Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
some changes
I've decided to fiddle around with a new template, and this is the result. I admit the blue is a bit odd, but I've yet to figure out how to change that...if you can help, I'd much appreciate it. Oh and, of course, I WISH medschool were like the people in the artsy photos above--languid, oddly hot, and full of gratuitous nudity. Eh, one can dream right?
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Confucius, why won't you die already?
A disturbing article in the NY times Education section gave me a mild temper tantrum today. I usually don't get this bitchy except maybe over bad decor, but still....
The article was about rich asian immigrants (they're shopping for homes in Scarsdale, people! Scarsdale!) moving to the US in order to...you guess it: train their sons for MIT. It is highly ironic, I might add, that the purported reason for this departure from the motherland to America is to 'free' their children from the stress of competing in the rigid formal educations of the Far East (i.e. drone factories for future Microsoft programmers). Apparently, over there, it's just too much pressure; but over here, it's all fun and games like SAT prep courses in middle school, college coaching to get into MIT., and violin lessons even though the son is tone deaf (but Harvard LOVES to see forced-labor overcoming intrinsic lack of talent, so I guess there is a sick logic at work here).
The quote below, from an immigrant mother whose businessman-husband in in Beijing while she lives alone in in the States to tend to their coached prodigy, sounded freakishly familiar to me:
"Seven more years before he finish[sic] college. Then? I don't know," she said. "Whatever he will [sic] do, where[sic] he will go, I will go. To give the boy good life[sic]. That is all."" (Sick!)
Damnit woman! It ain't the 1800's anymore! Get a life! Let your son get a life! Jeesh! Enough with this Confucius bull crap about the 3 duties of a female: 1) attend to parents until you marry 2) attend to husband until he dies 3) attend to son until he...is sufficiently suffocated to death from your relentless cultural tyrrany!
Just you wait until he tells you he's gay, dropping out of college, and dating a black transvestite name Yvonne. Oh yes. God has a great sense of humor too.
Okay, so I actually pity her, and the son, and this whole warped mindset of achievement that makes victims out of everyone. After 5,000 years of cultural brainwashing, Confucius is still going strong. Damn old bastard.
The article was about rich asian immigrants (they're shopping for homes in Scarsdale, people! Scarsdale!) moving to the US in order to...you guess it: train their sons for MIT. It is highly ironic, I might add, that the purported reason for this departure from the motherland to America is to 'free' their children from the stress of competing in the rigid formal educations of the Far East (i.e. drone factories for future Microsoft programmers). Apparently, over there, it's just too much pressure; but over here, it's all fun and games like SAT prep courses in middle school, college coaching to get into MIT., and violin lessons even though the son is tone deaf (but Harvard LOVES to see forced-labor overcoming intrinsic lack of talent, so I guess there is a sick logic at work here).
The quote below, from an immigrant mother whose businessman-husband in in Beijing while she lives alone in in the States to tend to their coached prodigy, sounded freakishly familiar to me:
"Seven more years before he finish[sic] college. Then? I don't know," she said. "Whatever he will [sic] do, where[sic] he will go, I will go. To give the boy good life[sic]. That is all."" (Sick!)
Damnit woman! It ain't the 1800's anymore! Get a life! Let your son get a life! Jeesh! Enough with this Confucius bull crap about the 3 duties of a female: 1) attend to parents until you marry 2) attend to husband until he dies 3) attend to son until he...is sufficiently suffocated to death from your relentless cultural tyrrany!
Just you wait until he tells you he's gay, dropping out of college, and dating a black transvestite name Yvonne. Oh yes. God has a great sense of humor too.
Okay, so I actually pity her, and the son, and this whole warped mindset of achievement that makes victims out of everyone. After 5,000 years of cultural brainwashing, Confucius is still going strong. Damn old bastard.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Maine...
If I am ever going to a frozen tundra (again), I must remember to bring long underpants. I literally felt myself disappearing into...myself, sensing what it must be like to be a woman with penis envy.
