Color Correction to set Mood
March 1, 2008 – 11:55 am
I did some more experimental HD shots today. I went and shot very mundane scenes in downtown Seattle. While the actual scenes looked like this first clip, I used color correction to severely distort the colors and give them a cold, bleak look to represent what it felt like to be in the bitter cold that morning. Here is the second clip. Films often use this technique as another tool to help tell the story.
HD Video of Pike Market
February 27, 2008 – 1:11 pm
Here is some scaled down (720p) footage I took from Pike Place Market in Seattle using the Canon XH-A1 camera with the VIVIDRGB color preset. The 1080p footage is a bit large for most computers, so I posted 720p. All this was shot in manual mode for everything.
Satisfaction in a Day
February 23, 2008 – 11:39 pmI’ve been in a funk as of late and for some reason can’t quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it is the certainty of a big change in my life as I transition to residency somewhere else (which is uncertain as of this piece). I’ve reflected a lot on what goes on in my life on a daily basis and have come to realize it is utterly boring. I love what I do for work but aside from that there isn’t much going on. It was a beautiful sunny day here in Seattle yet no one really was around or wanted to do anything. Most of my friends barely call me (literally months go by without so much as an email). Maybe they were more friends of convenience or perhaps the automation of friendship via the internet has replaced the need to actually put effort into contact. Maybe they are in a funk too.
I always hear stories of my dad’s childhood growing up in a rural village and how difficult it was. It seemed for even the simplest tasks it required enormous effort. At the time it seemed like hell but now in his adulthood those are the fondest memories he thinks of. That daily struggle, keeping busy fighting for something, even if it was as simple as getting a honeycomb from a bee hive, was memorable. Indeed those were the good old days. For all the bustle of the hospital and school the rest of life seems largely unsatisfying and boring. I enjoy doing things. I have my violin (which I don’t play nearly enough of), I have my movie making and art stuff but more and more I find myself doing less and less of it for no real good reason at all. I reflect back to a comment a professor at college once made, “The biggest threat to this generation is boredom.”
I agree and this boredom I think manifests in bizarre ways. Why is everyone I seem to run into no matter where I am is always perpetually tired? I can tell you that people in my dad’s village who work all day working in fields don’t complain that much. People more and more seem less unique even aside from their chronic fatigue. Stereotypes seem strangely accurate. Is it really raging against the machine to wear Birkenstock’s, faded jeans and a I support Obama pin on? The “goth” kids that walk around with countless tattoos are trying to be unique just like the countless other goth kids that look just the same. Is it still funny to talk about how wasted someone got the other night or does it at some point end? Isn’t there anything better to laugh at? Have we gotten so bored and unmotivated that even our attempts at novelty and rebellion result in conformity that we think is unique? Beyond that why does it seem we have this perpetual need to one-up each other, why can’t we just be content?
Some times in I fantasize about how wonderful it would be to be in a village like my dad lived in without any of this, to just struggle for every meal, to walk around and be entertained by the nature around me on a daily basis without having to make an event out of it. At least things might mean more that way. And perhaps that is what this mini-crisis of sorts boils down to, finding meaning, satisfaction, and balance. I’ve found meaning in my work. My conscience is about as clear as it can be. I sleep very comfortably at night, I look in the mirror with ease at myself. But to find those things on a daily basis is something I’m going to have to work on.
Evolution of Communication and the Era of Texting
December 30, 2007 – 8:47 pm
Recently I can’t help but notice the way communication and the culture behind it has changed. There is no doubt that the internet and telecom era has revolutionized the way we communicate but much like with any large advance it may be useful to reflect on how it has evolved.
Long ago people met with one another face to face or relied on mail to communicate with each another. Early mail taken by horseback took a very long time to get to its recipient. The investment in time and effort put into a letter was substantial. Time meant you had to carefully think about what you were going to say. In many cases this may be the only correspondence between you and a loved one. Times of war meant that letters were the only means of connection to a world beyond the hell of the battlefield. They were the lifeblood of many.
