2001: A Space Odyssey in IMAX

I vaguely recall that summer of 1968 but for my mother's idea to take me to see 2001: A Space Odyssey. Soon after its release at the Loews King Theatre in Brooklyn on Fulton street not too far from Brooklyn's city hall even at 8 years of age I was surprised that she had taken to me to 2001. If you knew my mother she was, without belittling her, a simple person, but she wasn't the best "mother" and she knew I liked science fiction and "space". I learned from her by observation, never directly. Often I asked a question she referred me in her broken English to the teacher for an answer to answer all "the why's" I had. As my questions grew in depth she referred me to the library and the books I would ask for birthdays and Christmas. I passed her capacity to teach me at a young age. As soon as I knew to walk to the library safely on my own, the library became my second home. I wasn't born with the best economic resources so I spent much of my early life finding ways to get the answers I needed through other less expensive or free means; the library, educational grants, low rate educational loans and the like to teach myself. I realized early on that to learn what for me became the establishment I only had myself to depend on. Through established norm's all I would learn was what all established instructors taught was the same thing which was fine but too often I would find they couldn't or worse they wouldn't answer the questions I wanted answered especially when it became obvious to me that they  weren't prepared to fulfill my needs. Even to the point of having my head slammed down on my desk by the teacher, first asking for questions then not answering a request for elaboration on the article in the NYT we were discussing. But then I was insistent and ended up reporting her to the principal who had her suspended.

Enough of that, I learned no matter because finding answers was the goal. I wasn't trying just to learn the basics, there was so much more. And more is what I wanted...

I stood up beside my mother as 2001 came to an end and said to her, "that's what I want, to do that" pointing at the screen I wanted to learn to what the film was teaching, "2001: A Space Odyssey".  I took awhile to learn on my own the answer(s) I sought to fill my needs; I don't think I ever will, my life is a question and my life the answers to that one question.

Our life, my life is...

ep·ic

ˈepik/

noun

1. 1.
   a long poem, typically one derived from ancient oral tradition, narrating the deeds and adventures of heroic or legendary figures or the history of a nation.

...never stop asking. If you think you're done asking, if actually believe you have an answer, you must be dead, or just wrong.

2001: A Space Odyssey

It’s been 50 years since Stanley Kubrick unleashed 2001: A Space Odyssey onto the world, shaping the sensibilities of a generation of filmmakers while providing dissertation fodder for no shortage of academics. It’s been a busy year for the movie, with a 70mm release early this year and an unearthed recording of Kubrick explaining the film’s enigmatic ending. Well, the festivities aren’t over yet, as the film is now heading to Imax.Warner Bros. will screen the film on Imax for a week-long engagement in Los Angeles, New York, San Francisco, and Toronto starting on August 24th. Per Variety, tickets go on sale Friday in the following locations: AMC Universal Citywalk IMAX in L.A., AMC Lincoln Square IMAX in New York City, AMC Metreon IMAX in San Francisco, and Ontario Place Cinesphere IMAX in Toronto.UPDATE: An updated press release from Warner Brothers reveals that a 4K restoration of the film will be playing on more than 350 Imax theaters throughout North America. The four aforementioned theaters will be screening the “unrestored” 70mm print—described as “a true photochemical film recreation struck from new printing elements made from the original camera negative with no digital tricks, remastered effects, or revisionist edits”—on Imax. All screenings will be held for a week-long engagement beginning on August 24th, with tickets going on sale this Friday, August 3rd.

Persistence of Vision....

The day passes in breathes...

Moments where her image appears... There in amongst pictures of her...

A persistence of vision...

Appears...

Do you ever forget me?

There's this movie...

No beginning...

Middle...

or End...

A Persistence of Vision....

California lawmakers upset that wildfire money is left out of White House's disaster aid request

By Maya Lau

Nov 19, 2017 | 4:10 PM

Aerial view of destruction caused by wildfire that swept through the Coffey Park neighborhood of Santa Rosa in October. The city lost 3,000 homes. (March Yam / Los Angeles Times)

Every day, Mike Thompson hears a new story about how last month’s fires in Northern California have affected people’s lives. Insurance is being denied. Tourism is down. Some companies have laid off workers.

“Block after block of homes are wiped out and cars are melted down to their skeletal remains,” the Napa Valley congressman said of his travels in Santa Rosa over the weekend.

