Thank you 2016

Shisho is grateful for 2016

2016 is....not to be summed up in a word, or a sentence, or a book.

All I can sum up is my gratitude for the Einstein's elevator paradigm of experiences throughout it.

Much was intense, on the extremes of the spectrum: the good of it, the bad of it, the terrific, the terrible...Little was mellow or tranquil and it was welcome as it was a very brief, but yet present breather between collercoaster's ride.

I am grateful for every bit of it, and amidst the suffering, Humankind's alienation and the canvas of dim colors and awful sensations, I am at awe at the little dots of colors and lines, however fine, of lively hues: our moments of joy: the beloved ones that were spared, the cherished ones that overcame their health issues, the close ones endowed with bravery and endurance to keep on fighting and moving forward, the inspiring ones that provide us with more content, the anonymous ones with uninterested acts of kindness, the hopeful ones still working for our world and the gone ones, wasted potential or fulfilled promises as they can be, be at peace.

And stay well and healthy, and endowed with inner fire dear reader.

Rumi

يا مطربَ العاشقين، هُزَّ الأوتار،

 وأشعل النارَ في المؤمنين والكُفّار 

Oh Singer of the Lovers, move your chords,
And light fire in faithful and nonbelievers

On Energy models of systems

More proof along the way that I need to take that Energy Methods classes come Fall 2017.

Collateral perk : To have my favorite professor again :).

Belphégor

I was looking for a picture of Belphégor to put on my phone when I stumbled upon new art done in his honor. I am extremely pleased the character is gaining inertia again, even for a little while.

I have recently rewatched the whole series while preparing for my final quizzes ( that might contribute to explaining the grades). I would work to Belphégor's episodes before but I see I can't do this now.

 

By Damien

By BatmanInc

Unknown Source

le Musée du Louvre. Immense dédale de couloirs et de salles où veillent des oeuvres énigmatiques de génies disparus... Où des statues, qui présidèrent il y a des siècles à des cultes immondes, contemplent aujourd’hui de leurs yeux vides la foule des visiteurs insouciants... Où dans la pierre des stèles, des signes indéchiffrables annoncent des cataclysmes à venir et des épidémies implacables...Car derrière le décor quotidien du Paris familier, il y a celui qui ne figure ni sur les plans les plus détaillés, ni sur les guides les mieux documentés. L’autre Paris, le Paris mystérieux d’au-delà des apparences. Maléfique et souterrain, déjà disparu aussitôt qu’entrevu, ce Paris de miasmes et d’ombres qu’on aurait pu croire à jamais chassées par les vivaces et assainissantes avancées urbanistiques de ces dernières décennies, c’est le Paris de Belphégor...

Les Armateurs

.

Let's do this, under two hymns, one to soothe the soul, another to the rise up the spirit.

Dear O. dear dear harnessing energy to get good grades...I feel like a ferrari required to run on 20m/h and having all the difficulties in the world doing so

Bordel ce que la mecanique des milieux continus m'inspire a ecouter +_+

Et si tu n'existais pas,
Dis-moi pourquoi j'existerais.
Pour traîner dans un monde sans toi,
Sans espoir et sans regrets.

Et si tu n'existais pas,
J'essaierais d'inventer l'amour,
Comme un peintre qui voit sous ses doigts
Naître les couleurs du jour.
Et qui n'en revient pas.

Et si tu n'existais pas,
Dis-moi pour qui j'existerais.
Des passantes endormies dans mes bras
Que je n'aimerais jamais.

Et si tu n'existais pas,
Je ne serais qu'un point de plus
Dans ce monde qui vient et qui va,
Je me sentirais perdu,
J'aurais besoin de toi.

Et si tu n'existais pas,
Dis-moi comment j'existerais.
Je pourrais faire semblant d'être moi,
Mais je ne serais pas vrai.

Et si tu n'existais pas,
Je crois que je l'aurais trouve,
Le secret de la vie, le pourquoi,
Simplement pour te créer
Et pour te regarder.

 

 

 Puisqu'avec Susumu Hirasawa, j'oublie mes equations pour me concentrer sur ses propulseurs, je me disais que c'etait sage d'ecouter ma playlist nostalgique. En fait non, elle pousse a ecouter des trucs que je ne pensais meme pas reecouter. 

Il manque plus que K-Maro pour que ce soit la ridicule assume complet.

Est-ce qu'on rit ou on pleure?

More Than Ever

I hear you sir, more than ever I hear you. Manufacturing consent is not a trend, it's the background noise

What can I do about it has been the aporia for too long too draining gosh what a clumsy treading of reality

The Handmaiden

oh boy oh boy oh boy, this would be the first movie I allow myself to actually watch since coming to the U.S.A. It has been so overwhelming that I lost track of my referential of leisur vs work time and just stuck with work for the most of it.