With the modern era came the advent of telegraphs and eventually the telephone which allowed us to talk to one another. Distance in a sense became shorter. We wouldn’t have to wait days, weeks, or months to correspond with someone. Because of the ease of use the investment became less, there was not so much of a time commitment, communication was realtime, but nonetheless it still took courage for instance to call someone you had a romantic interest in (it still is).
With the advent of the internet, email let the world send messages in vast numbers and with minimal effort. Email made it convenient for people to send small messages rather than call. It lead to more efficiency. The immediacy of the ability to send messages meant less investment had to be put in. If your message gets sent instantly and if you make a mistake a followup one could be sent.
Cellular telephones made it so we could always be on the grid. It allowed business to conduct business cheaper, it allowed parents to keep a closer watch on their kids, it allowed people to call for help in emergencies. As the telecom era matured texting evolved. Now not only could messages be sent in an instant to a network of people seemingly wired in at virtually all times. The modes of communication were diversified but with these new modes of communication the investment was even lower. Messages were condensed. Priority on spelling and composition was reduced to abbreviations. Why call when you could text and plan things quicker without the hassle and awkwardness of engaging in a conversation? Emotion started being conveyed with emoticons a series of symbols designed to put some humanness to the short code-like language of texting. Everything from anger, sadness, or sarcasm was given a symbol things we used to have to rely on our words and expressions to rely on (not that we don’t actually see each other these days but we don’t “have” to as much).
The phenomenon of texting was not just limited to the Western world. In the middle east, as I saw, young people texted each other jokes and political satire that would otherwise be too risky to say out loud on the phone. One can’t go anywhere these days without seeing someone on a cellphone texting or chatting with someone. Instant gratification. It is hard to argue how this has not improved our way of life. Indeed, how did we ever live without cell phones?!
The answer is we did pretty well. Sure it was hard to coordinate things and it lead to many boring car rides but that time was filled doing other things: thinking, relaxing, stressing that the person you coordinate with got the right message. Instead of the constant ability to change plans, the plans had to be well thought out planning. There were backup plans, if you didn’t make it by this hour do this or that. It was certainly less convenient but involved more thought and planning. It also seemed that without the constant connectedness we were more free to observe the world around us. The instant gratification of texting or calling meant little thought had to be put into communicating versus back in the old days when old fashion letters were written by hand their delivery uncertain. The abbreviated composition/pseudo language of texting is consistent with the fast paced, shortening attention span of society. It is more convenient to text someone using shortcuts than actually having to talk to someone.
But I wonder what long term effect this ultra fast paced instant gratification communication will have on people. People will always meet, and talk, and diversified modes of communication can enrich our lives, but more and more I see people texting to communicate. People are asking each other out on text, flirting on text, having heated arguments on text. These were things that were once done in person or on the phone but now have evolved. I find it hard to understand how any meaningful communication in an argument can come from the abbreviated lexicon of texting. Maybe that is why we have such abbreviated news that fails to give the complexities of the real story. Ironically those same brief news clips that are sent to our phones are seen as progress, easy to digest bits of information digested by the media. Why, for instance, read a news paper when you can get a text message with the latest headlines. Who has time for all that? Perhaps I am old fashioned but how romantic is texting someone out on a date? Sure it isn’t the majority of people but looking around it is certainly moving in that direction. It is more convenient and less stressful to text but has motive to communicate boiled down to convenience and trying to minimize “danger.” It is not difficult to see a cynic calling such trends selfishness and cowardice (a lack of courage to fully interact with one another). How much more will our communication evolve? Will texting some day be as arcane as sending letters? While I engage in communication in all forms I think I’m going to try to rely less on texting and more on actually calling and meeting with people. When I reflect back, I have fonder memories of a good conversation than a text that made me “lol.”
Muslim Man helps Jewish Man on NYC Subway
December 12, 2007 – 3:47 pmThis story is fascinating and just comes to show that people can be bad or good regardless of faith.