Otherwise, the trip was fantastic. Mikey and I ate too much curry (because I had mistakenly planned to cook for 12 people instead of 2). We rented a cottage by the seashore, where the water was so cold we could hear its ice sheets cracking and churning in the shallow depths, crushing gravel. We had roaring fires, which began at first as smoky plumes that rose from the hearth and spilled into the living room because of dampness in the wood. My clothes still smell of charred timbers.
This was a rare weekend--thank god for President's Day--that made possible the plan for an escape to Bar Harbor, Maine. We took the scenic route from Boston, getting lost several times due to my habit of navigating via intuition--he was good-natured about it. There was no snow in Maine, so all of our plans for skiing or snowshoeing were dashed. Our adventures outside were brief-- snapping photos on a cragged jut of rock here or there, trespassing on private property to sneak a view of moss-lined valleys emptying into the pale-gray emerald bay, and getting yelled-at by an impish woman, in spandex stockings and a facemask, for picking up a few rounded stones along the coast. Maine was desolately beautiful: bulbous mountains appeared to tumble into the sea, leaving tall evergreens to hover perilously above the icy gray water below, with a surf driven by wind that pummeled itself against the juts of granite on which the pines stood tall. We defrosted ourselves in the car and watched gulls hover on the sub-zero gusts that whipped and howled around us. The air tasted of frozen salt.
Indoors, I cooked. We played board games and watched HGTV as I discussed the merits of mauvre over taupe for dressing recessed beams. Mikey tended to the fire, avoiding my musings on interior decorating by smiling and nodding his head repeatedly no matter what I said (I'm used to it by now). On the way back, we stopped in Portland Maine, where waitresses greeted us as 'friend' and streets with eclectic buildings had patriotic names like Congress, High, and Free. How very Quaker of them, I thought. We caught a movie. We drove home in the dark.
It was a largely uneventful vacation. And it was exactly what we needed.
Happy President's Day.
Otherwise, the trip was fantastic. Mikey and I ate too much curry (because I had mistakenly planned to cook for 12 people instead of 2). We rented a cottage by the seashore, where the water was so cold we could hear its ice sheets cracking and churning in the shallow depths, crushing gravel. We had roaring fires, which began at first as smoky plumes that rose from the hearth and spilled into the living room because of dampness in the wood. My clothes still smell of charred timbers.
This was a rare weekend--thank god for President's Day--that made possible the plan for an escape to Bar Harbor, Maine. We took the scenic route from Boston, getting lost several times due to my habit of navigating via intuition--he was good-natured about it. There was no snow in Maine, so all of our plans for skiing or snowshoeing were dashed. Our adventures outside were brief-- snapping photos on a cragged jut of rock here or there, trespassing on private property to sneak a view of moss-lined valleys emptying into the pale-gray emerald bay, and getting yelled-at by an impish woman, in spandex stockings and a facemask, for picking up a few rounded stones along the coast. Maine was desolately beautiful: bulbous mountains appeared to tumble into the sea, leaving tall evergreens to hover perilously above the icy gray water below, with a surf driven by wind that pummeled itself against the juts of granite on which the pines stood tall. We defrosted ourselves in the car and watched gulls hover on the sub-zero gusts that whipped and howled around us. The air tasted of frozen salt.
Indoors, I cooked. We played board games and watched HGTV as I discussed the merits of mauvre over taupe for dressing recessed beams. Mikey tended to the fire, avoiding my musings on interior decorating by smiling and nodding his head repeatedly no matter what I said (I'm used to it by now). On the way back, we stopped in Portland Maine, where waitresses greeted us as 'friend' and streets with eclectic buildings had patriotic names like Congress, High, and Free. How very Quaker of them, I thought. We caught a movie. We drove home in the dark.
It was a largely uneventful vacation. And it was exactly what we needed.
