(via Instapaper)
The Paris Review Origin Story and Their Secret to the Art of the Interview | Brain Pickings
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
The Paris Review Origin Story and Their Secret to the Art of the Interview | Brain Pickings
The Paris Review Origin Story and Their Secret to the Art of the Interview | Brain Pickings
Monday, April 29, 2013
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Cameron Moll / Designer, Speaker, Author: “We’ve been hoodwinked into a trap of technological dependency.”
One of the problems with the prevalence of solutions is it overvalues invention and undervalues behavior. We look for a gizmo, when changing how we act can have the desired effect. It seems like we’ve been hoodwinked into a trap of technological dependency.
But, technology is…
Cameron Moll / Designer, Speaker, Author: “We’ve been hoodwinked into a trap of technological dependency.”
The pain when children fly the nest
What I wonder about is why we love our children so asymmetrically, so entirely, knowing that the very best we can hope for is that they will feel about us as we feel about our own parents: that slightly aggrieved mixture of affection, pity, tolerance and forgiveness, with a final soupcon - if we live long enough - of sorrow for our falling away, stumbling and shattered, from the vigour that once was ours.
Great essay.
The pain when children fly the nest
Saturday, April 27, 2013
A jump across the pond lands us in London for this month’s installment of Design Store(y). Folklore is a new interior design shop owned by stylist Danielle Reid and her husband, Rob, that stocks a tightly edited selection of homewares, furniture, lighting, art, and lifestyle goods that are handmade, antique, or made from recycled or found materials.
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Thursday, April 25, 2013
Diane, the Unknown
She sat behind her desk at the back of the store, watching a balding man circle an overstuffed leather sofa for the fifth time. She felt annoyed with him. Just buy the damned thing already.
A salesman approached him. She watched the exchange with an odd mix of interest and detachment. The man adjusted his black wire-framed spectacles, then lifted his hands to his hips in a slightly aggressive manner. A few seconds later, he turned his back to the salesman in what looked like disgust, and rubbed the bald spot on his head, turned around again, and muttered something.
The salesman began making his way towards Diane. She sat up a bit straighter and grabbed the first paper on the top of the pile on her desk. She pretended to be reading it intently.
“Diane, will you talk to this guy? I think I’ve had enough of him.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants to know how long the furniture will last.”
Diane stood up and smoothed her skirt. She was attractive blonde, even at forty years old, so balding, middle-aged men didn’t usually pose much of a problem.
She approached the man with her hand extended. “I’m Diane, the store owner. Can I help you, sir?”
The next twenty minutes were spent explaining the origins of the fine Italian leather, and the impossibility of determining the life of the sofa. Eventually, Diane gave in, and put the number at twenty years.
In the end, the man walked out of the store without the sofa. Maybe tomorrow, he said.
Three hours later, she closed up the store, dimmed the lights, and made an espresso from the machine in the back. She went to the cracked brown leather sofa, and sat. She closed her eyes. Even with them closed, she could see every inch of the store. The beds in the northeastern corner. The bath fixtures that were in their second week of a huge sale. The rugs. The desks.
She was growing tired.
She drove home, deliberately skipping the grocery store, though she knew that they were out of milk and bread.
When she walked through the front door, her four-year-old daughter was on her father’s lap, nodding off. He was reading her “Pippi Longstocking.” It had been one of her favorites as a child.
Diane walked up to her daughter, kissed her on the forehead, and watched as her husband cradled her in his arms, and as he walked up the steps to lay her in bed.
She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of pinot noir. She took a sip, then turned her gaze to the wine rack. An unopened bottle of merlot stared back at her. She always drank white wine, never red. She poured the glass into the sink and filled it with the red.
Her husband came into the kitchen, kissed her on the cheek, grabbed a beer from the fridge. Diane watched him without a sound, then said, “I’m selling the store.”
Her husband spun around to face her.
“What? Why? When the hell did this happen?” His tone betrayed his annoyance.