But hey, if it means breaking the fast with a Park Chan-Wook, it is all made up for. A brilliant masterpiece as usual.

Je chante pour passer le temps

الله يرحمك

Historically speaking, this sort of deviance from the heart of whiteness has been met in three different
ways. The race traitor in question has been reassimilated, rendered invisible, and/or excommunicated.
And so Eminem’s real crime may simply be that he’s too popular to be ignored, too brash to be pulled
back into the bosom of unthreatening whiteness, and so he must be branded as a demon, a deviant, a
monster, a bête noire—who’s all the more bête for “failing” to be noire—and then the demon must be cast out, lest his racially blurred performance come to be accepted as a viable option for other members of the white club.

A crucial aspect of this threat to hegemonic whiteness is the way that Eminem’s unwavering self presentation as “white trash” works to unsettle the dominant cultural mythology that equates “whiteness” with middle-class prosperity. If Rux is right to claim that Eminem was “socialized as black,” to a large extent, it’s because of the strong correlation between “race” and “class” in U.S. culture. The blackness in Eminem’s background that Rux points to is rooted in the fact that Eminem’s childhood poverty placed him in the disproportionately black “hood” of inner city Detroit. And so it’s significant that a number of Eminem’s detractors play “the race card” in order to steer the broader conversation away from the sort of cross-racial, class-based alliances that Eminem’s popularity suggests might be possible.

This practice was especially pronounced with respect to 8 Mile, Eminem’s first foray into Hollywood
acting, where a number of critics complained that the film took unfair swipes at the black bourgeoisie. For example, writing about the film in the New Republic, Justin Driver complained that,
far from untethering hip-hop from race, Eminem’s class bait-and-switch simply replaces the fact of
blackness—i.e., skin color—with an idea of blackness that equates being black with being poor,
angry, and uneducated. Eminem is perpetuating precisely the idea that animated Norman Mailer’s
1957 essay “The White Negro.” … Eminem would likely object to Mailer’s racist posturing,
particularly in light of his steadfast refusal to utter the word “nigger” in any context. “That word,” he
says, “is not even in my vocabulary.” Unfortunately, judging from the evidence, neither is the term
“black middle class.

I need to get it together

Oh yes, I walked on on stuttering foot, everyone around stranger.
I was deceived into a gamble, lost all the way and I'm broke.
Deprived of everything and cast away penniless.
Hey, dance, dance, over such a silly story.
Tell me where to go, I asked again and again.
They said "there," I went there, "this way," I came this way.
 Oh, what a surprise, I've arrived at the middle of a river-bush.
 The river blocks me from going;
hey, dance on, it's a silly story.

Safety Blanket I

Thunderstorms alert. No meetings. Stay safe in your place. Try to reconnect with some old basic and beautiful game and try not to think about homework, dead overseas, super fried food in your stomach, exams and fatigue.

Mighty Mighty Mighty Mighty

At least there is his music, that's one taste I definitely didn't lose here.
Oh, and I was in such a need of anything French...I thought I did fine bringing one of my favorite reading by Camus, but even my Mythe de Sisyphe couldn't cut it after some two readings too.
I'm trusting Germinal now.
Gosh, I'm in the U.S.A. and I definitely should update more. I just hope I get to be up to speed to resume that.
And I miss vervein, and my thyme is running out and medicinal plants are weird requests here and thank god I brought my own olive oil and my own argan oil. At least, they provide a safety blanket to my palet.
Oh America, I still need some grounding. I still need to get used to you.
Please be patient

On re-read

Going through Eminem and Rap, Poetry, Race: Essays again
Because this is becoming more relevant
Because I'm in the zone right now
Because reading helped me when I went abroad the very first time for an extended period (and it feels like I need some self-soothing and help at this moment)

Much of the moral panic here involves a disturbing sort of scapegoating, where Eminem is made into a bogeyman for social ills that are far larger and far older than any damage that he might have been able to do in a mere five years or so of musical stardom. Reading Eminem’s critics (from both the left and the right), one gets the impression that he has single-handedly opened up a previously untapped well of bigotry and violence, and that the very novelty and uniqueness of his brand of poison has somehow overwhelmed the aura of peace-loving tolerance that otherwise characterizes the day-to-day life of U.S. culture.

In the case at hand, it’s worth noting that mainstream U.S. culture is already rife with misogyny and homophobia, and was so long before Eminem was born: enough so that his hypermasculine lyrical excesses may actually be the least transgressive, most normative thing about him. This doesn’t get Eminem off the hook when it comes to his particular renditions of these problematic cultural norms—not at all—but it does suggest that the real stakes in this particular discursive struggle are not those visible on the surface: that Eminem is being taken to task for transgressions that are too disturbing, too unsettling, and too threatening to mainstream U.S. culture to be openly acknowledged.

