Author Archives: oinsketta

Ahimsa Boy without a net

Arriving at the meeting at 6:13, carrying $95 of Thai food he just paid cash for, Ahimsa Boy is greeted by a dour “6:15, my ass.”

“6:14,” Ahimsa Boy notes, “and yes, your ass.”

On his way to the meeting, about fundraising, specifically crowdfunding, he is asked about something he didn’t put on the agenda and then challenged: If you haven’t sought to become a Vendor for the NYC DOE yet, what are we funding if the business is so limited?  Never mind the exhaustive list of things we need to fund to make the business viable and sustainable that he has sent out twice in preparation for the meeting.

At the meeting Ahimsa Boy is told not be be a control freak, to give others autonomy and let them be creative.  He mildly points out that this is his fondest wish, it’s just that he has been doing 99% of all the work, since there is nobody to relinquish control to.

After showing the first draft of a very short eye-catching animation appetizer, intended to catch the attention of people with a ten second internet attention span, he’s told:  not enough kids, bad advertisement, doesn’t give a sense of what the program does, won’t make people want to give money, needs a watermark with the website in the corner of every frame so people know how to contact you.   Then when he explains that none of those things are the purpose of this quick blur of color and invention, he is told to stop being defensive and censoring people.

“There are a thousand reasons the thing won’t work, all we need is the one reason that it will” he holds up signs saying this.

This is interpreted, in real time, as a not subtle invitation to drink a big, cold beaker of “shut the fuck up” and he is told as much.

“So you don’t want us to give our honest opinions, you just want us to tell you everything you’re doing is great.”

A rhetorical question, Ahimsa Boy assumes, then takes a breath and tries to give a gentle answer.

But I’ll tell you something, the strain of being Ahimsa Boy without a net, doing all the heavy lifting and smiling at people who mostly give the minimum, if they show up at all, and want credit for being your biggest supporters, with the right to tell you constructively how much most of what you’re doing misses the mark: priceless.

Sekhnet’s edit

She had a good idea, which others have also mentioned to me over the last year.  Keep a log of cool things the kids do, one or two a week.  Keep people interested in the unfolding story of a remarkable project.   Here’s her edit of a recent post:

At the end of a hectic animation session I assembled the wild little animators around me on the carpet to do the soundtrack.  A wonderful multi-track looper app was open on the iPad, a five-way headphone splitter plugged in.   Four kids and I put on the headphones.

I had them listen to the beat, which Amza had tapped in to set the tempo for the metronome.  My only instruction:  do something along with the beat when I point at you.  I realized quickly it was best to give each a track of their own, to be able to fade things in and out and get rid of any noise, while preserving anything that might be great on its own track.  It also kept the rest of them quiet and allowed the one making the track to hear him or herself think.  It is crucial to be able to hear yourself when making music with others.

“When I point to you, say how old you are” and I pointed to Amza who rapped out, “I am eight eight eight eight”, and then to Natalie who sang “I am Te-ehn!” and around the circle it went, Kazu, who deadpanned “I am ten” then Auden, “I am eight eight eight eight” and so forth.  Amza then sang a ditty right out of the history of Afghanistan, where his mother is from.  Natalie sang a wild and melodic loop that sounded like “Magical Purpose” sung three times, but which I realized, after 1,000 listenings during overdubs, was probably “Magical Puppies.”  Headphones were rotated to kids who didn’t have a chance to record.  The others all kicked in manic parts, I said goodbye, and they were off. 

When I got home and began mixing it down I was struck by the variety, the creativity, the fact that they were all singing in the same key, and none of them did anything that conflicted with the beat.  I was amazed. It was rocking.

Mike Gets It

One of the after school programs where we do the workshop provides a helper, a counselor, a guy we’ll call Mike (since that’s his name).  Mike came in the first time with a drill sergeant demeanor, herding the kids, telling them sternly to stay in their seats and be quiet.

This was not really the vibe we need in the workshop, the first rule is move around to where you’re comfortable, keep moving if you like.  The second is to talk about what you’re planning to do.  

