such.

All that from a movie about Chocolate.

Previously? Damn Sheep.

If you've been here before, especially lately, you might be aware that I seem to be hostage to severe mood fluctuations lately. Or maybe you have been here before and you're just not very insightful. Either way, Jake's had to work a lot lately due to some major changes in his job setup, so I've been having a lot of time to myself. Which, considering the aforementioned shifts in emotion, is not a particularly healthy thing.

So today, in an attempt to keep my mind busy, I went through the mp3 archives on my machine and clicked on random songs. If a picture is worth a thousand words, a tune must be worth a thousand memories. With the fist few notes of each song, I was transported somewhere in my past.

During high school, I spent a good three months desperately trying to memorize the dates of the wars the Ottoman Empire won and the agreements that resulted from these bloody messes. While I failed that class twice, I can easily recite you every word of every song I listened to back then. Not just the Turkish ones, either. I can spew out English, Italian, French and any other language, anything but the dates or names of those stupid agreements.

Not only can I remember the words to the songs but I also have specific scenes attached to each and every song. Even the ones I hated. The ones with painful memories. The ones that still make me cry. The ones that make me want to pick up the phone and call a friend with whom I should have kept in touch. (Ironically, I also remember all the phone numbers.) I can tell you where I was when I listened to it. Who I was with and how I felt.

So I decided to conduct an experiment. In an attempt to prove I'm not the only freak who remembers lyrics over historical dates and also to have some fun, I'm collecting evidence. If you care to entertain me and maybe help out restore some of my sanity, send me the title and singer of a song that, within the first ten or twenty seconds, causes scenes to replay before your eyes. I also want to know something about the memory. The amount of detail you choose to share is totally up to you. I'll put up a page with everyone's replies, so if you have a web page, make sure to list it in your mail so that I can link to it.

What are you waiting for? Tell me!

Previously? Destruction.

I had my last art class today. We had several student presentations. One girl picked hands as her topic. As she spoke I realized how much we convey through our hands. Some of the things she mentioned were really interesting. For example, how come we put our hand in our mouth when we're sad? We tend to inadvertently use our hands to symbolize our emotions. Think of when you're happy or sad or mad or excited. I remember when I took a public speaking class. The hardest part was to figure out what to do with my hands.

We had another presentation about cultures influencing each other. For example, he mentioned how Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon was painted over when he was influenced by African Art. If you look real closely at the woman on the lower right, you can see clear marks of something that was originally there and then erased to be painted over. The idea that Picasso erased his own work and put a darker complexion on the woman on the left and the masks (very much a tradition in African Art) on the two women on the right is quite fascinating.

One of the other students did her project on nudes. Her final image was Magritte's The Rape. What an amazing painting. Says so much, doesn't it?

Talking about figuring out what to do with my life, my friend Natalia sent me the following quote from Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being. "...we can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come..."

Previously?

Today's all about movies. In the last week, I've watched The Sixth Sense, X-Men and The Myth of Fingerprints. All of which I found enjoyable and thought provoking.

I don't watch horror movies. The last time I saw one, I was ten and my parents were divorced. I was in my father's house and my sister's friend was watching Happy Birthday To Me. I maybe saw three scenes but they were enough to give me nightmares for the next ten years. So I decided it wasn't a good idea for me to watch horror and I haven't watched a movie since. That's why I didn't see The Sixth Sense when it came out on theater. Little did I know that it really wasn't horror at all. Several months later, I made a friend explain the entire plot (including the major twist at the end) to me cause I knew I'd never see the movie and I was tired of hearing how awesome the ending was. Two weeks ago I convinced Jake to rent the DVD and we sat to watch it during the day (just in case it was scarier than people claimed). I knew the ending so I was watching for flaws and Jake was watching as a first time viewer. The movie was awesome and worth watching for both of us. For those of you who have seen it, the only potential flaw I saw was that Bruce's character's wife is cold at the end of the movie and the director claims that it's only cold when there are angry spirits around. Otherwise, all details were perfectly consistent. I loved how they used the red color as a symbol to represent the link between this world and the other and how beautifully they crafted each scene such that once you knew the ending you could go back and watch the entire movie again and not feel cheated. The neat thing about their twist was that it was the kind that allowed you to make such a choice. In Fight Club, once you learned the huge twist at the end, you couldn't go back and look for clues. In the book you could have but in the movie there was no way. That's only cause of the nature of the twist itself. Anyhow, if you still haven't seen The Sixth Sense, I totally recommend it and can say that it definitely wasn't a horror movie even though the music stresses you out the entire time.

