Eyes Wide Shut, from a message to Ethan (never sent)

http://www.visual-memory.co.uk/amk/doc/0096.html

IFC has been showing “Eyes Wide Shut” (EWS) recently, so I was inspired to do some more research into the film and came upon this article. Like the article about “Mulholland Drive” that I shared with you years ago, I find this type of writing amazing. Like most art, the actual “real” intention of the artist is almost moot, as the world of the writer is a subsequent world built upon the first world of the artist (in the case of “Eyes Wide Shut”, itself based upon a book). I had seen EWS when it first came out, but like many of the reviewers mentioned in the article, also found myself similarly disappointed by its lack of erotic titillation (with the very limited scenes of Nicole Kidman).

The article is amazing to me because both myself and the author (Tim Kreider) saw the same movie and yet I came away with none of what Kreider writes about. Like the author, I did perceive the  dream like narrative of the movie, its undertone of a sinister, mildly Satanic theme, but I did not at all understand it within the overall larger arc of the movie, or even Kubrick’s movies. Somewhat painfully, it reminds me of the extremely fractious nature of political discussions in recent years, when the same “reality” is perceived in vastly different ways and both sides come away with completely opposing conclusions from the same story. 

 

 

Male/Female

During my kitchen renovation, I pulled out my existing electric stove during demolition. To my surprise, I found a capped gas connection behind it. I knew there was gas present in the house since the house had been converted from oil to gas at some point in time. I didn’t surmise that a gas line had been run for future accommodation of a gas stove. Unfortunately, I had been well beyond the planning stages at the time that I discovered this. I had already demolished most of the kitchen and had spent weeks designing the whole kitchen. My plan was to retain the existing electric stove.

I know that all foodies will be shocked at the horror of cooking with electric heat. The truth is, I had known only electric heat for most of my adult cooking life. We had electric heat in our Brooklyn kitchen. So in the school of thought being “you can’t miss what you don’t know”, I briefly considered but quickly dismissed scrapping my kitchen design and converting to gas heat. The biggest change would have been that I would probably have to raise the clearance above the stove if I switched to gas, and this may have nixed my plan to have the microwave above the stove. Getting the microwave off the countertop and onto the wall was a big goal of mine in the kitchen project, so this was no palatable to me.

I decided to cap the gas line with something more permanent from what was existing, a shutoff. Since I had no plans to convert to gas heat in the foreseeable future (being 10-15 years), I didn’t see a compelling need to retain the shut off. I went in search of a threaded cap to more securely and permanently close the gas line.

At Lowes, the sales person helping me find the right cap asked me if I needed a male or a female cap. Having no expertise in plumbing nomenclature, it took me a few moments to surmise what I was looking for. I gathered that the way the parts fit together was being compared to the sexual anatomy (or further, sexual intercourse) of a male/female. Is it just me, or is this mildly obscene way to describe and communicate plumbing fittings? What if the person in question were a sexual novice, that is to say, a virgin? Is it necessary to subject this nomenclature to the general public? I am not proposing an equally clear but less sexual system of plumbing connection nomenclature myself, but to a novice this does take some getting used to. And for the record, I needed a ½” female, black iron fitting.

Thoughts on being away from NYC in the aftermath of the damage wrought by Superstorm Sandy

I finished my Masters degree in architecture in December of 1999. I still remember packing up our little Civic in the cold December winter in Ann Arbor and driving through rural Pennsylvania to travel to our new home, New York City. We arrived in Brooklyn on January 4, 2001 and settled in a tiny studio/1-BR in an iffy part of Brooklyn. Our first year in New York City proved to be an eventful year. September of 2001 brought the events of 9/11. I remember walking home from Manhattan to Brooklyn amongst the tens of thousands of stranded and bewildered New Yorkers in the suffocating summer heat. It took about 4 hours to walk home, primarily because the sidewalks were so packed with people that we could crawl along at a snail’s pace. As I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, practically being pushed along in the dense humanity of Brooklynites, I felt like I was living in the news; millions of people around the world will read about these events and see the pictures, but here I am, actually walking across the Brooklyn Bridge! Later, we all wandered downtown, trying to give blood or donating supplies for the workers. For several years following, I remember looking towards downtown when crossing Brooklyn Bridge on the subway, and seeing the two pillars of light that eerily signified the lost profile of the fallen towers.