And yet none of the $44 billion that the White House requested of Congress on Friday for supplemental disaster aid includes funding to rebuild California after the fires — which killed 43 people and destroyed nearly 9,000 structures — a move that’s sparked an outcry from Thompson and his fellow lawmakers.

“I think it’s very disappointing. Folks throughout California were ravaged by this fire, and we should ensure they get the help and support they need,” Thompson said Sunday.

He and Rep. Jared Huffman (D-San Rafael) said in a joint statement that it was “mind-boggling” the Trump administration did not include any funds for California in its latest request, most of which will go to hurricane relief in Texas and Florida.

California lawmakers had asked the White House for $7.4 billion to help residents recover from the wildfires that began in early October, calling it one of the deadliest and most destructive fire events in the state’s history. None of that money was included in the Trump administration’s package.

“It’s appalling the White House is choosing to ignore the victims of California’s wildfires. The latest disaster supplemental request is a completely inadequate response to all of the recent natural disasters, but it’s particularly egregious that no money was included to help Californians rebuild,” Sens. Dianne Feinstein and Kamala Harris said in a shared statement.

Lawmakers in other states also criticized the supplemental disaster funding request, saying it was not enough to address the devastation left from hurricanes Harvey, Irma and Maria.

White House spokeswoman Sarah Huckabee Sanders defended the $44-billion figure, saying it was not a low amount.

“And my guess is if you ask any average citizen across this country, they wouldn’t feel like it’s low either,” she said.

The White House’s proposal addresses California’s wildfires by calling for tax relief for those affected.

The funds requested by California lawmakers would go toward direct assistance to victims, rebuilding public infrastructure, restoring lost homes and wineries, and cleaning up debris and waste.

The money would also replenish Federal Emergency Management Agency disaster relief funds to allow victims to apply for temporary housing, rebuild homes and small businesses, receive crop insurance, and access basic needs including medical care.

Last month, Congress approved a $36.5-billion disaster aid package, which included $576.5 million for wildfire suppression in California and the West.

Thompson said the federal response to the fire emergency was “great” — with help also pouring in from places as far away as Australia, which sent firefighters — but the rebuilding phase still needs more attention.

He and his colleagues will continue to ask for supplemental federal disaster aid funds.

“I’m not done fighting,” he said.

Measure

Measure

The Young Farmers Behind Puerto Rico’s Food Revolution

Ah, Puerto Rico! Land of rum and iguanas, palm trees and paddleboard yoga. I arrived in San Juan two days ago with every intention of reporting briskly and soberly on the state of food and farming here since Hurricane Maria hit last September.

But even the most sober reporter would be entrapped by this island’s enchantments. Since touching down I have: drunk a cocktail called the Tesla out of a lightbulb at the pert little La Coctelera (where the cocktails are quite performative: The Paper Plane is garnished with a folded airplane); eaten deep-fried fish fritters with mayo-ketchup—the island’s preferred sauce; sat with my feet in the sand reading about Lolita Lebrón, the stylish Puerto Rican nationalist who, in 1954, led an attack in which five U.S. representatives were shot, shouting, “¡Viva Puerto Rico libre!” without once rumpling her French-knotted scarf.
This might all come across as frivolous given recent events, but in San Juan, at least, so much has been rebuilt in seven months that it’s hard to find evidence of Maria’s devastation—but for the occasional inoperative traffic light and the blue pointillist dots of FEMA tarp roofs against the composed pastel city. Of course there is damage one can’t see from bar stools or beaches, and I am en route to meet a 34-year-old named Tara Rodríguez Besosa, cofounder of the Puerto Rico Resilience Fund—an effort to help rebuild the island’s beleaguered farms. Rodríguez Besosa is the force behind an emergent Puerto Rican food revolution, and my plan is to join one of her volunteer brigades tilling topsoil at Huerto Semilla (“seed garden”), an agroecological student-run farm smack in the middle of San Juan, at the University of Puerto Rico’s Río Piedras campus.