X-men is another movie I resisted seeing in the theater but for a different reason. I figured it would be a waste of 20 bucks. And it would have been. While I enjoyed the movie a lot, I don't know that it was worth seeing in the theater. The effects were fantastic and there was somewhat of a plot and it kept my interest the whole time. So if you are into those kind of movies, X-men is much better than the usual quality.

I must say my first fascination with The Myth of Fingerprints was the name. What a neat title for a movie! Jake refused to see it in the theater so I had to wait till my TiVo picked it as a recommendation. I know that this movie was a small budget, not hyped movie but I really enjoyed it. I thought the setting was beautiful, the cinematography was awesome and the some of the acting was amazing. Both Noah Wyle and Julianne Moore performed very well and the story was interesting to me. I've written before about how thanksgiving seems to be a time when most families get together and fight and this movie is exactly about that. It's the thanksgiving holiday of a dysfunctional family. It made me think a lot about why people have the hang ups that they do and how much we get influenced by our family members. I also wondered about my values and limits. Would I be able to stand up to my parents if I knew they did something wrong? In my case, I believe the answer would be yes cause I have a very communicative family and we have mutual respect, but there are so many families where the kids will never be able to go against their parents. Even when they are adults. The movie highlights some of these issues and it's executed beautifully. I'm glad I finally got the chance to see it.

What was the last movie you saw that made you think?

Previously?

We watched Raising Arizona two nights ago. I know it's supposed to be one the greatest movies. I must tell you, I thought the movie is okay but it certainly wasn't anything amazing. The acting was fine but the story was stupid. I'm sorry but I just didn't get it.

On the other hand, The 400 Blows, or with its original name, Les Quatre cents coups, was wonderful. It's about a 12-year-old boy who is very mischievous to compensate for the terrible life he has at home. The movie made me think a lot about my family and how lucky I was to have parents who actually cared about me and paid attention to my life and feelings. It made me take a moment to thank them for being as amazing as they've been.

I love the recent HP ads about how amazon changed the way people shop. The one with the donut store where they talk about other people who enjoy the same type of donut is my favorite. I also like how they have many varieties. It stops them from getting boring and overplayed.

So Bush, as expected, won. Tho, again as expected, we're nowhere near the end. We've got about two more weeks before the absolute deadline comes and I wonder who will actually decide the next president of the United States. Sorry I keep talking about it but it totally fascinates me.

By this time next week, I will be done with my Japanese exam and will officially be in a one-month vacation from classes. Yeay!

Before?

Let me get to my point. At one point Abby, the wife, tells her best friend that she doesn't want to be with Buddy she'd be with him cause her husband died and she doesn't want to be doing that. Her friend, quite wisely, says, "Whether it's Buddy now or another man one year later, you'll be with him cause Greg died." To me, that was one of the most brilliant lines of the movie, cause while her friend was totally right, I'd never thought about it that way. It made me realize how shortsighted I'd been.

The movie sparked up a lot of interesting thoughts in me about how every single choice we make affects our life. Most importantly, the choices we don't make do, too. The path we decide not to travel and the options we pass on. Every single thing we do and don't do has a bearing not only on our lives but possibly on many other people's as well. Kinda freaky when you think about it...

My friend, Steven, emphasized a sad fact about my personality, recently, when we talked about my upcoming Japanese exam.

He asked, "So, what happens if you fail this exam?"

"Nothing."

"So what happens if you pass?"

"Nothing."

Talk about self-inflicted stress...

Before?

Too tired to have pithy thoughts tonight. I think I am going to go to bed so I can get up and get some work done tomorrow.

I have some strong opinions about what weblogs are and are not but I will have to save them until I have time to sit down and type legibly. Let me just say that no one is allowed to tell you what you can or should put on your web page. It's yours dammit. You get to decide all of its contents.

Before?