John Lennon—while still a lovable mop-top, no less—could sing about preferring a woman

to her being with another man (“Run for Your Life”).15 Johnny Cash could boast that he’d “shot a man in Reno just to watch him die” (“Folsom Prison Blues”). Bob Shane (of the Kingston Trio) could stab a woman to death for unspecified reasons and regret nothing other than that he was caught before he could escape to Tennessee (“Tom Dooley”). Eric Clapton could gun down a sheriff in the street without audible remorse or regret (“I Shot the Sheriff”). And Bruce Springsteen could undertake a murderous rampage across Nebraska in which he killed “ten innocent people” with a sawed-off shotgun (“Nebraska”). All of these musical crimes were generally understood to be acceptable forms of dramatic musical fiction —or, at least, none of them sparked any significant wave of moral outrage from the public at large... The musicians cited above are all understood to be “authors” in Foucault’s sense of the term (even when, as in Clapton’s case, they’re singing other people’s songs), and so their most violent musical narratives are readily interpreted as artistic fictions. Musicians who “fail” to be white, straight, economically privileged, and/or male, however, are frequently and forcefully denied comparable artistic license, even when (or perhaps especially when) they’re working within artistically valorized musical genres such as rock. For instance, when Madonna or Prince

sing about sexual escapades in the first person, they’re made into poster children for why CDs need

parental warning labels—with “critics” such as Tipper Gore leading the charge to police the musical

soundscape.17 When Alanis Morissette hurls bitter musical invective at a duplicitous ex-lover (“You

Oughta Know”), rock critics are quick to accuse her of being an “angry woman” and a “man hater”—

whereas male rock stars who offer venomous musical kiss-offs to former girlfriends (e.g., Bob Dylan,

Elvis Costello) are lauded as visionary poets. When Ice-T or N.W.A. use music to narrate revenge

fantasies about firing back at criminally violent police officers, they’re met with public outrage forceful enough to cancel national concert tours and expunge the offending songs from already released albums— and in Ice-T’s case, the backlash’s racism is underscored by the public framing of his offending song (“Cop Killer”) as an example of (everything that’s wrong with) gangsta rap, even though it came from an album released by his speed metal band, Body Count. In cases like these, the possibility that these musicians are invoking the fictional “I” is one that the dominant public discourse largely refuses to recognize or accept. “Common sense,” it seems, tells us that John Lennon didn’t really want to kill his first wife when he wrote “Run for Your Life,” but that “Cop Killer” must be taken as a literal expression of the truth about Ice-T’s felonious desires.

Part of Eminem’s musical brilliance, then, is his ability to recognize this double standard and to use the tension between the fictional and the autobiographical “I” to fuel his art.

I wonder

Many times I wonder what does Master Hirasawa think about being human, what does he think about pain and solitude? what does he think about attachment and about life?

I wonder how a soul such as his producing an art such as his, still endures and goes on and on, everfolding and generously sharing its gift still, instead of ending it all.

I wonder and wonder and often I burn of the need of an answer of him. I yearn to have an answer, to get a sign, any sign of an answer through his work or his tweets. But he either doesn't give in or I'm seriously deaf to a stupid extent.

Shisho, how is it you still go on? how is it it still matters enough that not only you go on but it is genuine? I need to know how you do it, while staying true and giving in healing and breath to the likes of me

If Porcelein

who told you that you were permitted to settle in?
who told you that this or that would last forever?
did no one ever tell you that you will never
in the world
feel at home in the world?

This made my day...

Amidst all the suffering, there is a little piece of entertainment that soothes me a little, even if it's a glimpse.

MAA

Reposting because it's FF VII and it's amazing

Susumu Time

My obsession is merciful come to think of it: by the time Im done draining and assimilating some tracks, it shifts to another one and gives me a change before taking me back to previous ones. At this rate, I might never be done, never be done, never be done, never be done, never be done,never be done, never be done, never be done, never be done,never be done, never be done, never be done, never be done,never be done, never be done, never be done, never be done,never be done, never be done, never be done, never be done,never be done, never be done, never be done, never be done,never be done, never be done, never be done, never be done,never be done, never be done, never be done, never be done,never be done, never be done, never be done, never be done,never be done, never be done, never be done, never be done...

Posing with my guinea pigs

One of those priceless opportunities where a friend can take pictures of me with my guinea pigs.

I don't care how un-guineapiggy I am. 

My friend said he'd picture me better with a sloughi on one hand and a Tibetan mastiff on the other. If I ever am to seek breeds instead of strays and spontaneous encounters with pets, I will take it into consideration, but with my history with animals, I already think I will go for the stray ones and the spontaneous encounters. The first guinea pig I adopted was a solitary grandpa ditched by his owner. Those were the last in the first petshop I found on the way.

My guinea pigs are almost four months now and still growing. Going on a trip with them proves exhausting, especially for week-ends at the parents. But all in all, when we're waiting for dad to come pick us up, we get the leisure of playing in the forest near my workplace and it is not an opportunity I can always provide to those lovely patient and fluffy creatures.