Later, we were also there for the Blackout and again found myself walking across the Brooklyn Bridge. Again, it was a hot summer day. As we crossed over to the Brooklyn side on the bridge, I remember people sitting on stoops with big drums, pounding a beat; it was like a festival! I remember people handing out cold bottles of water to strangers. I remember people yelling out encouragement to people obviously not used to walking this distance in the hot weather, their suits drenched with sweat, they yelled out “Welcome to Brooklyn! You’re almost home!”. Shopkeepers were outside handing out ice cream since the power was out and they would all be ruined soon enough. The sense of camaraderie was palpable: The City and all its millions of inhabitants were living through yet another slice of history again.

Since our move to Upstate some three years ago, we have been largely spared of large scale natural disasters. Hurricane Irene did flood our basement, but it was unoccupied (since I knew it was prone to flooding) and mostly harmless; it receded on its own accord in a few days. This time around with Sandy, again we were spared. We had some extra water on hand and tried to keep our cell phones fully charged, but that was the extent of our “disaster” preparation. I think the wind blew the cover off of our picnic table, but that’s about it.

Seeing the images of NYC and especially Brooklyn, I am struck by the immensity of the damage there and the disruption to life, but also the fact that we are this time not part of this latest chapter of NYC’s coming together to pull through this latest disaster. With subway systems paralyzed, no one is going to work, or anywhere for that matter. Everyone is coming out, taking stock of the fallen trees and debris, looking for opportunities to volunteer, clean up, make donations, or to extend a hand to a friend that may have been affected more by this latest disaster. And while I am in no way implying that this is a fun experience or that I would wish it upon myself and family, I am familiar with how events like this brings the community together and everyone’s busy lives stop for a moment as they converge to get through together. A small part of me felt like I was somehow “missing out” when I read the news coverage of the subways being down, people all holed up in their homes, or the photos of the giant tree that fell right in front of our old apartment building. I had lived through the previous events in NYC where among the mass panic and destruction of 9/11, the immense standstill bought on by the blackout, New Yorkers came together to help each other out, to bond, to forget their career ambitions and class divisions for a moment and to come together as a community. This is what I am missing.

We chose one of the more denser neighborhoods in Albany to settle down, and one with a nominal “downtown” within walking distance. We can and do walk to the library, church, and are very close to the various destinations that our family frequents, such as the YMCA, or the town pool. I have biked to Emma’s school, with her on the back seat, and I felt so happy as I coasted along, with friends occasionally passing me by in cars waving out the window. I felt connected to my neighborhood and felt good about being able to physically travel to my destination and live my life without the aid of internal combustion. I love to see cars I recognize when driving or biking around town, to honk or be honked at, and know exactly where they are going right now. In some way, it is my attempt to recapture the experience of living amongst neighbors and friends, where happy accidents can happen, where you can run into friends at the local grocery store.

Once, Yayoi was biking to drop off Emma at her Montessori school one morning when the chain fell off her bike. She was not able to slip it back on, so she decided to push the bike (with Emma sitting in it) all the way to her destination. Our friends, also enrolled in the same Montessori and on her way to drop off her son, noticed Yayoi trudging along and gave Emma a ride. These are the kind of moments when I feel we are successful in finding a new community in our new home in Albany, and while it’s not exactly the same as what we left behind in Brooklyn, it does embody a quality that is important to us in where we live.

Architect as Profession

I don’t want our daughters to go into Architecture, or any design related field. I have been researching some freelance gigs from CL recently. It’s a very depressing exercise. Seemingly, no one values architecture or design, or values it very little. They think it’s superfluous and want it done for close to nothing. It’s even insulting to hear what people think your time/services are worth.


I’m glad that I’m not in a design position now, and I don’t think I want to go back into design. I want to work for myself only, and have a variety of income sources including a salaried position, real estate and others.

One ad wanted a STAMPED drawing/design for $300 for some non-profit offices. For stamped drawings, I’d probably have to get professional insurance, and that alone would cost over $300. Another guy wanted me to give him a quote over the phone to provide him with stamped permit drawings for his house. He said he had hired someone for $600, but he wasn’t happy with the product (shocking). I told him I can’t give him a quote without seeing the house first, and that was the end of that conversation. But again, people simply don’t think architects are necessary or worthwhile. And that’s not how I want my daughters to feel for their entire professional lives.