I spent the entire day writing my novel, literally. I started at 10am and wrote all the way till 5pm. It was draining but I wrote the most important chapter. I figure if I can write this chapter, I can write this book. So I think I can say that the day was successful. Yeay.

We also watched Microcosmos an amazing movie about insects. If you like animals as much as I do, you can't miss this movie. I first saw it with my mother in London and I was so awestruck by it that I've been recommending it ever since. It's truly a work of art. Trust me, you'll love it.

I was talking to a friend the other day about the elections and he mentioned how different life would have turned out if Nixon hadn't conceded in 1960. What would that have meant about Vietnam? Could Kennedy possibly still be alive if he hadn't been president?

Before?

My excuse? I went to the Opera baby! Not just any opera, it was Carmen, the queen of operas. I'd seen Carmen many years ago in Turkey and loved it. It's a great opera to bring first-timers to since so many of the songs will sound familiar. Anyhow, it was magnificent and I'm glad I went.

If you ever wondered where the ideas for soap operas came from, here's the culprit. When I was little, we never had subtitles in the opera. I would read the story and try to guess the point I was at. Three years ago, when I went to see my first Met Opera, La Traviata, I got to actually follow the story line by line for the first time. I bawled. I cried so hard that people were staring. Operas are so sad and they're always about love. But the pace of the change of emotion is almost hilariously fast. There's a scene where Don Jose says, "I will never leave you, Carmen. I will never leave you. All right, you win, I'm leaving." All in one breath. We watch these operas with awe and excitement and yet we laugh at the soaps? Sure sounds inconsistent to me.

I stayed up till 2am last night. I heard Florida called for Gore, I heard it taken back. Jake woke me up at 3am, telling me that Bush won. I woke up at 6 to find out that Bush hadn't won, yet. This year's election is a historical one in so many ways that it was the perfect year to get obsessed with politics. This year, it all comes down to a single state. It possibly even comes down to the international absentee ballots in that state. We have a First Lady senator, a possible equality in the senate, a senator winning posthumously, and a case where the popular vote might be different than the electoral one. Too many incredible statistics all in one. How can you possibly not care? I'm just pissed I didn't get to vote.

Before?

We also talked about perception. We looked at this wooden African piece where a woman sat kneeled. On top of her is a male figure. Many of us, who have been raised in a semi-Western culture, immediately assumed this to be a subservient position. Actually, in this example, the woman symbolized the woman as the higher being, the main cause of support. She's the source of power. Isn't it interesting how much we assume?

Did I mention that there is no equivalent of "bless you" in Japanese? I have an issue with that. It's so weird to me that a society that places so much importance on being formal and correct and polite has no word for 'bless you'. Talk about cultural differences....

Tomorrow is vote-day. Please vote. I can't but if you can, please do. It makes a huge deal of difference, especially this time.

Before?

I went to the museum with my class and we looked at several pieces. We surrounded a painting and played a game called the Delayed Judgement Activity. In this activity, you reserve all of your judgement and make objective statements about the piece. For example, "This woman looks happy" is subjective while "This painting has four women and a man" is objective. So we went around three times and tried making our statements as objective as possible. The neat thing about the activity is that it's a group-activity. One person makes a statement and we all ponder whether that's really objective or not. This process causes each observer to notice things that she or he hadn't paid attention to before the exercise. The painting, therefore, completely transforms right before your eyes. It's really magical.

By the way, the practice of separating objective from subjective is really difficult and requires a personal effort, especially when talking about an artistic object.

Before?

By the way, the woman I mentioned last week, the non self-conscious one, is a nudist. And she's a therapist. I thought that might add a bit more color to her description.

As I sat in class, looking at the modern paintings, I kept thinking about how unappealing they were to me. I've always been a fan of Renaissance paintings. I love studying them and finding out about the history and the time period and why the painter thought to put that specific image. The paintings of that period are all about symbolism and if you have studied some art history, you can know the story behind each symbol. To me, that's like sharing a secret between the painter and you. Even though, I know that everyone of that period knew the specific symbols, people who don't study art history don't know them and can't look for the specific clues, like the image of Michelangelo's face on the dead skin in The Last Judgement. To me, that’s like having a sneak peak into the painter’s mind. When I look at the modern paintings, I just don’t see that. I’m not saying that one has to, I’m just saying that I like to.

