Adonis Diaries

Archive for October 6th, 2015

Guideline: Design for all 5 senses. For max pleasure: like sex

Do you know that about 90% of designs target the eyes and the ears?

And what about the other 3 senses that are the most potent for generating emotional memories and best recollection?

There is this idea that sex gives the best pleasure because it engages the 5 senses.

The assumption is that all senses feel satisfactory reactions with both partner. This assumption is hardly tenable.

If a single one of the senses is contradicted then the entire experience is a failure.

For example, what can remedy for a bad smelling partner? All the perfume cannot cover up for this deficiency. Particularly if you tend to fart inadvertently. Perfumes are expensive items because the rich people used it in abundance and wealthy people used Not to take bathes. What could remedy for bad breath?

What could be your reaction if the skin feels dry and as hard and rough as leather?

The eyes are essentials for first time attraction. Afterwards, seeing is almost irrelevant since the main senses will take over. You can make love wearing many layers of external cloths. Or cover the face. Or wear socks for ugly feet.

You can have sex not listening to music.

In an age of global strife and climate change, I’m here to answer the all important question: Why is sex so damn good? If you’re laughing, you know what I mean.

0:22 Now, before we get to that answer, let me tell you about Chris Hosmer.

Chris is a great friend of mine from my university days, but secretly, I hate him. Here’s why.

Back in university, we had a quick project to design some solar-powered clocks. Here’s my clock. It uses something called the dwarf sunflower, which grows to about 12 inches in height.

Now, as you know, sunflowers track the sun during the course of the day. So in the morning, you see which direction the sunflower is facing, and you mark it on the blank area in the base. At noon, you mark the changed position of the sunflower, and in the evening again, and that’s your clock. Now, I know my clock doesn’t tell you the exact time, but it does give you a general idea using a flower. So, in my completely unbiased, subjective opinion, it’s brilliant.

However, here’s Chris’ clock. It’s five magnifying glasses with a shot glass under each one. In each shot glass is a different scented oil.

In the morning, the sunlight will shine down on the first magnifying glass, focusing a beam of light on the shot glass underneath. This will warm up the scented oil inside, and a particular smell will be emitted. A couple of hours later, the sun will shine on the next magnifying glass, and a different smell will be emitted. So during the course of the day, five different smells are dispersed throughout that environment.

Anyone living in that house can tell the time just by the smell. (Bonus: You may rotate a nasty smelly scent as an Alarm clock and not wake up with total nerve breakdown)

You can see why I hate Chris. I thought my idea was pretty good, but his idea is genius, and at the time, I knew his idea was better than mine, but I just couldn’t explain why. One thing you have to know about me is I hate to lose. This problem’s been bugging me for well over a decade.

Let’s get back to the question of why sex is so good.

Many years after the solar powered clocks project, a young lady I knew suggested maybe sex is so good because of the five senses. And when she said this, I had an epiphany. So I decided to evaluate different experiences I had in my life from the point of view of the five senses.

To do this, I devised something called the five senses graph. Along the y-axis, you have a scale from zero to 10, and along the x-axis, you have, of course, the five senses. Anytime I had a memorable experience in my life, I would record it on this graph like a five senses diary.

2:44 Here’s a quick video to show you how it works.

 (Video) Jinsop Lee: Hey, my name’s Jinsop, and today, I’m going to show you what riding motorbikes is like from the point of view of the five senses. Hey!

Bike designer: This is [unclear], custom bike designer.

(Motorcyle revving) [Sound] [Touch] [Sight] [Smell] [Taste]

JL: And that’s how the five senses graph works.

For a period of 3 years, I gathered data, not just me but also some of my friends, and I used to teach in university, so I forced my — I mean, I asked my students to do this as well. So here are some other results.

The first is for instant noodles. Now obviously, taste and smell are quite high, but notice sound is at three. Many people told me a big part of the noodle-eating experience is the slurping noise.  (Slurps) Needless to say, I no longer dine with these people.