There was a minor clash that first time, the second time was a little easier.  By the third session Mike felt no need to discipline the kids, since they were all busy and involved with what they were doing.  Last week I pointed something out to Mike.

“Damn…” he said, and I nodded.  Four kids were animating at the animation stand by themselves, two moving the things on the animation stand, two photographing.  

“And in the full two-hour workshop another couple of kids would be at the computer editing and working on the soundtrack while the other kids were animating,” I pointed out.   He was impressed.

This week Mike was animating.  Sitting by ten year-old Jacob, the two of them enthralled by a Muybridge sequence I’d shown them,  Mike said “I’ll help you,” and was soon diligently working on a sequence of a running man.

By the end of the session Mike was as giddy as many of the kids sometimes get after a session of animation.

“Lily,” I called out to the girl who was trying to get her book back from Mike, who was holding it just out of her reach, “leave Mike alone.”

And Mike, rather than barking at the kids to stay in their seats, threw his head back and laughed.

Music Sweet Music

At the end of a hectic animation session on too little sleep Thursday, ignoring a couple of the fathers, who were waiting to pick up their kids after the workshop, I assembled the wild little animators around me on the carpet to do the soundtrack.   Loopy, a wonderful multi-track looper app was open on the iPad, a five-way headphone splitter plugged in.   Four kids and I put on the headphones.

I pointed to the clock, it was 4:55.  Not enough time, I noted, we really needed the 25 minutes I was trying to get while they were ignoring my attempts to get the room cleaned up and ready, but anyway…

I had them listen to the beat, which Amza had tapped in to set the tempo for the metronome.  My only instruction:  do something along with the beat when I point at you.  I realized quickly it was best to give each a track of their own, to be able to fade things in and out and get rid of any noise, while preserving anything that might be great on its own track.  It also kept the rest of them quiet and allowed the one making the track to hear him or herself think.  It is crucial to be able to hear yourself when making music with others.

“When I point to you, say how old you are” and I pointed to Amza who rapped out, “I am eight eight eight eight”, and then to Natalie who sang “I am Te-ehn!” and around the circle it went, Kazu, who deadpanned “I am ten” then Auden, “I am eight eight eight eight” and so forth.  Amza then sang a ditty right out of the history of Afghanistan, where his mother is from.  Natalie sang a wild and melodic loop that sounded like “Magical Purpose” sung three times, but which I realized, after 1,000 listenings during overdubs, was probably “Magical Puppies.”  The others all kicked in manic parts, I said goodbye, and they were off.   I stayed behind to finish cleaning up and then took my assistant for a burger.

When I got home and began mixing it down I was struck by the variety, the creativity, the fact that they were all singing in the same key, and none of them did anything that conflicted with the beat.  I was amazed as I began to dub a bass track and some more percussion to go with the metronome that was on the track.  I added an electric piano playing a simple pop chord change.  It was rocking.

Then the devil got into me.  I couldn’t stop.  There’s a piano playing the theme, then a bluesy riff that goes against the beat and the bass line.  It was impossible to resist adding a guitar part, inspired by Stochelo Rosenberg by way of Eric Clapton, then another, then a tenor ukulele.  Every time I listened to the finished track I thought of something else that needed to be added.  And I went back and added it.

Played back against the already frenetic animation, it’s useless as a soundtrack.  Very good to listen to while walking a few miles, as I intend to do presently, but relentlessly hectic, preventing the mind from focusing on what it is watching, turning the animation into a nightmare of over-amped wildness, instead of a cool melange of new and groovy ideas.

Oh, well.  The technique works beautifully, and augurs well going forward, even if not the hopped up use I put this first experiment to.  As I told a kid, who sounded truly shocked to hear it, we learn the most by trying something and failing– and then trying it again.

I know whereof I speak.

Transcription of a wonderful narration by an old Dutch man

I listen to this frequently to remind myself of the privilege of walking around in this world:

Do you think this is just another day in your life?

It’s not just another day, it’s the one day that is given to you today.  It’s given to you, it’s a gift.  It’s the only gift that you have right now and the only appropriate response is gratefulness.

If you do nothing else but to cultivate that response to the great gift that this unique day is, if you learn to respond as if it were the first day in your life and the very last day, then you will have spent this day very well.