If I am to go abroad, I am definitely taking Zishlaw and Cauchy. 

DIPG : A Story From HONY

(2/2) “You have to have faith and keep working. Back in the 70’s and 80’s, all of us were hoping for just a single survivor of stage four neuroblastoma. It was a rare cancer and we just couldn’t cure it. But eventually we figured it out. Recently over five hundred people attended a party we threw for neuroblastoma survivors. So change does happen. It just happens slowly. I have a colleague who lost hope recently. He’s been working on a brain tumor called DIPG, and he’s had nothing but three decades of negative outcomes. Dozens and dozens of failed trials. We just couldn’t touch the tumor because it’s in the main center of the brain. But my colleague stayed optimistic. He kept cheering us on. But he finally lost hope. After three decades of losing kids, he asked to not see any more DIPG patients. Then guess what happened. We finally have a survivor on our hands. Our neurosurgeon Dr. Souweidane figured out how to insert a catheter directly into the tumor. And we now have a girl that is 3.5 years from diagnosis. It’s still early, but it’s promising. She plays tennis. She plays violin. And she is gorgeous.”

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 8, 2016 at 11:30am PDT

“I’ve been on a mission for seventeen years. It’s my holy grail. I’m trying to cure a brain tumor called DIPG that kills 100 percent of the children who have it. It only affects 200 kids a year so it’s never gotten much attention. But if you saw a child die from DIPG, you’d understand why I care so much. It’s awful. It’s just awful. Parents come to me in droves asking me to help. They say: ‘This can’t happen. Please do something.’ But there’s nothing I can do. Their child will be dead in a year. It’s horrible. It’s been a very tough thing to care about. I didn’t get into neurosurgery to watch kids die. I chose this job to heal people. And DIPG has been seventeen years of watching kids die. It’s a very dark place to work. But if I can find a cure, so much of that pain will be paid back in a single instant. And on that day I will feel like there has been some justice.

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 18, 2016 at 1:17pm PDT

When I first started working on DIPG in 1990, I thought: ‘I’ll figure it out in two years.’ That was before I had gray hair. I had no money. My office was the size of a closet and I was buying my own rats. But I was so optimistic. I had no idea what was facing me. There were so many hurdles I didn’t see. Everything was new. I never had any experts I could call or articles I could read. I had to figure everything out on my own. From a surgeon’s viewpoint, the tumor is unforgiving. It infiltrates the brain stem. Everything your body feels or experiences passes through that stem. You can’t violate it with a knife. It’s futile to even think about. So I had to figure out how to insert a catheter through the brain, and inject chemotherapy directly into the tumor. There is zero room for error. These chemicals must only touch the tumor. If you miss the target by a couple millimeters, it can be fatal. Brain surgeons aren’t artists. There isn’t much room to be creative. The innovator in neurosurgery is under a great deal of pressure. We must invent without being too imaginative. If we stray too far from our ancestors, it could lead to death. In May of 2012, I finally got approval to conduct a clinical trial. A family flew up from Florida with their child Caitlyn. I was so nervous. I’d written so many elegant papers. I’d conducted so many trials on mice. I’d done so many tests in the lab proving that this could work. But here I was looking at a human child. Am I really ready? The spotlight was unbelievable. If I kill this child, it will decimate me emotionally. And the institution’s reputation was on the line. Had I done enough? Had I prepared enough? All these things were running through my mind as Caitlyn’s mother signed the consent. But when she finished, she turned to me and said: ‘Whatever happens, thank you for trying.’ And I still get emotional when I think about that. Because she took so much weight off me. The operation was a success. This is Caitlyn a week later. She could walk! She could jump! She could touch her nose! She lived for a year after that, but then her cancer came back and killed her. It was so hard for me. I was so close to her family. But right now I’ve had about twenty successful trials. That’s twenty living children. One young woman has been alive for three years. Every passing day that those children are still alive is the greatest day of my life. My childhood was building things: model rockets, model cars, train sets, airplanes. And I didn’t just build them. I focused on every detail. I hand painted every letter on the train. I sanded the wooden ribs of the airplane until everything was so precise and fit. And it felt so good when that work was finished and appreciated. It was the same drive that brought me into neurosurgery. I loved fixing things. And I had always been successful. To get to be a neurosurgeon, I had to succeed on so many levels. I’d become accustomed to success. But I finally found something I couldn’t fix. All my DIPG patients were dying. It was failure beyond failure. Kids were dying because I’m not good enough at this. And they don’t deserve it. And neither do the parents. It’s so hard to face these parents. They’ve envisioned everything that’s going to happen to their child from the day they were born: the first girlfriend, the first job, the first homerun, the first time tasting meatballs, it’s infinite. And they come into my office and, ‘Kaboom.’ All of it disappears. It’s horrible. Seeing their faces. It’s beyond abominable. I just can’t take it. I’ve got to stop these kids from dying