When I arrive, the scene is a veritable hive of activity: young farmers, almost all women, bent over hoes, ferrying large bunches of holy basil or laying irrigation tape. Rodríguez Besosa, whose pixie cut and thin limbs give her the appearance of a rangy Peter Pan, stands with a shovel by beds of cilantro, mustard greens, and kale. She is physically striking, making a schools not prisons T-shirt, short black leggings, work boots, and dirt smudges look chic. The effect is partly due to her height—she is five feet ten—and her deep outdoor tan, sparkling eyes, and constant smile. She shovels soil through a sieve, while directing admiring young volunteers and answering her constantly ringing phone: Here’s where to deliver lunch; this is what time the car should meet her in New Orleans in two days; here’s where to send the next brigade.
Restoring Puerto Rican agriculture is a complex and novel project, since the island mostly stopped producing its own food long ago. By a conservative estimate, Puerto Rico imported at least 80 percent of what it consumed before the hurricane. The story of why in the briefest possible terms: Farming declined during Puerto Rico’s days as a Spanish colony, when native agriculture ceded to large colonial plantations. Under U.S. administration, beginning after the 1898 Spanish-American War, Puerto Rico was subjected to a combination of economic restructuring, industrialization, and the growing stigma of being perceived as a rural, peasant island. Surviving farms grew profitable sugarcane, coffee, or, in rarer cases, plantains and other fruits. By the turn of the twenty-first century it was all but impossible to procure anything locally but a very limited set of crops.
This does not perhaps sound so bad—until you consider the high environmental costs of transporting the island’s food. And the poignant lesson of Maria, which destroyed 80 percent of Puerto Rico’s crops in addition to roads, homes, vehicles: that dependence on imports left Puerto Ricans uniquely susceptible, in the face of a natural disaster, to starvation.
“They say that during Maria, Puerto Rico only had enough food for one week,” says Carmen Yulín Cruz, the mayor of San Juan, who rose to international prominence feuding with President Trump over aid. “I hate to say anything positive about Maria. But what the hurricane did was force us to look at the realities of life here and how our dependency on the outside weakens our ability to ensure our people are taken care of. Maria made it evident that we need agricultural sovereignty.”
Sylvia De Marco, a collaborator of Rodríguez Besosa’s and co-owner of a San Juan boutique hotel called the Dreamcatcher—in whose Goddess Suite I’m spending the week—agrees. “After the hurricane, even people who didn’t care about food started to care. It really opened people’s eyes: that we have to depend on our soil, not shipping containers.”

Puerto Rican farming was highly limited before the hurricane. Recovery efforts envision a more diverse crop. Detail of Papaya, by Ana Mercedes Hoyos.
Photo: Courtesy of Ana Mercedes Hoyos. Papaya, 1994. Oil on canvas, 23.6ˮ x 23.6ˮ.
Enter Rodríguez Besosa, an artist turned farmer who studied architecture at New York’s Pratt Institute and helped run a gallery in Red Hook, Brooklyn. A decade ago, missing home, she moved back to Puerto Rico. She helped out on her mother’s tiny organic farm to make money while she opened a cultishly popular, illegal, and not at all lucrative bar in San Juan. She quickly detected a problem. “There was one farmers’ market every two weeks, and you had to be up at 9:00 a.m. to get anything. I was running a bar. I wasn’t waking up at nine.” Some small vegetable and meat farms, like her mother’s, existed around the island, but farmers and consumers had few ways of getting together.
Rodríguez Besosa, a natural entrepreneur, decided to fix the problem. She accepted $10,000 in seed money from a friend, rented a warehouse, named it El Departamento de la Comida (“the department of food”) and started driving around selling boxes of local vegetables. “The vegetables I bought had to be not just local but sustainable—agroecological, biodynamic,” she says. Her quick conversion to the dogma of sustainability may be genetic. Her mother was a model and fashion retailer turned farmer; her sister studied biology before taking over the family farm in 2011. “My point was we could not afford to go on farming unsustainably in Puerto Rico,” she says.
The response was enthusiastic. María Grubb, a Puerto Rican who spent about seven years cooking at New York’s Pastis, the Modern, and Maialino before returning to open Gallo Negro in San Juan’s bohemian Santurce neighborhood, says that when her restaurant opened, El Departamento de la Comida was the only place she could find fresh local vegetables. Juan José Cuevas, former chef at Blue Hill in New York City, who moved here in 2012 to take over the kitchen at the Condado Vanderbilt Hotel, agrees: “Tara was doing this when no one was.”
“We detonated something really interesting,” Rodríguez Besosa tells me over a delightful lunch at Huerto Semilla of rice and beans, roasted eggplant, and local lettuces with orange vinaigrette. “We were all over the newspapers. The whole thing erupted. I was like, I have no idea what this is, but, holy shit, it is amazing.”
Her next step was to transform El Departamento de la Comida into a restaurant. She bought an $80 stove, installed it in the warehouse, and let friends and visitors make simple dishes like pumpkin soup and pesto. “We had two to three people in the kitchen. Maybe it was an artist who cooked outside, or maybe it was someone who liked to cook, like Paxx Caraballo Moll”—a Puerto Rican chef getting accolades for the new restaurant–in–a–tiki bar Jungle Bao Bao. Furnished with folding tables and chairs, serving a changing vegetarian menu of whatever local farms harvested, the restaurant quickly became beloved, akin to Brooklyn’s Roberta’s—shabby, a little uncomfortable, delicious.
“Then the hurricane hits us, and bang, we’re gone,” Rodríguez Besosa says. The restaurant flooded, then was repeatedly looted. Stranded in New York for an event while the storm raged, Rodríguez Besosa gathered friends to create her Resilience Fund and pitched in with the ad-hoc Queer Kitchen Brigade, which canned food to send to the island. Rodríguez Besosa brought some of the cans and jars back herself, along with seeds and farming tools—by joining a delegation aboard a Greenpeace ship.

