On my way to work this morning I saw a student slip on the ice and fall. Without hesitation, two students walking close behind ran up to help her get up and pick up her belongings. A fantastic first-thing-in-the-morning reminder that above all else it is these basic acts of human decency that we should notice, appreciate, and replicate.
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Monday, June 29, 2015
define "od"
od
äd
noun
historical
- a hypothetical power once thought to pervade nature and account for various phenomena, such as magnetism.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Native American fashion
What a stunning strong image!
Friday, April 17, 2015
On Elevators
"Do you mind?.. He likes pushing the button." Sex and the City's Miranda is annoyed by the Sunday influx of kids at her gym, and she does mind when a little boy pushes all the buttons causing the elevator to stop at every floor.
Did I like pressing the elevator button when I was a kid? Oh yeah. Oh yeah - I still love it. Because when you're an immigrant kid coming from a struggling lower-class community, where functioning elevators are not at the top of the government's to-do list, the shiny noise-less elevators of suburban America are especially thrilling.
For one, back home every ride in an elevator is spent in a mental battle, trying to push back all those horror stories you've heard of people getting stuck. ...I had a bad feeling as I walked in...half way up I heard a strange noise...suddenly the light went off and everything stopped...it took me five minutes of fumbling in the dark to find the emergency button...and another two hours until someone came to pry the elevator open... So the stories go. And when you're halfway through your ride, you can swear you're hearing a weird noise and the lights are flickering and - the end is near! The thing is they never actually fix the elevators either. They come to pry the one stuck out (the "stuck-er", the "stuck-y"?), and then they kick the elevator back into its normal barely functioning condition. Literally - kick it back to condition. And that's the end of the story! There's no follow up, no troubleshooting, no service call placed. Psch! - what is this - suburban America?
Alright, you don't get stuck every time, of course. But let's talk about the buttons. Do you know what it takes for a little kid to press the button of an ancient overworked elevator that wasn't built up to any standards to begin with? It takes Herculean strength, that's what. Those buttons don't have touch censors, they don't light up when you press them, and they altogether refuse to accept your request, until you leverage your weight against the opposite wall and give it the push of your life. And even when they don't need be pushed overly hard, sometimes they need to be pushed a little down or a little to the right, or in some other sort of skilled zig-zag movement.
And finally, it's not infrequent to come across an elevator where the writing on the buttons has long since wiped off. And while you might think it's easy enough to count five buttons up to get to the fifth floor, there might be a lower basement level, there might be a couple, there might be simply unused buttons that were never removed and now look just like the rest of them, or the buttons might start with the top floors on the bottom. And it takes a life-time of knowledge and experience to deduce the button placement of the elevator at hand from the type of the building it's in, the age of the elevator, the location of the neighborhood, etc, etc.
Yes, I love pushing the elevator buttons. I love to feel that adrenaline rush as the horrifying childhood memories pour in and mix with the thrill of the shiny upscale elevator.
For one, back home every ride in an elevator is spent in a mental battle, trying to push back all those horror stories you've heard of people getting stuck. ...I had a bad feeling as I walked in...half way up I heard a strange noise...suddenly the light went off and everything stopped...it took me five minutes of fumbling in the dark to find the emergency button...and another two hours until someone came to pry the elevator open... So the stories go. And when you're halfway through your ride, you can swear you're hearing a weird noise and the lights are flickering and - the end is near! The thing is they never actually fix the elevators either. They come to pry the one stuck out (the "stuck-er", the "stuck-y"?), and then they kick the elevator back into its normal barely functioning condition. Literally - kick it back to condition. And that's the end of the story! There's no follow up, no troubleshooting, no service call placed. Psch! - what is this - suburban America?
Alright, you don't get stuck every time, of course. But let's talk about the buttons. Do you know what it takes for a little kid to press the button of an ancient overworked elevator that wasn't built up to any standards to begin with? It takes Herculean strength, that's what. Those buttons don't have touch censors, they don't light up when you press them, and they altogether refuse to accept your request, until you leverage your weight against the opposite wall and give it the push of your life. And even when they don't need be pushed overly hard, sometimes they need to be pushed a little down or a little to the right, or in some other sort of skilled zig-zag movement.