(1/5) "Max had two mothers. We found a sperm donor and I gave birth to him through IVF. He was actually a twin. I decided to reduce the pregnancy because I was scared at the time. I didn't think I could handle twins. And that decision will haunt me for the rest of my life. Max was such a sweet child. I was a bit of a hard ass on him. I wanted to be sure that I gave him boundaries because I never had them growing up. But I think it brought us closer together. Because he knew I’d always protect him. And he was so protective of me too. But in such a sweet way. He’d hold my face in his hands. God he was so sweet. Just such a nice guy. So funny. He loved to laugh. His bedroom was close to ours and we used to hear him in there late at night, laughing by himself.

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 19, 2016 at 8:51am PDT

(2/5) “One of Max’s eyes started crossing over when he turned six years old. But I wasn’t too worried. He’d been such a healthy kid. I thought maybe he was developing a bit of a lazy eye. But the doctor started getting really uncomfortable during our appointment. He scheduled an MRI for the next day, and he told me: ‘Let’s not be too worried. I’m going to sleep well tonight.’ It was such a weird thing to say. Right? I had been completely relaxed until he said that. We got the MRI early the next morning, and I went to work. The results came in a few hours later. They called me while I was walking down the street. I just collapsed on the sidewalk.

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 19, 2016 at 11:28am PDT

(3/5) "There was a tumor in his brain. The doctor told us that he knew what it was. He said it was called DIPG and that he hadn’t found anything that worked. He said it would eventually kill him. And I started screaming. And I asked how long. And he told us a year. He told us that ‘doing nothing’ was an acceptable choice. And he said, ‘This will be harder on you than it is on Max.’ And I remember looking at Max. And he was so beautiful. All he had was that crossed eye. Our life had been beautiful and now everything sucked. I didn’t know what to do. So we went to the Lego store. He was obsessed with Legos. That night he got so many Legos.” ---------------------------------------------- Today is the last day of our fundraiser to aid Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in their fight against pediatric cancer. Nearly 60,000 people have donated and we’ve raised over $2.2 million so far. Max’s tumor is the same tumor that Dr. Souweidane is working on curing. (See previous story). I promised Julie that all money raised during the telling of her story would be given to Dr. Souweidane and his colleagues to aid in the fight against DIPG. The gift will be given in Max’s honor. Even if it’s a small amount, please consider donating. Link in bio.

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 19, 2016 at 2:02pm PDT

(4/5) “I think I have post traumatic stress. I have so many horrible flashbacks. Two weeks after Max was diagnosed, he asked me if I’d be his Mommy forever. I said, ‘Of course I will.’ And he asked: ‘Even when I’m ninety?’ And I told him ‘yes.’ What was I supposed to say? And there were all the times he talked to me about the future. We’d talk about college. I just couldn’t tell him. God I was such a coward. I should have told him. I just couldn’t do it. Even toward the end. The day before he lost consciousness, I read his favorite book to him. It’s called Runaway Bunny. And the little bunny keeps threatening to run away. And the Mama bunny keeps saying: ‘Wherever you go, I will find you.’ Oh God, it was such a horrible way to die. He couldn’t speak or move or swallow or see. He basically starved to death. And the whole last week I’m whispering in his ear: ‘Let go, let go. Please Max, let go.’ My seven-year-old son. I’m telling him to let go. I mean, fuck. That’s not supposed to happen! And the whole time I never told him he was dying. I was such a coward. But he knew. He knew without me telling him. Because a couple weeks before he lost his speech, he asked me: ‘Mommy, do they speak English where I’m going?’” --------------------------------------------------------Today is the last day of our fundraiser to aid Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in their fight against pediatric cancer. Over 65,000 people have donated and we’ve raised over $2.3 million so far. Max’s tumor is the same tumor that Dr. Souweidane is working on curing. (See previous story). In fact, Max was supposed to be part of Dr. Souweidane’s first clinical trial but he passed away too soon. I promised Julie that all money raised during the telling of Max’s story would be given to Dr. Souwedaine and his colleagues to aid in their DIPG research. The gift will be given in Max’s honor. Even if it’s a small amount, please consider donating. Link in bio.