Don’t Fear the Middleton Spice Girls
December 3, 2007 – 4:00 pmThe other day I was at an airport security line as I was on yet another interview mission for residency. A young girl, not more than four years old, holds out her hands for her mother. The mom takes a small zip-lock bag out of her purse, pulls out a “less than three ounce” lotion and squirts some on the little girl’s hands. She rubs her hands together vigorously and looks up, “Why do we have to keep the lotion in a plastic bag?”
Mom looks down and matter-of-factly says, “That’s because we don’t want terrorists to take a bomb on the plane.” The girl doesn’t give it a second thought; she goes about her way. The times have sure changed even in my short life. I have seen too many instances of little kids throwing away juice, yogurt, snacks, all in the name of “security.” Perhaps our fear needs a reality check. By instilling this type of fear in our kids, what kind of people will they grow up to be?
The next day I am sitting with my sister for breakfast at this small pastry shop in New York City. The night before we were laughing about our childhood. I showed her the new Spice Girls video that had come out. Back when we were little she was obsessed with the Spice Girls. I had listened to countless hours of their music. I knew all the words, the beat, the nicknames, the gossip. In her young adolescence she was adamant about “girl power” even going so far as to create a group with her little friends where they would each take on the roll of a Spice Girl. They wore color changing emotion rings with flowers on them and would constantly strike a pose and yell, “Girl power!” I know I was frightened by this not by any danger it would cause to my sister but by me somehow getting in the path of her Spice Girl crew. I did not want to get on their bad side so I sat quietly. My over protective father was not amused by all this and thought my sister was forming a gang. Yes, a gang composed of a group of middle-school girls in Middleton Idaho. My dad’s was quite adamant about his claim which everyone else took as being the most harmless group ever created on the face of the earth. But hey I was still scared.
We laughed that night thinking of how ridiculous our father’s claim was. We knew it was ridiculous at the time and was even more ridiculous now. But ultimately he was a father. He had heard about gangs on the news and even though we were in Idaho he felt the need to protect his kids from what he thought was a danger. I wondered if that mom felt a legitimate danger from terrorists taking over the plane with their bottles of liquids/gels. I wondered if she felt solace in the fact that they would have a tough time getting more than 3 ounces on the plane. I wondered if years from now that little girl that went about her way would look back on her mom’s words and laugh at how ridiculous it was.
The difference of course was that the girl at the airport was barely older than a toddler and unable to really think and process much on her own. My sister in her logic of organizing the Spice Girl clan of Middleton, Idaho could at least think for herself. It was a silly idea but it was hers. She was going through a rebellion phase, this little girl was a sponge, one that was absorbing an awful lot of fear. Why do we insist on obsessing about an abnormally high level of fear when we are born to take pleasure in the simplest of things and generally enjoy, not fear day to day life?
As our breakfast comes to us, two little toddlers a girl and a boy try to enter the building breaking free of their parent’s hands. The boy nearly runs into the door trying to open it. His eyes are like huge marbles as if hypnotized, he wobbles struggling to stay afoot as he runs towards his target. His head smacks against the glass that is housing the countless illuminated pastries. “Wooooow!”
He coughs on the glass as he oogles at the countless options before him. His companion wobbles in and bangs her head on the chair as she tries to sit in it. My sister and I start talking trying not to laugh. I’m still in a daze at how glorious the city is. We are a long way from Idaho and the birthplace of the Middleton Spice Girls.
I look back at the little girl, a chocolate croissant in hand. She has more chocolate on her face than her mouth as she tries to eat the pastry that is nearly the size of her head. The boy, equally a mess, reaches for another pastry. They are all chocolaty smiles. Happiness in youth is so easy. Maybe if we learned to fear less and enjoy more we wouldn’t be a society that has to pull lotion out of a zip lock bag to moisturize our four-year-old’s hands. Maybe we would be able to sit with family and enjoy more pastries. Then again, we’d probably just obsess with the fear of getting fat.