“Today. A few hours ago. I just decided.”
“Jesus, Diane, don’t you think this warrants a talk? I mean, maybe you’ll change your mind tomorrow.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“Look, honey, I support you and all, but this affects more than just you. Christ, think about Hailey. What are we going to do for money? Do you have a plan? Do you want me to go back to work?”
“We’ll work it out.”
“You must have something in mind. You can’t just throw away our only income!”
Diane nodded. “I’m going to paint.”
Her husband lowered his head, leaning with both hands onto the marble-top breakfast bar, and exhaled, hard.
“You’re going to paint.” His words were slow, deliberate, incredulous.
Diane looked out the window as she waited for the backlash. The roses were starting to come in. A blue jay was singing from atop the neighbor’s gutter.
“Diane, you can’t be serious. You haven’t painted in, what, fifteen years? I thought that was a college fantasy. You said it was just a college fantasy.”
“So it was.” She turned to her husband, locking eyes with him. “So it was, Jim, but why the hell shouldn’t I turn fantasy into reality?”
“Because fantasy doesn’t pay the god damned bills!”
“We’ll find a way.”
“Where is this coming from, Diane? Did something happen? Is there something I don’t know about?”
“No. Nothing happened.”
“Then what the hell is this?”
Diane held the last swallow of merlot in her mouth, letting it engulf every corner, then slowly swallowed.
“The world doesn’t know me, Jim.”
“What? What the hell does that mean?”
“Remember when you pushed me for Hailey? You insisted that we needed a child.”
“Yes, of course. You’re not saying that you regret...” Jim lowered his voice to a whisper. “You don’t regret having our daughter... do you?”
“No, Jim, of course not. Quite the opposite, in fact. I adore her.”
“Diane, I’m trying to be patient here, but I’m not following. You’re not making any sense.”
Diane was staring out of the window again. “Our daughter is the most wonderful thing we’ve ever created. She’s perfect, in fact. That’s mostly because of you. You stay home with her, you connect with her, you create her. She is your canvas.”
“You can have that, too, honey. You don’t have to sell the store...”
“Yes, I do. Don’t misunderstand me... this isn’t about Hailey. Well, it is, in part. I want to spend more time with her, but I’m satisfied with my relationship with my daughter. I’m a good mother. That’s not it. I want to create. I realized today that things are only valuable because they make us known. Hailey is so important to you because you know each other. Our marriage works because we know each other. It extends beyond people, though. Businessmen do business because that’s who they are. For those men, spreadsheets and the signing of a deal makes them known; it’s how they convey to the world ‘This is who I am, and here are the fruits of that which I am.’ Football fields speak to those who play on it. Teachers see a classroom full of kids as a medium with which to communicate with the world. People want to be known. The store doesn’t make me known, honey. I want to be known. I want my canvas.”
In an episode of House of Cards, Peter and Christina are in Peter’s childhood bedroom, lying on the bed. Peter is laying on top of Christina. He kisses her neck, slowly, then points out the crack in the ceiling, to which both of their gazes turn. Peter describes how he used to stare at that crack every night before he fell asleep. Then, with a smile, he tells Christina “I know every inch, every curve,” before turning his attention back to her.
The thrill in Christina manifests itself in her eyes. The camera, previously focused on both characters, now pans slightly to the left to capture Christina’s expression. It pans out, slowly, still focusing on her, as Peter becomes blurred in the background.
The crack, of course, is her. Her thrill has nothing to do with the crack, but with the fact that this man knows every inch, every curve of her. The crack is not important. What matters is the connection: that one human being is completely, totally known by another.
That is the heart of the human experience. That is what we crave, what we long for. Every action, every breath is working towards that goal.
Lovers fall in love in the hope of being known. A father raises his child in the hope of being known.
A businessman’s strength, his being, lies in his business acumen. At the close of a deal, his very self can be studied in the cells of a spreadsheet, in the signature on the dotted line.