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 19, 2016 at 3:43pm PDT

(5/5) “I used to be a really happy person. I really was. I was the person who would walk outside and say: ‘Isn’t everything beautiful? Isn’t life wonderful? Aren’t we so lucky?’ I don’t have that sense of joy anymore. I remember the Mother’s Day before Max was diagnosed. It was four years ago. We were in this same park. On the lawn over there. It was beautiful. All three of us were there. Irene and I were in love. And Max was lying on my feet and pretending to fly in the air. And he was laughing so hard and I remember feeling so happy and full of life. It was the last moment that I truly felt joy.” ------------------------------------------------------- Today is the last day of our fundraiser to aid Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in their fight against pediatric cancer. Over 70,000 people have donated and with over $2.6 million has been raised so far. Max’s tumor is the same tumor that Dr. Souweidane is working on curing. (See previous story). In fact, Max was supposed to be part of Dr. Souweidane’s first clinical trial but he passed away too soon. I promised Julie that all money raised during the telling of Max’s story would be given to Dr. Souwedaine and his colleagues to aid in their DIPG research. The gift will be given in Max’s honor. Even if it’s a small amount, please consider donating. Link in bio.

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 19, 2016 at 5:16pm PDT

Over the past two weeks, 90,000 of you donated nearly $3.4 million to help fight pediatric cancer. That is a staggering amount of money. Thank you. For those of you who might not have been in a place to contribute financially, thank you so much for engaging with this difficult material. The support and solidarity you showed these families was just as valuable as the money itself. You are the most caring community of people on the Internet. That’s no exaggeration. It’s proven by the tone of every comment section. And it’s proven by the $8.5 million you’ve given to charity in the past 1.5 years. You are such a compassionate collection of people, and I can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve contributed to HONY. Lastly, thank you so much to Dr. O'Reilly and the Department of Pediatrics at Memorial Sloan Kettering for making this series possible. Special thanks to Nina Pickett and Rachel Corke, who paved every stone on my path. I’ve got one last story to leave you with. Last night you raised over $1 million in honor of Max to research and cure DIPG—the brain tumor that killed him. Dr. Souweidane tells me that this money represents the “single greatest leap forward” in his personal crusade against DIPG. When I interviewed Julie a few days ago, we were sitting on a bench in Madison Square Park that had been dedicated to Max. The plaque listed all the things that Max loved, and one of those things was ‘millions.’ I asked Julie what that meant. ‘Max’s uncle Charley gave him one hundred dollars,’ she told me. ‘And Max kept saying that one day he’d have a million.’ So thank you, everyone, for giving Max his million. I’ll be leaving the fundraiser up all day, for anyone who would still like to donate. Link in bio.

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 20, 2016 at 9:18am PDT

Excellent

Moves. Idris Elba. Diversity. Tunes.

I don't know what else to do at this point

There's a calling voice colouring the sky in vermilion
The falling rain goes on for miles and miles

There's the voice crying like an angel
Which grows a thousand dreams in the silent night
2)
There are the sons standing like warriors
They kept the sun on their fists and endured the suffering days

"May you have a future ahead"
There's the voice wishing and singing
Which sleeps within the belief

LOVE SONG blooms as flowers
LOVE SONG blows as a wind
LOVE SONG rises as waves
LOVE SONG cries about people...

3)
"May you have good fortune in the furthest sky"
There's the rain shining all over you

There's the voice calling like an angel
Which counted the woven days colouring the vermillion sky

LOVE SONG blooms as flowers
LOVE SONG blows as a wind
LOVE SONG rises as waves
LOVE SONG cries about people...

Band of Parents and Grace's Case: a HONY Story

“It was one of the most despicable things I’ve seen in my career. It was ten years ago. There were about twenty families being treated here whose kids had Neuroblastoma. The survival rate was about ten percent. One of our doctors developed an antibody that he thought was promising. But he’d run out of money. So he called a town hall meeting of sorts. He brought all the families together and told them he needed two million dollars. And they told him: ‘We’ll find it.’ We refer to them now as the Band of Parents. These people were desperate. Many of them were broke. And this burden was being placed on them. It made me sick. But they went back to their communities. They baked cookies, and organized bike rides, and held fundraisers named after their children. And they raised the money. All two million. And it worked. Dr. Cheung’s antibody worked. Today the survival rate is sixty percent. But it was so sad. Because deep in their hearts those parents knew the antibody would not be ready in time to save their child. But they raised the money anyway.

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 15, 2016 at 5:40pm PDT

(1/6) “She came back from soccer practice one day, limping and crying. And we knew something wasn’t right because Grace is tough. The doctors thought it was a pulled muscle at first but when they gave her the MRI, they could see stuff in her bones. They said it wasn’t leukemia, and we thought: ‘Thank God.’ But then they told us it was neuroblastoma. Stage four, high risk-- as if stage four wasn’t bad enough, they had to add an extra label. I was so scared during our first meeting that I put a statue of the Virgin Mary on the table. I thought maybe it would protect us. The doctors started going through the treatment plan. They told us percentages but I didn’t want to listen. They might know about cancer but they didn’t know Grace. So I didn’t want to hear it. Two weeks after the diagnosis, a friend wrote Grace a really nice letter of encouragement. It basically said: ‘I had stage two cancer, and everything turned out just fine!’ Grace folded up the letter, and asked me: ‘Mom, what stage do I have?’ And I told her: ‘Four.’ And she said, ‘How many stages are there?’ I wanted so bad to say: ‘One hundred and fifty.’ But I had to tell her the truth.”