Happy President's Day.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
damnit!
The problem of going to a second tier research school: MONEY, and available research jobs. I've never had to be near the state of groveling that I am in right now. This sucks. I didn't even get to submit my application, and the research position is filled, one week after it is open. It's research, not I-banking! The freaking receptionist won't even return my inquiries for an application! It shouldn't be this hard, or demeaning, for students who are willing and able to do work to find positions at their own freaking school!
Screw this. I'm calling Harvard. At least they don't treat me like dirt.
Screw this. I'm calling Harvard. At least they don't treat me like dirt.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Much Ado About Nothing
For fear of loosing my readership, I figured it was damn fine time I started posting again. The time of course is 2:30 am, but then again I've slept for most of the day.
"Match Point" is a very good movie. It was so good it made me think. A central theme of the movie involves luck, a theme that is very cleverly woven throughout the plot. Talking to a friend afterwards over greasy chiken quesadilla at Rock Bottom, where the drunken fratboys of Emerson College go to pass out (Emerson frat boys...is there such a thing?), I stumbled onto some unfortunate truths: my life has been a series of lucky/unlucky accidents, proven over and over again by my meeting people at the a certain place, at a certain time. While I pretend to be weaving a master plot of career planning to delay an impending midlife crisis, I was overcome by a sense of inadequacy, realizing that it's all largely beyond my control.
Why am I at school in Boston right now? If you say incompetence and a laissez faire attitude that was perhaps too 'laissez' and not enough 'faire', you'd be half right. I sung in college. And it was this serendipitous pairing of my many delusions of grandeur coupled with a voice talent equivalent of Billie Holiday post-heroin that got me traveling the world. I coincidentally also met some very interesting people, like the drunk businessmen in a seedy Tokyo bar that told me a cash-strapped, doe-eyed boy like myself could make a lot of money in this town, in one night, at that steam bath place, in the Harajuku district. I politely declined the invitation for extra cash. Other invitations, however, were more substantial: working in an orphanage in south east asia, for example, sounded like it could have been fun. Four years later, I go to a health conference to find that the position I was offered before had connections to a project I could possibly be interested in. Lucky that. The project manager knows my contact. I could be off in 6 months.
I doubt I'm going to go, however. This opportunity didn't present itself at the right time. I need another round of luckily bumping into people, to work my 'magic' and razzle dazzle my way into a research project, here, in Boston, because it's part of my career planning. And so I'm stuck again in square 1, revising my initial assumptions about luck. Maybe I need it to come in pairs, like twin-prime numbers, ad infinitum. It's only lucky if you have time on your side, along with opportunity. Otherwise, it's just coincidence.
"Match Point" is a very good movie. It was so good it made me think. A central theme of the movie involves luck, a theme that is very cleverly woven throughout the plot. Talking to a friend afterwards over greasy chiken quesadilla at Rock Bottom, where the drunken fratboys of Emerson College go to pass out (Emerson frat boys...is there such a thing?), I stumbled onto some unfortunate truths: my life has been a series of lucky/unlucky accidents, proven over and over again by my meeting people at the a certain place, at a certain time. While I pretend to be weaving a master plot of career planning to delay an impending midlife crisis, I was overcome by a sense of inadequacy, realizing that it's all largely beyond my control.
Why am I at school in Boston right now? If you say incompetence and a laissez faire attitude that was perhaps too 'laissez' and not enough 'faire', you'd be half right. I sung in college. And it was this serendipitous pairing of my many delusions of grandeur coupled with a voice talent equivalent of Billie Holiday post-heroin that got me traveling the world. I coincidentally also met some very interesting people, like the drunk businessmen in a seedy Tokyo bar that told me a cash-strapped, doe-eyed boy like myself could make a lot of money in this town, in one night, at that steam bath place, in the Harajuku district. I politely declined the invitation for extra cash. Other invitations, however, were more substantial: working in an orphanage in south east asia, for example, sounded like it could have been fun. Four years later, I go to a health conference to find that the position I was offered before had connections to a project I could possibly be interested in. Lucky that. The project manager knows my contact. I could be off in 6 months.