Next, clubbing. Okay, here what I found interesting was that taste is at four, and many respondents told me it’s because of the taste of drinks, but also, in some cases, kissing is a big part of the clubbing experience. These people I still do hang out with.

And smoking. Here I found touch is at [six], and one of the reasons is that smokers told me the sensation of holding a cigarette and bringing it up to your lips is a big part of the smoking experience, which shows, it’s kind of scary to think how well cigarettes are designed by the manufacturers.

What would the perfect experience look like on the five senses graph? It would, of course, be a horizontal line along the top. Now you can see, not even as intense an experience as riding a motorbike comes close.

In fact, in the years that I gathered data, only one experience came close to being the perfect one. That is, of course, sex. Great sex. Respondents said that great sex hits all of the five senses at an extreme level. Here I’ll quote one of my students who said, “Sex is so good, it’s good even when it’s bad.” So the five senses theory does help explain why sex is so good.

In the middle of all this five senses work, I suddenly remembered the solar-powered clocks project from my youth. And I realized this theory also explains why Chris’ clock is so much better than mine. You see, my clock only focuses on sight, and a little bit of touch. Here’s Chris’ clock. It’s the first clock ever that uses smell to tell the time. In fact, in terms of the five senses, Chris’ clock is a revolution.

6:25 And that’s what this theory taught me about my field.

You see, up till now, us designers, we’ve mainly focused on making things look very pretty, and a little bit of touch, which means we’ve ignored the other three senses. Chris’ clock shows us that even raising just one of those other senses can make for a brilliant product.

So what if we started using the five senses theory in all of our designs? Here’s three quick ideas I came up with.

This is an iron for your clothes, to which I added a spraying mechanism, so you fill up the vial with your favorite scent, and your clothes will smell nicer, but hopefully it should also make the ironing experience more enjoyable. We could call this “the perfumator.”

So I brush my teeth twice a day, and what if we had a toothbrush that tastes like candy, and when the taste of candy ran out, you’d know it’s time to change your toothbrush?

Finally, I have a thing for the keys on a flute or a clarinet.

It’s not just the way they look, but I love the way they feel when you press down on them. Now, I don’t play the flute or the clarinet, so I decided to combine these keys with an instrument I do play: the television remote control. Now, when we look at these three ideas together, you’ll notice that the five senses theory doesn’t only change the way we use these products but also the way they look.

In conclusion, I’ve found the five senses theory to be a very useful tool in evaluating different experiences in my life, and then taking those best experiences and hopefully incorporating them into my designs.

Now, I realize the five senses isn’t the only thing that makes life interesting.

There’s also the six emotions and that elusive x-factor. Maybe that could be the topic of my next talk. Until then, please have fun using the five senses in your own lives and your own designs.

Oh, one last thing before I leave. Here’s the experience you all had while listening to the TED Talks.

However, it would be better if we could boost up a couple of the other senses like smell and taste. And the best way to do that is with free candy.

Where is home?

For all these refugees, immigrants and expatriates?

Where do you come from? It’s such a simple question, but these days simple questions bring ever more complicated answers.

Zeina A. Awaydate posted this Oct. 2, 2015

I met this wonderful family: The father ( Yemeni ) met the mother ( Palestinian ) in London , lived there for a couple of years and had their kids and then moved to Qatar and they’re living there since then.

So I always have this question : Where do you think the kids think Home is ?

(Knowing that Qatar is sending troops to fight in Yemen along side the most obscurantist Saudi monarchy?)

And When they introduce themselves what would they say: I am X from … ?

‪#‎Identity_Crisis‬ ‪#‎Born_to_parents_from_different_nationalities‬ ‪#‎My_Story‬
‪#‎Home_is_where_the_Food_is‬ tongue emoticon !

Pico Iyer speech  at ted.com|

0:20 People are always asking me where I come from, and they’re expecting me to say India, and they’re absolutely right insofar as 100 percent of my blood and ancestry does come from India.

Except, I’ve never lived one day of my life there.