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 17, 2016 at 10:50am PDT

(2/6) “The radiation was so strong that I couldn’t sit next to her for two weeks. But Grace handled all her treatment so well. She named her new dog after the chemotherapy medicine. She’d walk through the lobby of the hospital, and she’d see kids who’d lost limbs, or had brain surgery, and she’d say: ‘I’m so lucky.’ But when the treatment was over, the doctors did another scan, and nothing had changed. They told me: ‘We’re no longer treating her to cure her.’ In the beginning they were so optimistic. They were telling me about all these options and all this stuff they were going to do. And now they were telling me to give up. And I’m looking at Grace. And she looks OK. She looks strong. She doesn’t look like the girl that I’m reading about in these medical charts. But they’re telling me to give up on her. They’re saying our goal is to keep her as comfortable as possible. Keep her comfortable? What do you mean? What are you trying to say? I’ll never forget that day. The doctor told me: ‘Let’s not worry about this afternoon’s appointment. Go home and have some fun.”

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 17, 2016 at 11:53am PDT

(3/6) “I wasn’t going to give up. We tried taking Grace to another hospital but they told us the same thing: ‘There’s nothing we can do.’ But then we brought her to Sloan, and they told us: ‘We think there’s one more thing we can try.’ It was an experimental antibody called Humanized 3F8. It triggered Grace’s immune system to attack her cancer. It was so painful. It felt like she was getting a root canal over her entire body. After two rounds of treatment they did another scan. They wanted to see if there was any progress. The therapy was so painful that if it wasn’t working they wanted to stop. They called me in the office to give me the results. They told Grace to wait outside. I was so nervous. I could barely stand. When I walked in, nobody was saying anything at first. I thought: ‘Oh, God. They don’t want to tell me.’ Suddenly they said: ‘This is amazing. It’s never happened before.’ And they held up her scan and the cancer was gone. It had been everywhere: her pelvis, her skull, her bones, her arms. And now it was gone. All of us started crying.” -------------------------------------------------------- You may remember the post from a few days ago that told the story of The Band of Parents, who raised $2,000,000 to fund the development of an antibody. Humanized 3F8 was that antibody. Grace’s life was saved through their efforts. Right now we are holding our own fundraiser to help the team at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in their fight against pediatric cancer. As you can see, this research saves lives.

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 17, 2016 at 1:07pm PDT

On the Alienation and isolation engendred from the notion of "Cancer"

“Cancer engenders immediate fear. I think that deep in our soul, we don’t want to admit to the possibility that we might have it too. So when someone else gets cancer, we turn that person into an ‘other.’ If that person is ‘other than us,’ then maybe it won’t happen to us. For the past thirty years, I’ve done everything I can to keep children from feeling like an ‘other.’ Yes, this child has cancer. But this child is a normal kid. Alongside their illness, they are dealing with demons that the average adult has never faced. So not only must we heal them, we must also never let them feel ‘less good’ or ‘less worthwhile.’ Because if we disrupt their ability to relate to the world, then the cancer will define the rest of their life.” ----------------------------------------------------------Over the past eight days, we’ve raised over one million dollars to help Dr. O’Reilly and his team at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center fight pediatric cancer. While most of the money will go to crucial research, one-third of the funds will go toward providing the psychosocial services that treat the ‘whole child.’ If you haven’t already, please consider donating. Link in bio.

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 14, 2016 at 4:59pm PDT

The longer I study cancer, the more I’m in awe of the healthy child

“Twelve thousand kids per year get cancer in the United States. But the extraordinary thing isn’t that cancer happens. The extraordinary thing is that cancer doesn’t happen more often. Every human life begins with a single cell. Trillions of cells will form from that single cell. During this process, the DNA will rearrange itself hundreds of times to form all different types of cells: muscle, nerve, bone, blood, connective tissue. If you look at these cells under a microscope, each one has special properties. They all have codes that tell them exactly what to do and exactly when to stop doing it. The complexity of this is extraordinary. There are numerous fail-safes at every level to prevent mistakes. How is it possible that it ever works correctly? There are trillions of chances for something to go wrong. God, it’s unbelievable. The longer I study cancer, the more I’m in awe of the healthy child.”

A photo posted by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on May 14, 2016 at 8:32am PDT

On The Loop

TOLKIEN FTW

Lyrics To Remember

In the avenue where I’ve dreamed more 100 times,

I see people standing still

I notice the sound, it’s coming from depth from the sea,

You’re calling me faintly,

Sobbing with the voice which is unnoticeable yet well-known

And staying in a transient song.

The inaudible wind, even for Birds flying high in the sky,

It disturbs the tower,

On the hight in Ancient sky,

You’re calling me still now,

Please come to me with flowers.