I doubt I'm going to go, however. This opportunity didn't present itself at the right time. I need another round of luckily bumping into people, to work my 'magic' and razzle dazzle my way into a research project, here, in Boston, because it's part of my career planning. And so I'm stuck again in square 1, revising my initial assumptions about luck. Maybe I need it to come in pairs, like twin-prime numbers, ad infinitum. It's only lucky if you have time on your side, along with opportunity. Otherwise, it's just coincidence.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Values, fundamental
It takes a lot for me to get drawn into politics, but my immigrant inclination and vantage point have moved me to comment on the crisis raging through Europe and the Middle East. The freedom to question, to dissent, and to discuss is what enables things like weblogs to exist, but more importantly, it enables the West to be the icon of enlightenment that it is. And it is, correspondingly, irresponsible for the US to stand idly by as long time allies like Denmark, Norway, and (to a certain extent) France are being attacked for the same virtues that we proudly share, the very virtues that millions have fought and died for throughout the course of modern history.
Here are some much needed truths, from a fellow immigrant, the dissident muslim Ibn Warraq on why the west needs to stand in solidarity against this attack on one of the central tenets of Western civilization.
Money quotes:
"The great British philosopher John Stuart Mill wrote in On Liberty, "Strange it is, that men should admit the validity of the arguments for free discussion, but object to their being 'pushed to an extreme'; not seeing that unless the reasons are good for an extreme case, they are not good for any case...."
"A democracy cannot survive long without freedom of expression, the freedom to argue, to dissent, even to insult and offend. It is a freedom sorely lacking in the Islamic world, and without it Islam will remain unassailed in its dogmatic, fanatical, medieval fortress; ossified, totalitarian and intolerant. Without this fundamental freedom, Islam will continue to stifle thought, human rights, individuality; originality and truth."
"...Be proud, do not apologize. Do we have to go on apologizing for the sins our fathers? Do we still have to apologize, for example, for the British Empire, when, in fact, the British presence in India led to the Indian Renaissance, resulted in famine relief, railways, roads and irrigation schemes, eradication of cholera, the civil service, the establishment of a universal educational system where none existed before?... The British even gave back to the Indians their own past: it was European scholarship, archaeology and research that uncovered the greatness that was India; it was British government that did its best to save and conserve the monuments that were a witness to that past glory. British Imperialism preserved where earlier Islamic Imperialism destroyed thousands of Hindu temples....The west is the source of the liberating ideas of individual liberty, political democracy...It is the west that has raised the status of women, fought against slavery...No, the West needs no lectures on the superior virtue of societies who keep their women in subjection, cut off their clitorises, stone them to death for alleged adultery, throw acid on their faces, or deny the human rights of those considered to belong to lower castes."
And finally:
" When the Chinese students cried and died for democracy in Tiananmen Square (in 1989) , they brought with them not representations of Confucius or Buddha but a model of the Statue of Liberty."
We cannot be ignorant of the delicacy of situations, nor can we be ignorant about the values that enable us to live freely, and we must pay the cost of defending these values. This is a war of civilizations, and I hope the West wins.
Here are some much needed truths, from a fellow immigrant, the dissident muslim Ibn Warraq on why the west needs to stand in solidarity against this attack on one of the central tenets of Western civilization.
Money quotes:
"The great British philosopher John Stuart Mill wrote in On Liberty, "Strange it is, that men should admit the validity of the arguments for free discussion, but object to their being 'pushed to an extreme'; not seeing that unless the reasons are good for an extreme case, they are not good for any case...."