A designer creates a design, then lets it free into the world, saying, “This is me. This is what I am.”
Teachers pass a piece of themselves onto their students. A great teacher is a master in the art of being known, saying “If you want to know who I am, talk to my students.”
A painter paints, a writer writes, a coal miner mines, all to be known.
Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
~ Virginia Woolf
Like Christina, we are all simply waiting to be known. It’s not the adoration of the masses we seek. Rather, it’s the closeness of a true friend that we want to emulate in our work, in our relationships, in our lives. Those who succeed in their work or their life succeed in that, and that alone.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Most wars in the 20th century have started as a result of lies. Amplified and spread by the mainstream press. And you go, well that is a horrible circumstance, that is terrible that all these wars start with lies. And I say no, this is a tremendous opportunity, because it means that populations basically don’t like wars and they have to be lied into it. And that means we can be truthed into peace.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Saturday, April 13, 2013
kateoplis: "What special affinities appeared to him to exist between the moon and woman?
Her antiquity in preceding and surviving successive tellurian generations: her nocturnal predominance: her satellitic dependence: her luminary reflection: her constancy under all her phases, rising, and setting by her appointed times, waxing and waning: the forced invariability of her aspect: her…
kateoplis: "What special affinities appeared to him to exist between the moon and woman?
Friday, April 12, 2013
‘Say Goodbye’ by Norah Jones
I can’t seem to get enough of this song (‘Say Goodbye’) by Norah Jones is my new jam.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Jeannie, Here and Now
When I got home from work, I stepped into the bedroom and noticed that I’d already laid out my clothes for the night.
I smiled.
It was going to be a big night. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks, in fact. How long had it been since I’d enjoyed a night out of the house?
I was happy for Jeannie. No one knew, of course, whether or not her book was going to be a success, but at this stage, it hardly mattered. She had finished the book, had let it fly, and it had landed in the lap of someone who loved it- and, more importantly, who could publish it.
I put on my brown striped tie, then swapped it out for the red one.
I smoothed my hair one last time, checked my teeth for food, ran a lint roller through my peacoat, and was out the door.
Everyone was here, it seemed. It was nice that they all came for the successes, too. At one point, I had wondered if we were only ever going to see each other at funerals. We all talked, occasionally, but it was mostly when so-and-so got divorced, and it’s a crying shame, and I’m worried about them, and what can we do to help them?
The hall was done in a modern style, with high ceilings and exposed rafters. Every corner of the room was white. It felt a bit sterile, but clean.
I caught a glimpse of Jeannie standing on the industrial metal stairs, talking to someone-or-other in a tailored suit. She was standing on the step above him, so that she towered over him, even though he was taller. It was a power move she’d heard about in a seminar somewhere. She was drinking wine. She never drank wine.
Her eye caught mine, and she winked with a subtle, almost imperceptible smile. I went to the bar to get a drink, and soon found myself surrounded by old acquaintances.
We talked about the weather, we talked about the kids. We talked, inevitably, about the old days. About Jeannie’s newfound success.
My thoughts started to wander. I went outside for a cigarette, and lingered, alone, for longer than was probably acceptable.
What would she do now? What was the encore to be? This was what she’d always wanted, but now that she had it, where to go? She’d probably write another book, of course, but when? Would she take time off to soak it all in? Take a trip? Find some Dominican stud on a beach and act like a teenager on spring break for a couple of weeks? Perhaps.
Probably. I smiled as I lit another cigarette. She deserved it.
“I was wondering where you’d gone.”
I turned to see Jeannie standing in the doorway. Her long black dress was a bit tight for my tastes, and she knew it. She still looked amazing, though. She was glowing, but whether from the wine or the adulation, I couldn’t tell.
“Sorry. Just stepped out for a minute.”
“A minute? You’ve been out here for an hour and a half.”
I checked my watch. She was right. How had I been out here that long?
“Well, shall we, then? There’s still quite a few people I haven’t caught up with.”