I shall throw myself in the voice,

Like a old sailor trying to leave into the sea on a stormy day.

-----------

Tobira, a land of 3000 nautical miles seen in dreams

Kicking the fertile earth,

I dance a sacred dance, a dagger at my side

Sitting in the primera throne is

the sunburned “King of Haze”

I stab the goat in the back, dyeing it red

Flowers fall into that skillful performance,

and more than 300 pairs of eyes stare in wonder

The sacrifice awakens

The voices of the people call to the flames

The blood burns, and between the water and the rising flames,

the aeonian gears of Paranesia begin to turn

A 3.3 second-long drama

Within that origin’s arcanum,

beyond dreams, and absolutely everything ordinary,

is a spirit in the form of that shadow

The sunburned “King of Haze”

The voices of people call to the flames

Behold, the Paranesian Circle Circle Circle

Circle Circle Behold it

The Paranesian Circle Circle

Circle Circle Behold it

The gears turn  Inevitably and abruptly

this nightmare of ecstasy swells to a climax

Devouring depletion, spewing abundance,

it rains hopeful light into the vessel of death

Is it the paradise of the fire’s flame,

or the motordrive of a holy wheel?

The Paranesian Circle Circle Circle

Even smooth speech turns to grim sobbing  The sacrifice  Beyond dreams

A quiet, nameless successor  Rising  Falling  Rising  Falling

Is it the paradise of the fire’s flame,

or the motordrive of a holy wheel?

The Paranesian Circle Circle

The Paranesian Circle Circle Circle

Behold, the Paranesian Circle Circle Circle Circle

Circle Circle Circle Behold it!

A Nobuo Frenzy

Air on Rewatch

In a Nutshell

On The Loop

The rain falls again and secretly makes the flowers from that day bloom in the streets
Unknown to others, you were born and came here

"Hold your head up high and go today!" calls a voice that bloomed on the distant waterfront of Ayutthaya
Awakened by that voice, you came here

Far away  A path no one travels  Only the secret techniques of the moon know you
Those days when you passed countless nights without sleep

Sing! Sing even more beautifully! Time to depart this hateful prison
The waterfront gate you saw in your dreams opens up

Ascend to that heavenly garden you saw in your dreams!
A circle of flowers  Let acclaim blossom  Ascend!  Switched-on lotus
Return home!  The time has come  To the garden you saw in your dreams
A dazzling night  Release everything  Return home!  Switched-on lotus

The rain falls again and secretly makes the flowers from that day bloom in the streets
Unknown to others, you were born and came here

Far away  A path no one travels  Only the secret techniques of the moon know you
Those days when you passed countless nights without sleep

Ascend to that heavenly garden you saw in your dreams!
A circle of flowers  Let acclaim blossom  Ascend!  Switched-on lotus
Return home!  The time has come  To the garden you saw in your dreams
A dazzling night  Release everything  Return home!  Switched-on lotus

 I'm not crying

And while we're at it

Because with the state of things, why the hell not?

#prisonbreak #fox #theodorebagwell #tbag #robertknepper

A photo posted by Robert Knepper (@robert_knepperofficial) on Mar 17, 2016 at 5:08pm PDT

And because he's my favorite and I really hope he'll make an appearance on Prison Break 5 (although I can't see how Fox River can be connected to a Yamani jail)

Prison Break Marathon

Because They're coming....They're coming...They're coming.

Kara No Kyoukai Marathon

The only possible thing I can do with an active playful puppy around me is to watch something.

Or rewatch because I won't be able to focus all the way through.

Soccos is BACK

O. is going to his hometown this week-end. SO I GET TO KEEP SOCCOS STARTING TONIGHT! WOUHOUUUU

Ankle support? Let's munch on the foot it holds together!

Finally Back to the Dojo

How I direly missed my black Dans, my other senseï and the disciplining of flow.

I sprained my ankle quite badly and had to give it at least six weeks rest. When I came back, I wasn't wearing the ankle support and hurt it again.

But finally, my foot is almost healed, my support always with me and my classes on my schedule again.

It was an overwhelming feeling to give up moving and sweating. I'm too used to it, would it be running through the workplace's corridor or cycling from a place to another. So having this time out made me appreciate just how much motion impacts my mood and gives me the 150% radioactivity level I'm used to.

And to think that I sprained my ankle for the first time in my life, not while trekking, hiking, cycling, fighting, strength building, burpeeing or running...But while walking in the morning with a clear head in the workplace.

On Rewatch

KAIBA en rewatch...

And Seira's voice on my playlist.

Puppysitter

Guess who is the lucky sitter for a whole week-end to this small german shepherd?

O. is still indecisive with names, so I'm going with Soccos for now.

Meanwhile, my guinea pigs -who turned out to be both males- are chilling