I think being an MD or a JD is preferable because no one disputes how critical their services are. No matter how crazy or uninformed you are, you will still probably understand you can’t start treating your own physical ailments, popping medicine or cutting yourself open to perform some DIY surgery. You understand that it’s an expensive but non-negotiable expense. Likewise, law is nothing to mess around with or try to skimp on costs. You could end up in jail or lose a case and ruin your life.

On the other hand, the general public sees architecture or design as superfluous and  unnecessary. If it weren’t for the law that requires permits, people would go and build whatever they want in any method they want. Of course, we’d probably have a lot more people dying in fires, building collapses, people falling off stairs and building edges, rooms with insufficient light/ventilation, or any matter of less than desirable building environments. But this all sounds terribly self-serving, like an ad claiming that their product is superior and that your lives simply wouldn’t be complete without it. Not exactly an unbiased opinion, I know.

I loved the experience of architecture school. The unbridled freedom to pursue your own creative agenda, the intellectual challenge of learning why humans build architecture rather than simply seeking some shelter from the elements, the incredible studio environment where you are challenged and stimulated by the work of your colleagues, all of this made for a very enjoyable period of my life. But I wonder if it’s been all downhill from there since I graduated. Professionally, architects are so powerless. We are pushed around by owners, engineers, or even contractors. We are seen as easily replaceable and our time and value added is constantly questioned on the project team. Sometimes, I wonder if our education sets us up for a lifetime of constant disappointment because it opens our eyes to things that we will pursue and desire for the rest of our lives, but will rarely attain.

Somewhere over the Rainbow

There was an Ice Cream social at the church tonight. After a quick dinner, I took the girls by myself to give Yayoi the night off. The church is on the corner from us, an easy walk on a pleasant summer evening like this. I attached the Buggy Board to the stroller, and the three of us walked to the church.

We could see the Bouncy Bounce on the front grassy knoll as we approached from down the block. I stopped the stroller and the girls darted off so they could arrive faster rather than enduring the ride on the stroller over the grass for the last fifty yards.

I talked with a recent friend that I had made in town for most of the night. His older child was starting school at Yuna's elementary school in the Fall, and we were talking about schools and teachers and the experience of having your child start school for the first time.

The Ice Cream Social was wrapping up, and the crowd began to thin. I had to tip the Giant Rubbermaid  lemonade cooler for several children who had been unsuccessfully trying get the last few drops.

My girls and my friend's family and one other family that I did not know decided to move to the church playground. The light was beginning to thin and the Bouncy House was down, the ice cream put away. But the children were determined to enjoy the last bits of the evening in each other's company, expending energy running around and climbing in joy.

We were typically the among the last families to leave any given event, not unlike the children looking to get the last few drops of the sugary lemonade from the almost empty cooler. I would see who the likewise minded souls were as the crowd began to thin, and people would start putting chairs away and picking up trash. It was like a fog slowly lifting over San Francisco Bay, revealing the beautiful houses built into the hillside. I would often help put the chairs away or join in the clean up crew.

It was now almost completely dark, and the three families decided that the best exit strategy was to leave together simultaneously. That way, it would be clear to the children that there was no point in asking to stay any longer, and there was no more "play" to be had in a empty and dark playground. It worked, and as the other two families loaded their children in their cars, I scooted out with my two girls in the stroller, Yuna riding on the Buggy Board behind me.

Yuna started to sing Somewhere over the Rainbow as we hurried home on the bumpy sidewalk. She had been attending a week long drama camp, and there were many songs she was learning for a Friday performance at the end of the week. Her singing was so beautiful, unadorned, unselfconscious and pure. To her, it was the most natural way to wrap up her evening, in the fading sunlight, zooming home on the stoller pushed by her father, to practice the songs for her performance.

Dream: Leaning House

I dreamt that my house was leaning. My house in real life is very old and indeed does have myriad problems, but nothing quite so serious in nature as this. The lean was causing the finishes and other layers to start peeling off and fall, and the structural connections were visible from where I stood on the ground, in some cases.