I can’t speak even one word of its more than 22,000 dialects. So I don’t think I’ve really earned the right to call myself an Indian.

And if  “Where do you come from?” means “Where were you born and raised and educated?” then I’m entirely of that funny little country known as England, except I left England as soon as I completed my undergraduate education, (that the best of identity) and all the time I was growing up, I was the only kid in all my classes who didn’t begin to look like the classic English heroes represented in our textbooks.

And if “Where do you come from?” means “Where do you pay your taxes?

Where do you see your doctor and your dentist?” then I’m very much of the United States, and I have been for 48 years now, since I was a really small child.

Except, for many of those years, I’ve had to carry around this funny little pink card with green lines running through my face identifying me as a permanent alien. I do actually feel more alien the longer I live there.

And if “Where do you come from?” means “Which place goes deepest inside you and where do you try to spend most of your time?” then I’m Japanese, because I’ve been living as much as I can for the last 25 years in Japan.

Except, all of those years I’ve been there on a tourist visa, and I’m fairly sure not many Japanese would want to consider me one of them.

And I say all this just to stress how very old-fashioned and straightforward my background is, because when I go to Hong Kong or Sydney or Vancouver, most of the kids I meet are much more international and multi-cultured than I am. (Which passport do you carry, or better which passport you prefer to use)

And they have one home associated with their parents, another associated with their partners, a third connected maybe with the place where they happen to be, a fourth connected with the place they dream of being, and many more besides.

And their whole life will be spent taking pieces of many different places and putting them together into a stained glass whole. Home for them is really a work in progress. It’s like a project on which they’re constantly adding upgrades and improvements and corrections.

And for more and more of us, home has really less to do with a piece of soil than, you could say, with a piece of soul.

If somebody suddenly asks me, “Where’s your home?” I think about my sweetheart or my closest friends or the songs that travel with me wherever I happen to be.  (Who keeps you company, including your preferred songs, music and language)

And I’d always felt this way, but it really came home to me, as it were, some years ago when I was climbing up the stairs in my parents’ house in California, and I looked through the living room windows and I saw that we were encircled by 70-foot flames, one of those wildfires that regularly tear through the hills of California and many other such places.

And three hours later, that fire had reduced my home and every last thing in it except for me to ash.

When I woke up the next morning, I was sleeping on a friend’s floor, the only thing I had in the world was a toothbrush I had just bought from an all-night supermarket.

Of course, if anybody asked me then, “Where is your home?” I literally couldn’t point to any physical construction. My home would have to be whatever I carried around inside me.

In so many ways, I think this is a terrific liberation.

Because when my grandparents were born, they pretty much had their sense of home, their sense of community, even their sense of enmity, assigned to them at birth, and didn’t have much chance of stepping outside of that.

And nowadays, at least some of us can choose our sense of home, create our sense of community, fashion our sense of self, and in so doing maybe step a little beyond some of the black and white divisions of our grandparents’ age.

No coincidence that the president of the strongest nation on Earth is half-Kenyan, partly raised in Indonesia, has a Chinese-Canadian brother-in-law.

The number of people living in countries not their own now comes to 220 million, and that’s an almost unimaginable number, but it means that if you took the whole population of Canada and the whole population of Australia and then the whole population of Australia again and the whole population of Canada again and doubled that number, you would still have fewer people than belong to this great floating tribe.

And the number of us who live outside the old nation-state categories is increasing so quickly, by 64 million just in the last 12 years, that soon there will be more of us than there are Americans.

Already, we represent the fifth-largest nation on Earth. And in fact, in Canada’s largest city, Toronto, the average resident today is what used to be called a foreigner, somebody born in a very different country.

I’ve always felt that the beauty of being surrounded by the foreign is that it slaps you awake.

You can’t take anything for granted. Travel, for me, is a little bit like being in love, because suddenly all your senses are at the setting marked “on.”