Accepting the Inevitable
November 19, 2007 – 8:11 pmI look into one of our patient’s rooms. A woman sits there speaking to her husband, seven tubes coming out of his chest, a machine breathes for him, drugs force his heart to beat, countless antibiotics fight every class of organism.
For weeks he was there after his lung transplant. Because of the massive infection ravaging his body he is in isolation. Every one that goes in the room wears a gown. The woman, his wife sits talking to a shell of a man. I am straight across from her looking at her, she appears miles away stuck in a tunnel, her yellow robe covers her body almost like a shroud. I cannot hear what she is saying but it doesn’t matter, I can see it, I can feel it. It’s that sense you learn to develop as a doctor never perfecting it, but always getting more and more adept at it. It’s seeing the uneasy eyes, empty, reflective, teary, strong on the surface week as you look closer. The chin trying to not quiver, the mouth desperately trying to communicate to someone unable to respond, trying to talk over the breathing machine. Koosh! Koosh! Breathe in, breathe out. Bleep bloop! Another alarm on the countless machines goes off.
A few days later, that same beaten down face is in front of me, pleading for answers. Much to my fury the attending has not spoken with her about her husband. I am at a loss, the lowest person on the heirarchy. I do what I can, I tell her what I know. I tell her about the stroke he had the past few days, the seizures, the failing lungs, the pneumonia, the elevated ammonia (I didn’t mention he may have had an inborne metabolic deficiency manifest in the setting of a transplant), the failing kidneys, the overwhelming infection. Multisystem organ failure. She looks at me, those same conflicted eyes, she begins to tear up, “Is there any good news?”
I pause, searching in a vast dismal black hole to find some light, “We have more information about the bacteria so we can know better how to treat it.”
It is the best I can come up with, a fact that medically under the circumstances is devoid of much hope. I don’t bother trying to rationalize my attending’s negligence. I’ll save that anger for another time, instead I put my hand on her shoulder. I can almost feel the emptiness in her. I want to let go but hold on for a bit longer. She thanks me and slowly walks off, defeated. The days pass.
He codes, barely able to squeak by. He dies a few days later.
A Country in a Glimpse
November 18, 2007 – 8:51 pmI love to travel. More than just seeing new places it is about the people, how they do things what they do for fun, what they tell about the world. Then there are the airports. As the years have gone by I am more and more fascinated by the concept of airports hubs to the world, a snapshot.
I strip down at the security line putting my things in the grey plastic bins. Countless lines of people do the same: shoes off, jackets off, laptops out, liquids out. It is a mandatory bottle neck, people forced to slow down. Yet in those grey tubs I see something disgusting: advertisements. I don’t know why I have such a knee jerk reaction to it but I do. There is something about the obligation for people to slow down because of a “terrorist” threat only the be forced to be subjected to advertising as they put their belongings in a bin. I guess we don’t get outraged about that type of exploitation, it goes unoticed, buried somewhere in our subconcious only to manifest itself as we have an unexplained desire to buy something.
I make my way to Chicago, one of the busiest hubs in the country. People scurry around: stiff businessmen in charcoal suits, cologne trailing behind them, moms pushing strollers the baby inside drooling, sucking on a pacifier. It is mid day an energy in the air. People even have enough motivation to stop by the numerous stands set up to give flu shots.
I go to my interview.
I wait for the shuttle. It starts to snow, the first snow of the year for me. Huge snow flakes, fall to the ground. I’m in a small airport in Rochester, two Indian women in the corner try to lighten their massively overweight suitcase a cornucopia of goods: plastic tubs, cookies, candies, triscuit crackers. I got to yet another security line. There is a family of four, the two young kids struggling over what to take off and put in the bins. The young boy dutifully disposes of 3 small yogurt containers.
I’m back in Chicago and make my way to the gate. The gate agents are in a debate about an old woman and whether or not her oxygen tank can go on the plane. I guess it wasn’t like ads on the bottom of security bins this was an old woman with an oxygen tank! I look over at a sign on the counter: level orange. Nevertheless, the old lady was able to get on the plane with her oxygen.