"A democracy cannot survive long without freedom of expression, the freedom to argue, to dissent, even to insult and offend. It is a freedom sorely lacking in the Islamic world, and without it Islam will remain unassailed in its dogmatic, fanatical, medieval fortress; ossified, totalitarian and intolerant. Without this fundamental freedom, Islam will continue to stifle thought, human rights, individuality; originality and truth."
"...Be proud, do not apologize. Do we have to go on apologizing for the sins our fathers? Do we still have to apologize, for example, for the British Empire, when, in fact, the British presence in India led to the Indian Renaissance, resulted in famine relief, railways, roads and irrigation schemes, eradication of cholera, the civil service, the establishment of a universal educational system where none existed before?... The British even gave back to the Indians their own past: it was European scholarship, archaeology and research that uncovered the greatness that was India; it was British government that did its best to save and conserve the monuments that were a witness to that past glory. British Imperialism preserved where earlier Islamic Imperialism destroyed thousands of Hindu temples....The west is the source of the liberating ideas of individual liberty, political democracy...It is the west that has raised the status of women, fought against slavery...No, the West needs no lectures on the superior virtue of societies who keep their women in subjection, cut off their clitorises, stone them to death for alleged adultery, throw acid on their faces, or deny the human rights of those considered to belong to lower castes."
And finally:
" When the Chinese students cried and died for democracy in Tiananmen Square (in 1989) , they brought with them not representations of Confucius or Buddha but a model of the Statue of Liberty."
We cannot be ignorant of the delicacy of situations, nor can we be ignorant about the values that enable us to live freely, and we must pay the cost of defending these values. This is a war of civilizations, and I hope the West wins.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Un-doing
A one-liner message. A phone call. An argument. This is how relationships end, as I've found out from my unfortunate friends, whose breakups come at the cusp of the season of Hallmark cards, long stem roses, and chalky candies that taste good only because of the messages you devour.
A fellow classmate of mine had just broken up with his girlfriend, amicably; another, with much bitterness. Change is hard, I suppose, for these relationships that were hold-over collegic ties that couldn't bare the strains of new situations. Perhaps it was distance, perhaps it was time. I told them that they saved on valentines' day gifts. A lame excuse for consolation I know, but it was the best that I came up with, my not wanting to be overly sentimental, or worse of all, depressing. The remark gave my friends a slight chuckle or two.
(I know, I promise not to be a psychiatrist.)
For an old friend of mine, the news of an old boyfriend about to get married unglued the ties, once and for all. The relationship had ended, but then again it hasn't, the two of them, lingering in limbo. But the recent news was the death knell that needed to be rung. It's time to move on and have new valentines, I want to say to them all.
But I know un-doing is hard. Change is hard.
And for once in my life, I don't know what to say to make it better.
A fellow classmate of mine had just broken up with his girlfriend, amicably; another, with much bitterness. Change is hard, I suppose, for these relationships that were hold-over collegic ties that couldn't bare the strains of new situations. Perhaps it was distance, perhaps it was time. I told them that they saved on valentines' day gifts. A lame excuse for consolation I know, but it was the best that I came up with, my not wanting to be overly sentimental, or worse of all, depressing. The remark gave my friends a slight chuckle or two.
(I know, I promise not to be a psychiatrist.)
For an old friend of mine, the news of an old boyfriend about to get married unglued the ties, once and for all. The relationship had ended, but then again it hasn't, the two of them, lingering in limbo. But the recent news was the death knell that needed to be rung. It's time to move on and have new valentines, I want to say to them all.
But I know un-doing is hard. Change is hard.
And for once in my life, I don't know what to say to make it better.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Buy Danish!
This is sad. Really sad. I understand hurt feelings, but this response is medieval and uncivilized. If you don't know what I'm referring to, visit CNN.com, or turn on any news source.