Suddenly you’re alert to the secret patterns of the world. The real voyage of discovery, as Marcel Proust famously said, consists not in seeing new sights, but in looking with new eyes. And of course, once you have new eyes, even the old sights, even your home become something different.

Many of the people living in countries not their own are refugees who never wanted to leave home and ache to go back home.

But for the fortunate among us, I think the age of movement brings exhilarating new possibilities. Certainly when I’m traveling, especially to the major cities of the world, the typical person I meet today will be, let’s say, a half-Korean, half-German young woman living in Paris.

And as soon as she meets a half-Thai, half-Canadian young guy from Edinburgh, she recognizes him as kin. She realizes that she probably has much more in common with him than with anybody entirely of Korea or entirely of Germany. So they become friends. They fall in love. They move to New York City.  Or Edinburgh.

And the little girl who arises out of their union will of course be not Korean or German or French or Thai or Scotch or Canadian or even American, but a wonderful and constantly evolving mix of all those places.

And potentially, everything about the way that young woman dreams about the world, writes about the world, thinks about the world, could be something different, because it comes out of this almost unprecedented blend of cultures.

Where you come from now is much less important than where you’re going. More and more of us are rooted in the future or the present tense as much as in the past.

And home, we know, is not just the place where you happen to be born. It’s the place where you become yourself.

And yet, there is one great problem with movement, and that is that it’s really hard to get your bearings when you’re in midair. Some years ago, I noticed that I had accumulated one million miles on United Airlines alone. You all know that crazy system, six days in hell, you get the seventh day free.

I began to think that really, movement was only as good as the sense of stillness that you could bring to it to put it into perspective.

Eight months after my house burned down, I ran into a friend who taught at a local high school, and he said, “I’ve got the perfect place for you.”

“Really?” I said. I’m always a bit skeptical when people say things like that.

8:45 “No, honestly,” he went on, “it’s only three hours away by car, and it’s not very expensive, and it’s probably not like anywhere you’ve stayed before.”

“Hmm.” I was beginning to get slightly intrigued. “What is it?”

“Well —” Here my friend hemmed and hawed — “Well, actually it’s a Catholic hermitage.”

This was the wrong answer. I had spent 15 years in Anglican schools, so I had had enough hymnals and crosses to last me a lifetime. Several lifetimes, actually.

But my friend assured me that he wasn’t Catholic, nor were most of his students, but he took his classes there every spring. And as he had it, even the most restless, distractible, testosterone-addled 15-year-old Californian boy only had to spend three days in silence and something in him cooled down and cleared out. He found himself.

9:41 And I thought, “Anything that works for a 15-year-old boy ought to work for me.”

So I got in my car, and I drove three hours north along the coast, and the roads grew emptier and narrower, and then I turned onto an even narrower path, barely paved, that snaked for two miles up to the top of a mountain. And when I got out of my car, the air was pulsing. The whole place was absolutely silent, but the silence wasn’t an absence of noise. It was really a presence of a kind of energy or quickening.

And at my feet was the great, still blue plate of the Pacific Ocean. All around me were 800 acres of wild dry brush. And I went down to the room in which I was to be sleeping. Small but eminently comfortable, it had a bed and a rocking chair and a long desk and even longer picture windows looking out on a small, private, walled garden, and then 1,200 feet of golden pampas grass running down to the sea.

 I sat down, and I began to write, and write, and write, even though I’d gone there really to get away from my desk.

10:55 And by the time I got up, four hours had passed. Night had fallen, and I went out under this great overturned saltshaker of stars, and I could see the tail lights of cars disappearing around the headlands 12 miles to the south. And it really seemed like my concerns of the previous day vanishing.

The next day, when I woke up in the absence of telephones and TVs and laptops, the days seemed to stretch for a thousand hours. It was really all the freedom I know when I’m traveling, but it also profoundly felt like coming home.

 I’m not a religious person, so I didn’t go to the services. I didn’t consult the monks for guidance. I just took walks along the monastery road and sent postcards to loved ones. I looked at the clouds, and I did what is hardest of all for me to do usually, which is nothing at all.