Before?

First, self-consciousness. There is a lady in my art class who doesn't seem to have any of it. She speaks her mind loudly and most opinionatedly all the time. When a slide is shown, she'll say 'it sucks' even if the work is displayed in one of the local museums. It's not that she's standing up for herself, she's actually being obnoxious and calling other people's opinions wrong, etc. But the interesting thing is that the entire class is aware of this. We all look at each other each time she speaks in such a manner. It's so obvious to everyone that she's being rude that I always wonder why it isn't to her. Can she really not tell? Is it that she doesn't care? Or that she's totally unaware? As I live my life on this side of dangerously aware, I often find myself wondering about people who have overcome the trap of self-consciousness.

Now onto the second word. Self-confidence. As someone who seems to have a collection of achievements and a total lack of self-confidence, I am interested in what makes people so self-secure. I certainly didn't lack any love, on the contrary, my family made me feel appreciated and loved at all times. They've told me repeatedly how proud of me they feel. Same for friends. I have a loving boyfriend with whom I've spent the last six years of my life and real dependable friends. What is the answer? What is it that I seem to be missing? The one thing that will make everything click and have me feel better about myself. How do some people turn out confident while others, like me, worry about every little thing? Is everyone secretly self-conscious?

Sorry about all this self-pity. I guess thinking about my novel makes me ponder a lot about humankind and what makes it tick.

Before?

The premise of the movie is so pure and well intentioned that you can't help but feel as you watch it. And it comes back to the good old question of Can You Save The World? The very idea of the answer being no makes me terribly unhappy. You can't give up. You really can't. If everyone stopped trying how would the world ever improve? Sorry to preach and meddle. Who am I to tell you what to do? But the thought of people not caring makes me so very miserable that I cannot not say a thing. Please try to think back to the thing that made you jaded and get rid of it. You really can make a difference. On so many levels. If we lose hope, what do we have left?

Sorry, a little too carried away by the movie and the realm of possibilities. I think I'd better go to sleep.

Before?

The fast is over. Another year has passed.

My mom and I watched a wonderful movie today called Hasards ou coïncidences by the famous Claude Lelouch. I had seen Les Uns et Les Autres by him many years ago and loved it. That movie is responsible for making me a huge fan of Ravel’s Bolero. It’s been a really long time since I watched an entire movie in French with no subtitles. I must say I suffered quite a bit but I did understand enough to make it all the way to the end. Gotta brush up on my French more. That’s another advantage to being home. I get to hear tons of it.

If you do speak or understand French, I highly recommend the above two movies. Or many others by the same director.

Before?

Tonight's the vice-presidential debate. No matter what the outcome, I'm sure this one's bound to be more interesting. Make sure to watch it.

Just finished seeing Me Myself I, a British independent movie. I think. The movie is about a woman who gets to find out how her life would have turned out if she had accepted the marriage proposal of her ex-boyfriend. It's neat little movie and it has a feel-good ending. What I got out of it was that things end up just fine regardless of which road you pick. Life is what you make it. If you decide to be happy, you will be. It's all about the attitude, baby! Make your life what you've always wanted it to be.

We just got phone spam. I've had many hangups and telemarketer calls before but I've never ever had anyone call me about a web site. Today's message told us to hurry up and grab names in the ".ws" domain before they're all gone. Weirdos.

Before?

In the morning class, two interesting things came up. One was the use of the word "primitive." Whatever the initial intentions, the word has evolved to have pejorative meanings. And, in this side of the world, is often used in conjunction with African Art and the likes of such. We were discussing how that's really a matter of judging and bias and prejudice and a student mentioned that it could also just be a means to categorize and asked what a more appropriate word would be. The teacher suggested primary as an alternative. It's interesting, to me, how we can easily refer to other culture's traditions, artwork, products as primitive without noticing that we're judging them with our word choices.