And finally, it's not infrequent to come across an elevator where the writing on the buttons has long since wiped off. And while you might think it's easy enough to count five buttons up to get to the fifth floor, there might be a lower basement level, there might be a couple, there might be simply unused buttons that were never removed and now look just like the rest of them, or the buttons might start with the top floors on the bottom. And it takes a life-time of knowledge and experience to deduce the button placement of the elevator at hand from the type of the building it's in, the age of the elevator, the location of the neighborhood, etc, etc.
Yes, I love pushing the elevator buttons. I love to feel that adrenaline rush as the horrifying childhood memories pour in and mix with the thrill of the shiny upscale elevator.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Солдатик
По будним дням я редко
успеваю погреться в приятном теплом душе. Обычно, пол часа после того как
прозвенел будильник, я успеваю только быстро сполоснуться. На этой неделе три или
четыре раза во время утреннего экпресс-душа, в спешке я замечала что на
противополжом конце ванны сидит жучок. Жучок, которого в народе называют Солдатик.
Вообще я люблю и
уважаю природу. Я знаю что у каждого червячка и букашки есть место и смысл, и
совсем не люблю когда мы принебрегаем благополучием животных. Но насекомые мне
противны. И солдатики, хотя они не очень мешают, уже лет пять каждую зиму заполняют
наши дома и другие теплые помещения. Иногда они летают и громко жужжат. А когда
им вежливо намекают найти другое место жительства – жутко воняют.
Итак, несколько раз на этой неделе в шесть утра возникали очень напряженные моменты. Мои глаза, мысли и брезгливость фокусировались на неподвижом
солдатике, и еще не проснувшись я усердно пыталась понять правильно ли будет принять
меры и изменить эту неприятную мне ситуацию.
Но утром время
бежит быстро, и думать некогда. Вода выключалась, хваталось полотенце, и
солдатик оставался нетронутый.
Наконец в
пятницу вечером, выкинув из головы тяжелые будни, я включила воду и зашла в
душ чтобы как следует помыться и раслабиться. Было тепло и хорошо. И только
через несколько минут, хотя мой взгляд не менял направление, перед моими
глазами образовался он. Солдатик за эту долгую неделю перебрался на другой
конец ванны и сидел на белой стене, недалеко от кранна, рядом со мной.
Какое-то время мы
оба неподвижно находились в душе. Он сидел, а я смотрела на него сверху. Вдруг,
одна капля воды отскачила от моего тела и попала прямо в солдатика. Он упал в
лужу образовавшуюся рядом со сливом. Он крутился в воде и противно махал шестью
ногами. Я все также смотрела на него. Ну зачем мне тебя спасать? Ну какое мне до тебя дело? Солдатик выбрался, но еще одна капля воды снова сбила его в лужу.
И тут я подумала,
а что мне стоит его спасти? Большой палец моей ноги протянулся к тонущему.
Солдатика аккуратно вынесло из лужи. Казалось, что было принято правильное решение и история закончилась.
Но тут третья
капля воды с особой силой попала в солдатика, он упал прямо к сливу и через
секунду его уже не было.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
***
Work, first conversation of the day...
"Hi, are you Sonya? What's your email?"
"Let me write it down for you, my last name is ridiculous."
...
"Oh wow, that is ridiculous." #italianfaculty #noshame
"Hi, are you Sonya? What's your email?"
"Let me write it down for you, my last name is ridiculous."
...
"Oh wow, that is ridiculous." #italianfaculty #noshame
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Quality Cognac
I glanced down at the table. There was an envelope. “0%
APR. Get your MasterCard now!”
It was a nice evening. It was always nice here: kind people, incredible hosts, intelligent conversation, comfortable home, quality cognac…
“The quality of life in 18th century France was reflected in the rhythm of its poetic verses,” my host was saying. The conversations here always sounded something like this. And although I valued education and the intelligent people in my life, there was something strange about the conversation in this house, and I was never really able to follow.
