Neutrality as kick in the pants

Though there are circumstances where neutrality is a virtue, such as when a person in a black robe is applying the blunt instrument of the law to a vicious conflict, there are many others where neutrality is a hard sidekick to the crotch.

One need only think of Switzerland’s puckish neutrality– we are fair, we are decent, we don’t take sides– standing suavely and stoically aside as Mr. Hitler did his very best to wipe out millions of people he hated.

The neutrality I’m thinking of is on a more personal level.   When seeking comfort from a friend, say the confirmation that you are right to feel aggrieved, for example, if you receive a neutral response, it will not comfort you.  It will ring, in the way these things do, and leave the unpleasant melody hideously repeating, never to be resolved — maybe I really am a jerk to feel hurt by that?   The confirmation from a loved one that you are right to be hurt is worth 1,000 Switzerlands brokering deals with scrupulous fairness between Nazis and those who hate Nazis.

Plus, sixty years later, you won’t likely learn of the neutral party’s complicity in war crimes, stolen art treasures and the laundering of loot plundered from people sent to their deaths by a regime that, arguably, by the logic of neutrality, is no different from the one fighting it.

I Love Music (Just as long as it’s groovin’)

The O’Jays, a group of singers who knew a few things about how to work a groove, had a great hit called “I Love Music”. It’s here, for anybody who wants to hear it right away.  It speaks so well for me, as it pumps through the computer speakers,  that I have almost nothing to add here at the moment.

But it would not be like me to hold tongue or pen, especially now, trying to remain conscious not to speak ill of anyone, and having only good things to say.

Here at 2:27 goes that great guitar, sallying into the mix like a saxophone.  I’m no expert, but when I hear a mix like this I know what moves me– and I’d spin this disk again just to hear that guitar break.  Then at 4:19, presumably that same guitar player starts making with the jazzy riffs.   Hot damn, the bongos and everything, that percussion section, the piano, bass– all kicking in to make that joyful noise.  Here come some strings and the vocalists come back, everyone leaving room for the others.

I started off nodding along to a mix of a recent jam session very well recorded in a basement in San Francisco, wondering idly where this love of a groove comes from.  Part of the answer is this track by the O’Jays, it seems to me.  Also beloved to me, that space in between the instruments, where they put their parts down against the others, listening intently as they dream their own dreams.   Best image I know of the best way to live your life.

The enduring injuries of childhood

Some, I imagine, did not receive traumatizing injuries during their upbringing.  I would like to meet and talk to someone who didn’t some day.   Most people I know, in a candid moment, will describe self-hatred, shame, rage, humiliation, terror, depression and several other shades of pain they don’t deserve   My father, at 80, on his death bed, admitted for the first time how the brutality he’d endured as a child had doomed him to live in a black and white world, holding off rooms full of potential abusers wherever he went, instead of using his great gifts to bring more color into the world.

No tears for us, please.  Like the fact that we all die, that injuries we suffered as young children endure is no mystery, nor anything to get tearful about.  How do we face the fact of our eventual deaths?  Outside of not thinking about it, by living as well as we can.   How do we endure the enduring hurts of childhood, even as adults, even as tough people who would rather kick somebody’s ass than admit how much we hurt?  That is hard work and does not yield to a simple answer.

We pay careful attention, think unhurriedly, use our words to describe things as clearly as we can.  We model the way we want others to treat us.  We do not do to others what we hate done to ourselves.  We consciously work to do better, to replace an angry reflex with a kind gesture.   It’s not easy, or, even, it must be admitted, in some cases, even  possible.  People may be too damaged, too bitter, crazy, anxious, desperate, invested in the needs of their egos or their justifiable rage to even imagine another way to live their lives.  Imagining a better way to live is the first step, like imagining anything is the first step to anything different.

No time at the moment to do anything but the best I can.  And wish strength to you to do the same.

Writing is as easy as crapping to some people

And when I say writing is as easy as crapping to some people, I’m not talking about people who don’t move their bowels once or twice every day.

Guy writes:

And my apology to anyone who may have felt slighted or stepped on by me as I attempted to chair an open and productive meeting.  

I’d intended to mention the changes in myself (in addition to the changes in the group and in certain kids that we discussed) that I attribute to developing, and working in, the program:

increased patience, decreased temper
increased ability to focus and listen 
sense of purpose and accomplishment
regular recharge of the creative batteries from the kids
general satisfaction and more gratefulness
increased confidence
 
I think these are all real benefits.  I predict that many of them will be shared by anybody working in the program.   They will only increase when an actual living wage is attached to the work.

His biggest supporter, not buying any of this pie in the sky rhetoric, responds:

So…I’m not sure why you get defensive when the people who are your biggest supporters share ideas.   It’s kind of ironic when your motto is “We hear you” and then hold up a sign that is not supportive of expression.
 
I am in this primarily because of our friendship and desire to be a part of something that brings you joy and open hearted devotion.   Secondarily, my desire to be a part of something that inspires children’s creativity…… Not on my list at all…..is living up to anyone’s expectations….and certainly no desire to burn out or to be burned.
                  He spends the next day or two, instead of focusing on several important things he needs to do, figuring out how to reply to his biggest supporter’s peevishness without expressing how much her approach once again scorches his ass.  He thinks about the expression-crushing sign he held up “there are 1,000 reasons the thing won’t work, all we need is the one reason that it will” and shakes his head.    After all, sitting at a meeting criticizing all attempts that are not hitting the mark is valuable to everyone but an overbearing asshole, no?
As I said above, writing is as easy as crapping to some people.  That said, some people do not find it that easy to move their bowels.
That said, somebody who does not know the first thing about business:  financing, pricing, branding, advertising, marketing, accounting, leveraging, partnering, brokering, managing, staffing, HR, IT, etc., has no business dreaming big fucking dreams about helping kids in misery he has never even met.  It makes no difference that his program works– it only really works if it attracts investors and succeeds.
Better to help himself, I say.  Learn to get up at dawn and work 15 hours a day like everybody else who has a dream worth dreaming.
And try crapping less, my writerly friend.  Words are only worth something when you sell them in America.

Bigfooted By A Billionaire

Imagine getting to sit down with a magnate in your field, someone who can open any door, introduce you to the people you need to meet.   A man who loves ideas tells you he likes your idea very much and wants to help.  Only trouble is, there’s a stretch limo waiting for him downstairs, you may have seen it on your way in.   It was sent for him by his former intern, now, at age 26, about to become a very, very wealthy man.  Touching that the kid would send the limo for his old mentor, he was a teenager when he worked for the magnate for free.  A brilliant kid, a great kid.  Anyway, not to waste time– and I promise you a full meeting at a later date– but in four minutes or so, fill me in.

So you fill him in.  And as it’s your idea, and you know every detail of it intimately, and you’re a bright kid yourself, you are able to bring it to life to this guy who loves a great idea.  His eyes shine like the eyes of a kid in a candy store as you talk.  He asks an intelligent question, you give a snappy, succinct answer.  A few laughs are laughed.  It is with regret he stands, on the fourth intrusion by his secretary, and shakes your hand. “We’ll do the full meeting soon,” he says with warmth, and then is on his way down to the limo.

You later read about the sale, it’s all over the news.  The young man, David Karp, 26, has sold Tumblr for 1.1 billion dollars. Sitting next to him on the dais, the man you were just talking to.  It’s an amazing world.  

But that all happened in April, why are you thinking about it now?

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.