The other topic of discussion that I noted to mention was about walking through a museum. A student asked the teacher if he knew any tricks about how to view an exhibition. The teacher said that in the cases of a special exhibition (which draws a larger crowd since those are only around for a limited time) it's a good idea to start from the end. This way you get to avoid the crowds and to look at things in a different perspective. He also advised looking at pieces which weren't surrounded by crowds. Paying attention to what others avoided. We also talked about whether people like or dislike listening to the audio information (which is available at some museums and it gives you detailed information about the piece, mentioning it's period and other historical facts). How do you like to visit a museum? Do you like people to tell you what the pieces mean or do you like to not know anything and just feel them?

During my novel writing class, an interesting discussion surrounded the topic of dislikable characters. Would you read a book that had a protagonist you really hated? One that was truly evil? One that was immature? Why? What makes you come back and look for more? Are you only interested in characters you can relate to? All interesting questions for an author.

I also noticed how I think about my novel all the time, unconsciously. As I was explaining my plotline and setting to another student in the class, I noticed that I was saying things that were new to me. It was as if I had figured out the purpose and the tone of the novel without realizing it. It seems I think about it even when I don't realize it. Why else would all these ideas roll of my tongue on the spur of the moment?

Before?

Anyhow, my original point was about how people who play sports also put themselves out there to be freely critiqued. In the movie, they have a scene were Foxx's character is playing his first game and he throws up. Afterwards, he helps score a touchdown. That night, the TV stations only show the throwing up. I guess the rest wasn't sensational enough.

Anytime someone's work is watched or read by public, we all feel justified in judging the person. While the rewards of public recognition might be immeasurable for some people, the more common bashing requires one to have a thick skin.

These people have the impossible job of pleasing everyone.

Until this year, I used to watch at least 2 hours of TV every night. I can't seem to work without the TV on. I need the noise. I've been this way since I was a little kid. During college, people would come in and out of my room at all hours and point at the TV, which was located behind me, and ask why I watched an infomercial about a cooking instrument. I had no idea what actually played on TV at any moment, I just enjoyed the noise.

Last December, I went to Japan for a six-month business trip. Going six months with no TV was a dreadful thought. Luckily, I have a portable DVD player and friends with tons of DVDs. I took over 60 movies with me. With the help of the movies and MBTV, I survived. Now that I'm back here and the new season's about to start, I'm wondering whether it's a good idea to return to watching all that TV. To be fully honest, the MBTV recaps are a lot more fun.

As with all of Crowe's movies that I've seen, I left the theater with a great feeling of happiness and ambition. I felt good and kind and powerful and kinda happy to be living. Cheesy, I know, but it's been a long week and I truly did enjoy this movie. I'm too tired to write more about it tonight, so go check it out and I will talk more about it later.

Nitey Nite.

It always makes me laugh when the TV person says, "Don't go anywhere, we'll be right back." Is there really anyone who stays just cause the chick on TV said so? Just wondering.

I used to be a huge award-show fan. I remember when we used to stay up all night to watch the live Oscar awards in Turkey. It's all just gone downhill.

While on the subject of MTV, I'd also like to say that I hate the Real World. Actually I hate all 'realistic' shows including Survivor. I can't pinpoint the exact source of my dislike but I have a hunch it might have something to do with the extremely annoying people who like to be on the show.

The subway station by my house has several exits. One of them always closes by 7pm. Night after night, I see people walk towards the door, after seven, and shake the chains. I wonder what they're thinking. Are they hoping the chains will crumble under the sheer force of their hands? Or do they think they can will the chains away? Humans are weird creatures.

Here, in New York, it's pouring. What a great way to end a terrible summer. Weather-wise, that is. I sure hope it gets better tomorrow or it'll be kinda pointless to travel all the way to the Vineyard.

Double Indemnity, on the other hand, was very good. My favorite part is where he says he couldn't hear his footsteps. I liked that image.

Oh and let's not forget about Whipped, opening this weekend.

Quite a selection we've got.

We also watched BASEketball which I don't really think should qualify as a movie.

Happy Birthday Cheryl!

In other, really bad, news, Zapata corp decided to focus away from word.com. As a fan of word, I find this news quite terrible.

I've seen the Monster ad about kids telling they want loser jobs many times before but each time I smile and enjoy it over again. That, to me, is the real power of an ad. Most quirky ads are interesting the first time around but as repeated they get annoying. If it has lasting power, then the company did a good job.