“You’ll have to do it another time then. Everyone’s gone home. The party’s over.”
I dropped Jeannie off at her apartment and went home. The night I had so been looking forward to somehow felt like a waste. Nothing had really happened, and it hadn’t been as thrilling as I’d thought to see the old crew. Now, I was home, and tomorrow was just another day. I sat down at my desk and pulled up my calendar, trying to find the next thing to look forward to. A business trip to some fancy resort next month. That could be fun. May 28th. 42 days.
I went to the cupboard to find a drink. I’d finished off the scotch, apparently. Nothing to drink but milk and water, and some hot cocoa left over from the kids’ last visit.
I heated some milk and made myself a cup of cocoa, then turned on the fireplace. I sat for a few minutes watching the flames crackle.
The cup was warm between my hands, and I wondered at the way that the warmth spread through the rest of my body, entering from my fingertips, slowly making its way through me. The cocoa was delicious. I hadn’t had cocoa in years, and I’d forgotten the sensation. I held every sip in my mouth, letting the liquid cool and come to rest on my tongue.
I realized then that I was enjoying this moment more than I’d enjoyed any moment at the party.
I spent all of last week with my daughter. I devoted the entire week to her, in fact (well, her and her brother). We spent much of the week catching up on her new favorite show (The Secret Circle, for those wondering). It was a simple and extremely joyful pleasure, lying on the couch watching horrible TV with my daughter strewn across my lap. Occasionally, I pretended not to get what was going on so that she could have the pleasure of explaining it to me.
Inevitably, my mind began to wander. I began to think of how long this would last. She’s eight now, which means that soon, Daddy won’t matter. The days of her wanting to spend all day with me are numbered.
Luckily, I like to practice mindfulness. I like to be in the moment. Because I spend so much time honing that technique (though there’s so much room for improvement), I was able to drag my mind back into the present.
Later, I began to drift off again. This time, I landed in more optimistic settings. I thought of her college days, how much fun she would have. I thought of her calling me to tell me of her experiences and her problems and 4how I would make everything better. It was a wonderful little daydream.
The problem is, whether where my mind wanders is a place of joy or sorrow, that wandering has its costs.
Our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows, but only empties today of its strengths.
~ Charles H. Spurgeon
As it turns out, we are only happy when we are focused on the here and now. Letting out mind wander, even to a good place, robs us of happiness.
Matt Killingsworth has been studying this sort of thing. The results are in: letting your mind wander unequivocally makes you less happy.
Happiness, of course, isn’t the only benefit to living in the moment. It also aids attention and overall health.
If you’d like to be more mindful, but don’t know where to start, try washing your bowl. You may also want to track your happiness.
Regret can only live in the past. It cannot survive the fresh air of the present. Likewise, anxiety can only live in the future. It is a poisoned carrot, always dangling in front of us. What we don’t realize is that we’ll never reach it. What this — all this — is truly about is turning our gaze from the dangling carrot to the ground beneath our feet. There, on the very ground we walk on, amazing things are happening. Things are living, growing, thriving- but it’s only happening here, now.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Selexyz Dominicanen: The 700-Year-Old Former Church Turned Modern Bookstore
There are numerous spectacular bookstores throughout the world, and labeling one “the finest on earth” is subjective at best. But Boekhandel Selexyz Dominicanen, a 700-year-old former Catholic church in the Netherlands city of Maastricht, is certainly one of the grandest.
The building has seen various uses since it was closed (reportedly by Napoleon Bonparte) in 1794, from a warehouse and archive to arguably the world’s most ornate bicycle shed.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Kindness covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this, and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.
Roger Ebert (via mndrngs)
Actually, of course, a telephone is a fantastically rude thing. I mean it’s like going “Speak to me now! Speak to me now! Speak to me now!” And, you know, if you went into somebody’s office and banged on their desk and said “I’m going to make a noise until you speak to me!” it would be considered incredibly rude.
Monday, April 8, 2013
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