Since November, Rodríguez Besosa has sent farming brigades, in her brightly painted Guagua Solidaria (“solidarity van”), to more than 30 gardens and farms all over the island, distributing seeds, building rainwater collection systems, donating tools, cooking meals, giving acupuncture treatments, and providing general spiritual uplift. She plans to help 200 farms before the campaign ends. “And if you’re growing food in your backyard, you’re included,” she tells me. “If you sell at farmers’ markets, you’re included. If we want to create autonomy in Puerto Rico, it will have to be in different ways. We have to do urban agriculture; we have to do school farms, community farms, backyard gardens.”
Mayor Yulín tells me that Rodríguez Besosa’s role in the island’s future is unique. “Tara is giving agriculture a new face,” she says. “She’s found a way to convey the importance of a new local agriculture at a primal level, with the technology and vision to ensure it’s done in a socially responsible and fair and ethical way. She’s taking something old and making it exciting.”
Rodríguez Besosa isn’t alone; others on the island have rallied to support local agriculture too. The Dreamcatcher’s De Marco offered guests the opportunity to volunteer at a farm called Estancia Verde Luz in nearby Ciales last spring. She tells me, “Our menu is all local, and Estancia Verde Luz was the main farm who sold to us. It was completely trashed in the hurricane. So we had guests help with cleanup. People felt really good to be supporting the economy, and at the same time helping a farm rebuild.” In May, De Marco launched a monthly dinner series called Nuestra Mesa (“our table”) in collaboration with Rodríguez Besosa: four courses of local vegetables, served in the Dreamcatcher’s airy kitchen and patio, attended by hotel guests, locals, and farmers.
An hour and a half east of San Juan, I pay a visit to an Ayurvedic biodynamic farm named Finca Pajuil that Rodríguez Besosa has told me is a model of resilience, replete with rotation planting, rainwater collection, aquaponics—the kinds of things Mayor Yulín says must be part of Puerto Rico’s agriculture.
An unfortunate misunderstanding with my phone’s GPS system leads me to a distinctly un-Ayurvedic pizzeria (I recommend the calzones), but eventually I arrive at my destination, and the bright-eyed head farmer, Jey Ma Tulasi, greets me at the gate—an inexplicable but not entirely unattractive green botanical V painted down the middle of her face. Tulasi shows me where neem and breadfruit trees once divided her land from the road, their disappearance depriving her crops of shade. Still, it’s impossible not to see how many more birds flock to Tulasi’s moringa and banana groves than to neighbors’ backyards, how many more bees buzz in flowers, and how healthy her curving spirals of holy basil and tarragon, aloe and mint make the land. Her little shop sells a homegrown, Ayurvedic version of adobo made with her own turmeric and local sea salt. There is moringa for sale by the bunch, and curry leaves. I’m struck by the hopefulness of the hugelkultur beds—deep garden plots made from fallen trees—which are already thick with pumpkins and sweet potatoes.
Over a final dinner with Rodríguez Besosa at Cuevas’s 1919, inside the Vanderbilt, I note that women seem to be leading this movement. “In terms of activists inside the farming movement, at least half of them are women,” Rodríguez Besosa says. “And more than half the farmers I work with are.”
What follows is one of the more exciting meals of my recent memory: white gazpacho; lobster with eggplant and mozzarella; tuna tartare with caviar; barely cooked tuna with tomatoes; salmon with fresh shelling beans; local goat-cheese ravioli; and a local fish from the snapper family called cartucho—much of which comes from farms and fishermen on the island, whom Cuevas buys from directly.
Cuevas joins us as we share coconut sorbet and a salted caramel–and–chocolate tart. He sees another silver lining in Maria. “Obviously, six months ago things were very bad,” he says. “But six months have given people time to stop, think, and grow things. The Puerto Rican diet of rice, beans, plantains, and root vegetables is very earthy, but it also takes a really long time to grow.” The destruction of plantain groves has encouraged the planting of fast-growing beets, greens, tomatoes instead—ingredients healthy diets demand.
We end the night tasting three homemade jams from a woman who delivers them biweekly: one pineapple-and-mango, one papaya, one guava-coconut. They are faultless. I wonder whether I could find them in New York.
Rodríguez Besosa’s sparkling eyes light up further. Her next project is starting her own farm on land she bought last week. “It’s in a small community in Caguas, 45 minutes south of San Juan,” she tells me, so excited she’s nearly vibrating. “I’ll finally produce my own food on a larger scale.” It’s also the next iteration of El Departamento de la Comida. “This will be a model farm that hosts only workshops using permaculture and agroecology frameworks, and a collective for queer and trans people who want to work the land.” She plans to build a commercial kitchen on-site and use primarily the harvest from the farm itself. Next up, she says, as we chase our jam with petits fours: “our own product line.”
In this story:
Sittings Editor: Yohana Lebasi.
Hair: Adam Szabó; Makeup: Caoilfhionn Gifford.