“Every major war in world history has been followed by a change in fashion,” another host said.
I glanced at the name on the envelope: Elizabeth Carmen Arnou. The name itself looked like it came out of an epic 19th century novel. Everything here was like this. It was infused with history, literature, books. And every visit I tried to listen and understand, but I never felt in place.
Many people in my life were well educated. They discussed similar topics and I was intrigued; listened, learned, sometimes even had something to say. But here conversation was so focused on knowledge and facts that it seemed to crowd out everything else; everything that makes us human – feelings, friendship, laughter…
I had just come back from visiting a close friend in Salt Lake City. The weekend there was so simple, pleasant, enjoyable. Honest conversations, interesting discussions, jokes; we shared life experiences and our feelings about them.
“A lot of influence in Russia’s 19th century literature came from German writers…"
Was I just stupid? I tried to embrace my inferior role at this dinner table by reaching for the cat as it was passing by and nearly fell off the chair. For a minute the conversation stopped as everyone worked to pick up my chair and myself along with the cat.
Elizabeth Carmen Arnou.
Perhaps it was the lack of communication that bothered me here. They were talking, but they were not communicating. This cognac infused conversation was a mere line up of facts and quotes. It was not a dialog. There was little exchange of ideas or transfer of emotions, just back and forth facts. Is it not communication that makes humans so special? Is it not communication that has allowed us to learn from past mistakes, build, grow, and create a high quality of life? And is it not communication that has created written history and all the gorgeous facts my hosts were so proudly reciting?
I have always said that I enjoy “down to earth” people, but what does that mean? Does “down to earth” indicate stupidity? A lower socio-economic status? Or is it an interest in sharing with others? An ability to relate to someone who might not know so much about 19th century literature? A desire to learn from all the people in this world? A desire to communicate.
The envelope caught my eye again. I looked at the return address: P.O. Box 457286, Salt Lake City, UT.
It was a nice evening. It was always nice here: kind people, incredible hosts, intelligent conversation, comfortable home, quality cognac…
“The quality of life in 18th century France was reflected in the rhythm of its poetic verses,” my host was saying. The conversations here always sounded something like this. And although I valued education and the intelligent people in my life, there was something strange about the conversation in this house, and I was never really able to follow.
“Every major war in world history has been followed by a change in fashion,” another host said.
I glanced at the name on the envelope: Elizabeth Carmen Arnou. The name itself looked like it came out of an epic 19th century novel. Everything here was like this. It was infused with history, literature, books. And every visit I tried to listen and understand, but I never felt in place.
Many people in my life were well educated. They discussed similar topics and I was intrigued; listened, learned, sometimes even had something to say. But here conversation was so focused on knowledge and facts that it seemed to crowd out everything else; everything that makes us human – feelings, friendship, laughter…
I had just come back from visiting a close friend in Salt Lake City. The weekend there was so simple, pleasant, enjoyable. Honest conversations, interesting discussions, jokes; we shared life experiences and our feelings about them.
“A lot of influence in Russia’s 19th century literature came from German writers…"
Was I just stupid? I tried to embrace my inferior role at this dinner table by reaching for the cat as it was passing by and nearly fell off the chair. For a minute the conversation stopped as everyone worked to pick up my chair and myself along with the cat.
Elizabeth Carmen Arnou.
Perhaps it was the lack of communication that bothered me here. They were talking, but they were not communicating. This cognac infused conversation was a mere line up of facts and quotes. It was not a dialog. There was little exchange of ideas or transfer of emotions, just back and forth facts. Is it not communication that makes humans so special? Is it not communication that has allowed us to learn from past mistakes, build, grow, and create a high quality of life? And is it not communication that has created written history and all the gorgeous facts my hosts were so proudly reciting?
I have always said that I enjoy “down to earth” people, but what does that mean? Does “down to earth” indicate stupidity? A lower socio-economic status? Or is it an interest in sharing with others? An ability to relate to someone who might not know so much about 19th century literature? A desire to learn from all the people in this world? A desire to communicate.
The envelope caught my eye again. I looked at the return address: P.O. Box 457286, Salt Lake City, UT.
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