Begin by opening your eyes and be surprised that you have eyes you can open, that incredible array of colors that is constantly offered to us, for pure enjoyment.

Look at the sky.  We so rarely look at the sky.  We so rarely note how different it is from moment to moment, with clouds coming and going.   We just think of the weather, and even of the weather we don’t think of all the many nuances of weather.   We just think of good weather and bad weather.   This day, right now, is unique weather, maybe a kind that will never, exactly in that form, come again.  The formation of clouds in the sky would never be the same as it is right now.   Open your eyes, look at that.

Look at the faces of people whom you meet, each one has a incredible story behind their face, a story that you could never fully fathom.  Not only their own story, but the story of their ancestors.   We all go back so far.  And in this present moment, on this day, all the people that you meet, all that life from generations and from so many places all over the world, flows together and meets you here like a life giving water, if you only open your heart and drink.

Open your heart to the incredible gifts that civilization gives to us.   You flip a switch and there is electric light, you turn a faucet and there is warm water, and cold water, and drinkable water.   It’s a gift that millions and millions  in the world will never experience.    And these are just a few of an enormous number of gifts to which we can open your heart.  

And so I wish you that you will open your heart to all these blessings, and let them flow through you– that everyone whom you will meet on this day will be blessed by you.  Just by your eyes, by your smile, by your touch, just by your presence.

Let the gratefulness overflow into blessing all around you.   And then it will really be a good day.

Hypertension

I went to bed by three last night, so as to have eight hours’ sleep before the workshop today.   It’s always best to be well rested when I walk into that humming beehive where I have to be alert and present for two hours to oversee the magic.
I was exhausted and ready for the sleep, but my eyes popped open at 5:46 and pretty much stayed that way.  I’d have thought it would be easy to catch up on my sleep, since I was up early the day before, sucked down a coffee and dashed up to the Allen Pavilion to get a flu shot and have my high blood pressure checked.  The last time I’d been there my blood pressure had been high (though my cholesterol was 160).  The doctor’s face turned into a tarsier’s, his eyes like two saucers, as he read the monitor.  He told me not to worry, his eyes still not back to their normal size, to take a couple of deep breaths, and my blood pressure remained very close to stroke range.
The Nurse Practitioner who gives the shots is a woman I don’t recall ever meeting.  She’d been extremely snippy to me on the phone when I called with an increasingly uncomfortable pus filled thumbnail in August.  In the old days I’d have been growling at her over what an asshole she’d been when I’d called with a medical emergency and she gave me attitude when I called back a third time in four hours of increasing discomfort.   She’d lectured me, instead of apologizing for acting like a jerk, and not having the receptionist pass on the information she finally gave me about where to have it lanced.  
At the time it really burned me up.  But, nowadays, being fucking Ahimsa Man, I was mild and pleasant with her. Had a most pleasant chat, and I told her about the constant stress I am under trying to scale a great idea that works into a business that can sustain itself and the people who work for it.  As she put the cuff on she said– “oh, off the record….” and told me about a group at Columbia Business School that offers free help to start-up businesses.  My blood pressure?  108/70, twice.
 
No matter that the deadline for getting help from these MBA students turns out to have been 9/6.  I’ll fill out the application for the highly competitive freebie, they review them on a rolling basis.
 
But now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to be late for the workshop– on 4 1/2 hours’ sleep.

Poison

A man who dreams of fame when he is young, and gets no fame, does not always recover the joy he once had in doing the thing he dreamt would make him famous.  Painful memories of failure creep in, thoughts of brave ventures undertaken with élan, come to bad ends.

 In a moment of spirit he may turn up his amplifier too loud and blast a scream to drown out everything else.   That there can be little music in this moment is of no import, the thing is to wail.

 2

Winners come up with winning plans, they dream practical, profitable dreams.  They get someone to produce a product they can sell.  They build profit into each transaction and make a healthy profit on the work of everyone who works for them.