MeasureMeasure

God Is Dead

God is dead.

God remains dead.

And we have killed him.

How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?

What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: 

who will wipe this blood off us? 

What water is there for us to clean ourselves?

What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? 

Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?"

-- Nietzsche, The Gay Science (1882)

God Is Dead 

I receive a call from Emily, an old girlfriend...

Nervous and anxious she asks me to rush over to see and to talk...

Emily was due back at work but never showed up...

Emily had been missing for several days when she called...

I rushed over to her apartment...

Anxious to know how she was...

Where she had been....

Emily was careful and reluctant to let me into her apartment... 

She looked gaunt and exhausted...

Her eyes were mad, her eyes moist with tears... 

We sat on the couch and she said, “I killed God.”

“You killed God?”

“Yes.” 

“How – what do you mean, you killed God?” 

“That’s just it. I killed God.” 

“How did you kill God? How did you meet God

“I beat him over the head with a long piece of wood I had found further down in the forest, that I had used as a walking stick to climb up the mountain.” “Emily, you went on vacation to Central America, right?” “Yes I did. Belize actually.” “Belize. Did you find God in Belize?” “No. Not exactly.”

I found a path...

I found a walking stick...

That I used it to climb the mountain...

And used it to kill god...

So you met God...

Yes...

You killed God with a branch?

Yes...

And God did nothing to stop you...

No, not one bit of protest, God is dead...

How do you know it was God...

I was told by the elders in the village...

And why assume they were telling you the truth?

I traveled a long way because of what I'd been told about by many of the villagers before...

How remote it was in a place so far away...

And what had you been told?

Magic, the village held secrets and magic was one of them...

And that I could find God...

Jeremy, I was a broken woman...

Space and time, I needed space and time...

I couldn't interact, I couldn't work with you or others...

I considered life as it was and it made no sense so I left...

And looked for God.

For all intent, I am dead...

Said God...

I tried to care so much... 

Too much that I became an angry God... 

And my children turned away from me...

Having lost all memory of me...

There was no son...

An embellishment by those who thought I should... 

One of the hundreds who spoke as if they knew me and of my power...

I am dead to humankind and they are dead to me...

I must remain as the essence of humankind though... 

I leave and will wither without me...

I must wait until humankind throws itself into the fire...

I must wait until they release me...

The chain keeps me here...

Chained to a stick in the ground...

I make no choice...

I have no choice...except to be killed by the hand of one of my children...

You can free me...