I land in Los Angeles and get off the plane, the length of the trip getting to me, I walk slowly to my gate. I go to get some food at a Burger King (one of the only options in the terminal). I look up at the prices, a hamburger meal is nearly $10. I thought back to my finiky eating habits during my childhood in my little Idaho town. I was kicking and screaming in the car pleading for my dad to go back to Pizza Hut. He resisted because we didn’t have the $10 to buy a pizza. Work never payed well. Years later I was spending nearly 10 dollars on fast food. I opted for the chicken tenders, I never liked hamburgers. Ten dollars for fast food, advertisements on security bins, a toddler throwing yogurt away because it was not allowed on a plane. A lot has changed in my short life.
“Rudolph the red nose reindeer, had a very shiny nose…”
It isn’t Thanksgiving yet but the Christmas music is in the air. I dab the grease from my fries. A family sits next to me, their baby crying because he didn’t get his french fries. He calms down when he gets his food. I think: plasticity in the brain, addicted to fast food, inevitably leading to problems later in life. But who am I to think that, I am dabbing grease from my french fries. I don’t finish them, I know I’d get nauseated if I did. Two more hours to burn.I go to a book store, endless rows of magazines, shiny, much like the faces and bodies on them. Breasts, butts, abs begging you to look. Attractive celebrities, white toothed smiles telling me how to improve my life and be happy like them. I walk by the duty free shop, cologne and perfume fill the air, rows of alcohol glisten on the shelf.
I go back to my terminal a man barely able to fit in his chair, green shirt hugging him, eyes half asleep, extra large soda in hand slowly opens his eyes to take another sip as he is numbed back to sleep. I hoped that baby at Burger King would not become like him. A little girl across from me smiles as she looks up at her mom, here eyes glitter as if ignited by some sort of excitement that I could not relate to as the twelfth hour of my trip rolls on. A young woman sits across from me eyes intent on her laptop. She occasionally looks up at me, a brief smile, then back at her laptop. The little girl gets up, hot pink flip-flops skipping away as she goes to her plane.
Someone brushes up against me as she sits down, setting down a huge pink blanket and a bag full of chocolate and candy. The woman is middle aged, her eyes uneasy, darting, red as if just crying. She sports Chanel jewelry. She flips through her designer wallet a hundred dollar bill passes by. She takes out her tabloid magazine.
“Do you like this dress?”
It was a lavender dress on Halle Berry, her breast very prominent abdomen protuberant.
“She looks big.”
“Yeah, she’s pregnant.”
I am obviously out of the loop.
“Do you think she’s pretty”
It is Katie Holmes.
“Yeah. She’s a lot more quiet these days”
“I think she’s too much of a good girl. I don’t think she has any friends. Look at this dress she looks like a slut.”
It is time to board the plane.
“You have a good night.”
In line another little girl, pink shirt and pants. She is jumping up and down next to her mom, barely able to control her excitement. I look down at her a big smile on my face, refreshed by the genuine happiness in her eyes independent of chocolate, Chanel, and tabloids.
“How old are you?”
“Four!”
She jumps up again. I sit in my seat and fall asleep, the fourteenth hour of my trip rolls by.
“Welcome to Seattle.”
I take a deep breath in. I’m home and can rest.
Mom will always be “Mom”
November 18, 2007 – 3:49 pmThe other day I went to Rochester Minnesota to interview for a position at the Mayo Clinic. As we toured the massive complex they told us of the variety of patients we would see, the responsibilities we would have. It was rigourous and academic. It was not something to be taken lightly the position involved the ability to make crucial decisions of life and death.
I couldn’t help but laugh to myself during our tour as I thought about earlier that morning as I got up at 3:30 AM to fly out of Seattle. Half asleep in the security line I saw I had a message on my phone at around 4:30AM. I can say that I wasn’t surprised to hear the groggy voice on the other end,
“Honey, I know Minnesota is cold make sure to wear your hat.”
No matter how far in my career I will go, how much responsibility I have to take on, how many lives I have on the line, my mom will always be a mom. I made sure to bundle up.