I became extremely worried and went into the house to seek counsel with a wiser, older architect, This middle aged lady that I found in the house told me that there were ways to pushing at the connections with certain equipment, and this would bring the house back in alignment. I thought to myself that this sounded like a very expensive repair.

When I was outside, I noticed that there was a Kindergarten or some sort of children's school next door to me. There was a group of children wearing uniforms sitting around in a circle. One child was off in the corner of the yard, oblivious to the activities of her class, off in her own little world.

There was a electrical source outside the house in the corner. Upon inspecting it with my two companions, one of them concluded that it was not working and that he should have been informed about this earlier.

I was hungry and found three bite sized snacks in my car for myself and my two companions: Halloween sized Kit Kat, Mars Bar, and Twix. I decided to choose first, and told my companions that I will be having half of the Kit Kat, and either the Mars Bar or the Twix (which now I am realizing comprises entirely half of the available snacks, not a third).

Schenectady Summer Hard Court Championships

Saturday


The start of the tournament was delayed because of a morning downpour, throwing the schedule into a disarray. My first match didn’t begin until 4:30PM, some two hours after the initial scheduled start. My opponent was apparently some high profile player (my double partner Googled him and turned up a Player Profile), and I was a little intimidated and nervous. I played tight, and lost the first set quickly. I was mentally preparing my concession speech in my head during the second set. I was able to relax a little bit and started to play better, and won the second set. We played a third set. The sun was merciless and there was no shade to be found on the courts. After some two hours of intense exertion, my opponent started to fade physically, stopped moving his feet. I took the third set largely on account of my better fitness.

After a short break, I also played a double match that lasted until the last rays of the sun were fading, 8:30PMish. my partner and I won in three sets. Again, I played nervous and tight in the first set, and basically gave it away on account of my flurry of errors. I felt apologetic to my doubles partner, who had already lost his singles match earlier in the day; lose the doubles, and he was done with the tournament on both fronts. I was cramping in both legs by this point (although I tried not to telegraph it to my opponents). Luckily, doubles is not as physically demanding and the points are shorter. We somehow took the second set, and I started to feel more relaxed and comfortable in the third set. We got an early lead and maintained the momentum to the finish line, winning in three sets. It was starting to get dark and we were the last ones off the court.

Sunday

My doubles partner had played my next singles opponent in the previous round and lost. He warned me about his general awesomeness of his game, and when I stepped on court and started to warm up with my next opponent, I quickly realized my doubles partner had not been exaggerating. He was 52. He looked 30. He was a semi-retired dentist whose true passion in life was sports. He said he trains for track year around (100M, 200M), and in addition to tennis he was the world record holder for a sport called “snow shoe racing”: you race 100M in the snow wearing snow shoes. He held the world record in two divisions. He was incredibly fit and strong. Oh, and he just happens to dabble in tennis when he’s not too busy with his other athletic pursuits, and was once a USTA 5.0 rated tennis player. The inevitable came quickly: 6-1, 6-3. Sure, I was still semi cramping and returned to the courts in less than 12 hours after having logged six sets in the 90-degree heat. But in all honesty, even if I’d been 100%, he would have beat me soundly. Maybe it would have been a more respectable 6-3, 6-4. But my game wasn’t where I needed to be to challenge him.


After a short break for lunch, I teamed up with my partner for our doubles match. It was clear that we were overmatched technically. First of all, the average age of our opponents was probably about 22. Between me (39) and my partner (42), we were almost two decades older. But honestly, it wasn’t the age or fitness that determined this matchup. One half of our opponents team was the winner of the singles division, and was currently on a tennis scholarship at a Division I university (SUNY Stony Brook). His game was miles ahead of where I dreamed of being one day: clean, efficient strokes, excellent movement, basically without any weaknesses. I tried to be optimistic, but one part of me didn’t want to get double bagelled in front of the small crowd that was gathering to watch our match. My wish was granted, as we lost 6-1, 6-1 in a short 30 minutes or so. And just like that, I was out of the tournament. I had played ten sets in two days, and was cramping in both legs, so tired I can hardly climb the stairs. But it was really fun to play with something on the line, to step on the court with a brand new opponent, get to know his game and try to beat him. And I look forward to moving without grimacing and regaining my lithe, catlike movement again soon.