Instead perhaps I should let you suffer, bring you within a hairs breath of death...

Why do you hate me so?

I don't hate you...but I don't love you...I don't need you.

Are you sure?

I don't know.

I recall once as a child I would serve God...

How could God ever die?

The universe is greater than you can ever imagine...I am a layer among layers...

I represent a greater power...Humankind called me God and I am not for there is a God above me...

And I'm sure above that...the hierarchy seems endless...perhaps it is...

Perhaps, I am not needed?

Atul Gawande: Curiosity and What Equality Really Means

Atul Gawande

Graduates, wherever you go from here, and whatever you do, you will be tested. And the test will be about your ability to hold onto your principles. The foundational principle of medicine, going back centuries, is that all lives are of equal worth.

This is a radical idea, one ultimately inscribed in our nation’s founding documents: we are all created equal and should be respected as such. I do not think it a mere coincidence that among the fifty-six founding fathers who signed the declaration of our independence was a physician, Dr. Benjamin Rush. He was a committed revolutionary and abolitionist precisely because of his belief in the principle.

We in medicine do not always live up to that principle. History has been about the struggle to close the gap between the aspiration and the reality. But when that gap is exposed—when it turns out that some people get worse or no treatment because of their lack of money, lack of connections, background, darker skin pigment, or additional X chromosome—we are at least ashamed about it. We believe a C.E.O. and a cabbie with the same heart disease deserve the same chance at survival.

Hospitals are one of the very few places left where you encounter the whole span of society. Walking the halls, you begin to understand that the average American is someone who has a high-school education and thirty thousand dollars a year in per-capita earnings, out of which thirty per cent goes to taxes and another thirty per cent to housing and health-care costs. (These Americans are also told, by the way, that people like them, the majority of the population, have no future in a knowledge economy, because, hey, what can anyone do about it, anyway?) Working in health care, you also know, more than most, that we incarcerate more people than any other economically developed country; that thirty per cent of adults carry a criminal arrest record; that seven million people are currently incarcerated, on parole, or on probation; and that a massive and troubling proportion of all of them are mentally ill or black.

Video From The New Yorker

Lies and Truth in the Era of Trump

Most people don’t have this broad vantage. We all occupy our own bubbles. Trust in others, even our neighbors, is at an historic low. Much of society has become like an airplane boarding line, with different rights and privileges for zones one to ninety-seven, depending on your wealth, frequent-flier miles, credit rating, and S.A.T. scores; and many of those in line think—though no one likes to admit it—that they deserve what they have more than the others behind them. Then the boarding agent catches some people from zone eighty-four jumping ahead of the people in zone fifty-seven, and all hell breaks loose.

Insisting that people are equally worthy of respect is an especially challenging idea today. In medicine, you see people who are troublesome in every way: the complainer, the person with the unfriendly tone, the unwitting bigot, the guy who, as they say, makes “poor life choices.” People can be untrustworthy, even scary. When they’re an actual threat—as the inmate was for my chief resident—you have to walk away. But you will also see lots of people whom you might have written off prove generous, caring, resourceful, brilliant. You don’t have to like or trust everyone to believe their lives are worth preserving.

We’ve divided the world into us versus them—an ever-shrinking population of good people against bad ones. But it’s not a dichotomy. People can be doers of good in many circumstances. And they can be doers of bad in others. It’s true of all of us. We are not sufficiently described by the best thing we have ever done, nor are we sufficiently described by the worst thing we have ever done. We are all of it.

Regarding people as having lives of equal worth means recognizing each as having a common core of humanity. Without being open to their humanity, it is impossible to provide good care to people—to insure, for instance, that you’ve given them enough anesthetic before doing a procedure. To see their humanity, you must put yourself in their shoes. That requires a willingness to ask people what it’s like in those shoes. It requires curiosity about others and the world beyond your boarding zone.

We are in a dangerous moment because every kind of curiosity is under attack—scientific curiosity, journalistic curiosity, artistic curiosity, cultural curiosity. This is what happens when the abiding emotions have become anger and fear. Underneath that anger and fear are often legitimate feelings of being ignored and unheard—a sense, for many, that others don’t care what it’s like in their shoes. So why offer curiosity to anyone else?