Doctrine
| I'm not Catholic, but if I were.... Hat tip to Theologienne. You scored as Liberal Catholic. You embrace the social justice mission of the Church, and the view of Catholic community as seen in the Acts of Apostles. You have a great love of the American democratic tradition, but tend to want to apply these traditions to the Church itself and the deposit of faith. You want a married and female clergy, decentralization of power, and an endless list of reforms. You feel that you are a true champion of the Second Vatican Council. Like the Neo-Conservative Catholic, your views may be too determined by American culture, and you may uncritically accept many theories that may be harmful to yourself and society; instead you may need rediscover authentic Catholic thinking. You should emphasize the love of God, as your Creator and sustainer. http://saint-louis.blogspot.com - Rome of the West
What is your style of American Catholicism? created with QuizFarm.com |
Monday, January 30, 2006
New beginnings...
According to Mark Twain, there are two constants in life: death and taxes. I'll add a third: new beginnings. New job, new friends--newness is a perennial theme, and just when we least expect it, something new pops up, like cancer. But can there ever be newness with something old, something worn, something you once thought was abandoned, left for dead, unsalvageable? Friendships for example--old ones, broken ones--are they, too, deserving of new beginnings?I hope so. It's just so damn hard to make them new again once the stains of the old have already settled in. There's never going to be a pristinely fresh start. Too much history, too many guarded feelings and cautious words make rekindling a chore, something to be tended to, like a young plant, too vulnerable and easily crushed. I, in my quest to reclaim what was lost, question whether that which was lost was ever that good in the first place, good enough to be remade. I have doubts, and so does my friend. We are friendly but we are not friends, at least not the way it used to be. That is my new beginning, a place much colder and grayer than I anticipated. The truth is ugly.
But friendships, like old toys you gave up on, get accidentally unpacked, are hard to get rid of, and if nothing else, they grow on you once they're gone. The smell of them, the feel of familiarity and old warmth leave you longing for the past, when you thought things were simple, and the games you played were innocent. The colors seem so alive back then, when truth mattered less than sincerity. And so you pick them up again, these old friendships, and dust them off only to find cracks and tears underneath the silvery patina of memories, valleys running deep against the grain that no effort can ever make them heal, and you realized why they were abandoned in the first place. Your only option now is not to mend the broken, or bring back the dead, but to forge something new. You hope that your old broken friendship would at least be ignored so the new one has a chance to grow unmarred. It's a hope, a dream that you can easily wake from, but it's all that you have. A hope for new beginnings, where the cracks of the old are remembered for what they are: imperfections of a life, lived.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Tiling the fluff
What does Home Depot grout, broken bathroom tiles, and an unfinished wooden violin make? If you say junk, then you've obviously not been introduced to contemporary art. No, really, if Damien Hirst can 'paint' a canvas with feces-covered flies, then my crappy 'mosaic' of things-I-found-at-the-recycling-center is a modern day, Caravaggio's David. Okay, that's a stretch, but I made my point.
Sometimes I think contemporary art is just full of bull shit, mental masturbation for the mathematically challenged. I count myself in that pool. What does all this have to do with medical school? Tenously, I'm attending an SMFA art course, and the instructor has given me a wooden, unfinished violin to decorate. The finished product will be auctioned at some event to raise money for health care issues in Boston. It's a noble cause, but I don't really have time. But she insisted, and I obliged, so now I'm staring at a beautifully carved Suzuki violin--naked without its glossy veneer--and thinking of ways to mutilate the poor creature. "I'll chop it up and make it useless (Picasso anyone?), I'll decoupage it with pictures of models' body parts (hmm, too literally Pop), I'll charr the surface and expose its innards (hmm, too serial-killer like)..." the endless possibilities seem to pour out of my head.
No, I think I'm going to tile it. I don't know why really, but I've just always had the urge to do some tiling and mosaic work, but never found anybody willing to let me redo the kitchen floor. Of course, I had to 'justify' my work (apparently, wanting to make something beautiful needs an explanation of what is beauty, too) and so I made up some metaphysical dish about entrapment and beauty and capturing the transient...blah blah blah to titillate my professors. I did this over lunch, 3 paragraphs in 15 minutes. The write-up is so vague it practically warrants its own explanatory writeup. They loved it, gobbled it up, ate it with an excitement that I could only imagine as similar to the way art critics practically wet themselves everytime Andy Warhol made another soup can print back in the day.
