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 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’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.

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.

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’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.