And I started to go back to this place, and I noticed that I was doing my most important work there invisibly just by sitting still, and certainly coming to my most critical decisions the way I never could when I was racing from the last email to the next appointment.

12:13 And I began to think that something in me had really been crying out for stillness, but of course I couldn’t hear it because I was running around so much. I was like some crazy guy who puts on a blindfold and then complains that he can’t see a thing. 

I thought back to that wonderful phrase I had learned as a boy from Seneca, in which he says, “That man is poor not who has little but who hankers after more.”

I’m not suggesting that anybody here go into a monastery. That’s not the point. But I do think it’s only by stopping movement that you can see where to go.

And it’s only by stepping out of your life and the world that you can see what you most deeply care about and find a home.

I’ve noticed so many people now take conscious measures to sit quietly for 30 minutes every morning just collecting themselves in one corner of the room without their devices, or go running every evening, or leave their cell phones behind when they go to have a long conversation with a friend.

 Movement is a fantastic privilege, and it allows us to do so much that our grandparents could never have dreamed of doing.

But movement, ultimately, only has a meaning if you have a home to go back to. And home, in the end, is not just the place where you sleep. It’s the place where you stand.

(Taking positions and joining marches and demonstrations that care for the others: That’s home)

Not socially acceptable: Being divorced.

Worse: seeking to divorce

I had four days left before I was due in court to finalize my divorce. My mind was made up and I was adamant about wanting to start a new life.

I had found a small apartment as a “square one” starting point for me and my children and promised myself I would make it all better for them once I could.

Carole Mougharbel posted

I went to visit my future landlord to complete the necessary paperwork and pay the down payment. As I sipped coffee with her in her enormous home, she kept glancing at me from under her glasses, it wasn’t long before I started getting uncomfortable.

Suddenly and out of nowhere, she asked, “You are married aren’t you? Because this is a ‘family’ building and we would rather not have a ‘divorcée’ here.”

My active imagination went into overdrive and I pictured her imagining me erecting dance poles in the apartment and opening up my very own strip joint.

After all, isn’t that what she was so afraid of? A divorced woman with less than ideal morals coming into her ‘family building’ and ruining the neighbors’ children!

I am very well known for my temper but I quietly bit my tongue and lied, “Yes, I am married.”

After all, it was a white lie and I wasn’t divorced just yet. I could have told her it was none of her business or asked her to keep her uppity nose out of my affairs but I needed the home and I would have killed to get it. Lying was easy when it came to sheltering my children.

A few days later, I found myself driving to my new home and physically moving my stuff into my tiny new apartment. I carried box after box from my car and up the stairs to my home, single-handedly.

I carried clothes and toys and TVs. I moved small pieces of furniture and kitchen utensils. I did it myself to save money on the movers since I had to buy new furniture and kitchen equipment and appliances for my new home.

And all through this, I know she watched me from her window, waiting to see the “man of the house” helping me, but I disappointed her time and time again. We both knew that I had lied but I had a 3-year binding contract in my hands and there was nothing she could do about it anymore.

While I lived in her building, I effortlessly gained her respect and admiration but I never forgave her the question – or more the accusation – that she shoved in my face during the most difficult time of my life and I had all the reason in the world not to forgive.

Months after living there, I discovered that my landlord herself was in fact a “divorcée” and had been so for over 35 years.

I should have been in a rage! I should have knocked on her door and demanded an apology!

Instead, I pitied her with all of my heart for what she did to me was nothing more than the manifestation of what society must have done to her all those years ago. They must have shunned her and pointed their fingers at her and possibly even questioned her morals as well. And there she was, 35 years on, doing the same thing to me.

Socially acceptable or not, I am divorced. While some may think it is a taboo subject, it is my way of knowing that I am a fighter and I have survived something unimaginably difficult and I am still around to prove it.

Sometimes, I hope she feels the same way about herself too.


adonis49

adonis49

adonis49

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