Losers come up with idealistic plans that are difficult to explain and harder to monetize.  They imagine that a good heart, patience, a nonhierarchical program with great creative potential, and generosity of spirit will lead to good things.  They are set up to fail, because without a product people want to buy, and profit built into the selling of that product, they will never do more than dream of what might have been.  A recipe for bitterness, if you ask me (though I know you didn’t).

Dialogue is, sadly, not always possible

I got the following email, from an old friend who has become decidedly right-leaning since 9/11, with this subject line:

Increasing Clouds and hunderstorms for Climate Alarmists, by Paul Driessen from Townhall

Excerpt:  “In short, our Earth’s climate may well changing, as it has repeatedly throughout history. But the changes are natural, and they are thus far hardly catastrophic – nothing like the wooly mammoth ice ages or Little Ice Age, and little different from any of the 20th century. Moreover, the changes are natural in origin. They are not due to humans, and they are not occurring in ways the alarmists and their models predicted

We truly need hydrocarbon energy: to lift more people out of poverty, maintain our living standards, and ensure the wealth and technology to adapt to any climate changes that nature may visit upon us (with or without some contribution from human carbon dioxide). Climate alarmism undermines all of this.”  

http://townhall.com/columnists/pauldriessen/2013/10/20/increasing-clouds-and-thunderstorms-for-climate-alarmists-n1728001/page/full

And, because we’d agreed many times, as recently as last week, to avoid partisan political discourse, I wrote back with this bark of anguish:

Don’t send me this kind of thing, OK?  The visible and toxic shroud of man-made pollution over much of the world has nothing to do with climate, fine, let’s pretend we agree the only problem here is those goddamned agitating, lying commies who want to end capitalism.
 
Her reply:
Jeez Eliot, I sent you a scholarly piece which showed how more and more scientists are coming together (across the previous divide)!
My reply:
“Climate Alarmists” is a term developed by the fossil fuel industry and their public relations machine to dismiss the science behind human activity’s role in global warming (there was an excellent Frontline piece on this branding of “alarmists” a couple of years ago).  The term is deliberately dismissive, these scientists are hysterical, alarmists.   It would be like me sending you a scholarly article from Al Gore headlined “sun sets on climate change deniers”, no matter how scholarly the article might be.
 
Oh darn, in popping on to google to get the link to the Frontline piece, I had to scroll through a full screen of posts debunking the “hooey” — by those who believe Global Warming to be a commie hoax– of Frontline’s ham-fisted hatchet job on Climate Change Skeptics.  
Note–  alarmists vs. skeptics. Who are you going to believe?   We are not deniers, dear, we’re simply informed skeptics seeking to allay the damage done by biased alarmists with a political agenda.  
Sheesh.

Sending a Severed Head by email

Honestly (not really), I wonder what’s wrong with me sometimes.  

I ponder the lack of response I often get and never stop to consider that what I think of as a delightful six second animated snapshot of true friendship and whimsy may actually be a grisly severed head.  

Errors in judgment and misguided thinking happen all the time.  Look at the otherwise highly intelligent people who believe barbaric, destructive things and spend millions to convince others of these repugnant beliefs.  

So I suppose I should be philosophical at the virtually unanimous aghast silence that met this latest emailed monstrosity.  One brings it on oneself when one appoints oneself a spokesman for friendship and creativity in a world that commodifies everything, most especially time.

You be the judge:  http://vinebox.co/u/wsEcbPUF5lE/wdsh1bQVTUo

Maren's monster

 

Three Minute Drill– Gratefulness Journal

I pop open the little black gratefulness journal I’ve been carrying to make notes in while I ride the subway.  I wonder if my friend is using his to record the many daily opportunities to feel grateful.  Some of the entries may seem weak, but I’m grateful not to worry about that.

F 10-18 

Friday– running late, as so often I run, grateful that bitter silence does not manage to drown a dream I’ve dreamed since I started dreaming.

Th 10-17

Vulnerability is an ambiguous gift, it makes you worry about accepting it.  There are other great gifts like that, for sure.  If I didn’t have fear, I couldn’t be brave.

M 10-14

gratefulness is its own reward

Sat 10-12

gratefulness for excitement over ideas

gratefulness for ideas

gratefulness for being grateful

I know you are, but what am I?

Image