Once we lose the desire to understand—to be surprised, to listen and bear witness—we lose our humanity. Among the most important capacities that you take with you today is your curiosity. You must guard it, for curiosity is the beginning of empathy. When others say that someone is evil or crazy, or even a hero or an angel, they are usually trying to shut off curiosity. Don’t let them. We are all capable of heroic and of evil things. No one and nothing that you encounter in your life and career will be simply heroic or evil. Virtue is a capacity. It can always be lost or gained. That potential is why all of our lives are of equal worth.

In medicine, you are asked to open yourself to others’ lives and perspectives—to people as well as to circumstances you do not and perhaps will not understand. This is part of what I love most about this profession. It aims to sustain bedrock values that matter across all of society.

But the work of preserving those values is hard. When I began my story, I made a point of not telling you the inmate’s crime, although one of the policemen told me. I wasn’t sure whether it’d change how open you’d be to putting yourself in my shoes as I wrestled with what to do.

The man’s vital signs were normal. He had no abdominal tenderness. An X-ray showed the razor hadn’t perforated his gastrointestinal tract. I put on gloves and unwrapped his blood-soaked dressing. I held pressure. He’d made numerous slashes but none deep enough to reach an artery. I’d heard that inmates sometimes swallowed blades wrapped in cellophane or inflicted wounds on themselves that, though not life-threatening, were severe enough to get them time out of prison. This man had done both.

I tried to summon enough curiosity to wonder what it had taken to push him over that edge, but I couldn’t. I only saw a bully. As I reluctantly set about suturing together the long strips of skin on his forearm, he kept up a stream of invective: about the hospital, the policemen, the inexpert job I was doing. I don’t do well when I feel humiliated. I had the urge to tell him to shut up and be a little appreciative. I thought about abandoning him.

But he’d controlled himself enough to hold still for my ministrations. And I suddenly remembered a lesson a professor had taught about brain function. When people speak, they aren’t just expressing their ideas; they are, even more, expressing their emotions. And it’s the emotions that they really want heard. So I stopped listening to the man’s words and tried to listen for the emotions.

“You seem really angry and like you feel disrespected,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “I am. I am angry and disrespected.”

His voice changed. He told me that I have no idea what it was like inside. He’d been in solitary for two years straight. His eyes began to water. He calmed down. I did, too. For the next hour, I just sewed and listened, trying to hear the feelings behind his words.

I didn’t understand him or like him. But all it took to see his humanity—to be able to treat him—was to supply that tiny bit of openness and curiosity.

Graduates, you have studied for thousands of hours on end. You will be licensed to make diagnoses and prescribe an armament of drugs and procedures. Most of all, you will be given trust to see human beings at their most vulnerable and serve them. That trust is earned because of your values, your commitment to serving all as equals, and your openness to people’s humanity. The renewal of these values is why we’re all so grateful to be here—and so grateful that you will carry those values on, beyond us.

Measure

Measure

Politician Flips Out

He Looked Upon From The Earth

Dave looks down from the heavens...

disembodied at an unaware group of apes climbing

upon a half buried smart phone monolith 

and one ape 

hanging with arm outstretched reaching skyward

at the image of Dave in wonder..

Evernote helps you remember everything and get organized effortlessly. Download Evernote.

Place... Natal

Born 

Growth 

And?

Nurture 

Learn 

Apply 

And we wonder, next...

By age of seven we grow and begin to apply the ability to learn, 

to desire for ourselves 

as well as from others, 

but to learn as we have been,

about the world around us,

about relationships and each our place, 

that we have a place that is our own,

that we categorize ourselves 

as well as deal with others who categorize us...

know your place, is what they say

accept it...

we exist for no other reason but to learn, 

gather data, with desire or without...

enjoy and embrace the knowledge...

it will embrace you whether you accept it or not.

we gather data and analyze it,

which serves as more learned information to serve the whole...

we find our inherent purpose and accept it if not embrace it knowing it...

we find a purpose and comfort in our acceptance...

if you find none, you exist without such and never enjoy your life...

the world is but a metaphor for what we inherently see and recognize...

as opposed to what we see...

comfort...that is our lives, comfort to appease our lives as they unfold...

natal all our lives all else we imagine...

our existence supercedes all that we do, exist within which we live and after a century of data collection we expire, 

Our lives have no purpose other to collect data; living it, enjoying it, hating it, recognizing it, indifferent to it. 

Evernote helps you remember everything and get organized effortlessly. Download Evernote.