I sincerely hope that they were just being nice. I know artists can be on the fluffy side, but this was nothing but hot air.
Sometimes I think contemporary art is just full of bull shit, mental masturbation for the mathematically challenged. I count myself in that pool. What does all this have to do with medical school? Tenously, I'm attending an SMFA art course, and the instructor has given me a wooden, unfinished violin to decorate. The finished product will be auctioned at some event to raise money for health care issues in Boston. It's a noble cause, but I don't really have time. But she insisted, and I obliged, so now I'm staring at a beautifully carved Suzuki violin--naked without its glossy veneer--and thinking of ways to mutilate the poor creature. "I'll chop it up and make it useless (Picasso anyone?), I'll decoupage it with pictures of models' body parts (hmm, too literally Pop), I'll charr the surface and expose its innards (hmm, too serial-killer like)..." the endless possibilities seem to pour out of my head.
No, I think I'm going to tile it. I don't know why really, but I've just always had the urge to do some tiling and mosaic work, but never found anybody willing to let me redo the kitchen floor. Of course, I had to 'justify' my work (apparently, wanting to make something beautiful needs an explanation of what is beauty, too) and so I made up some metaphysical dish about entrapment and beauty and capturing the transient...blah blah blah to titillate my professors. I did this over lunch, 3 paragraphs in 15 minutes. The write-up is so vague it practically warrants its own explanatory writeup. They loved it, gobbled it up, ate it with an excitement that I could only imagine as similar to the way art critics practically wet themselves everytime Andy Warhol made another soup can print back in the day.
I sincerely hope that they were just being nice. I know artists can be on the fluffy side, but this was nothing but hot air.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Friday, January 27, 2006
Edges
I just spent 3.5 hours in the anatomy lab today, afterhours, from 8 to 11:30 pm. Barbara seems to smell better in the evening, I don't quite know why. It was like a party in there, everyone basically camping out to study for our big exam next week. I knew it was time to leave when off handedly I asked Barbara a question, and she said no, as I was quizzing myself some structures on her arm. Barbara, being dead and all, can't talk, so it was my mind in a manifestation of her voice that answered my own question. I saw friends dancing with a skeleton in the corner. That was it. It was time to go home.
I am three quarter of the way through John Updike's novel, Seek My Face. I'm halfway through Cunningham's nonfiction novel Provincetown. If it weren't for Itunes and audiobooks, I think I would go crazy only dreaming of blood vessels and dancing skeletons. My favorite phrase from Updike in this book: "... the pre-dawn, before light begins to lift edges into being. I am trying, it may be, to paint holiness." Beautiful.
I am three quarter of the way through John Updike's novel, Seek My Face. I'm halfway through Cunningham's nonfiction novel Provincetown. If it weren't for Itunes and audiobooks, I think I would go crazy only dreaming of blood vessels and dancing skeletons. My favorite phrase from Updike in this book: "... the pre-dawn, before light begins to lift edges into being. I am trying, it may be, to paint holiness." Beautiful.
Monday, January 23, 2006
green papayas
A girl in class tapped me on the shoulder today and asked "Can you speak Vietnamese?" Startled, I replied with a "Yes," almost followed by "And are you stalking me?"
I know, me and my megalomania issues.
"Can you read and write it too? Like, literature?" chirped this petite girl behind her dark, all encompassing glasses that circumscribed her face most unflatteringly. I'm not quite sure what about her made me recoiled, maybe it was the florescent lighting that bleached her face, or the inquisitively darting eyes floating on a sea of teeth she kept flashing repeatedly. Her effervesence was spilling over onto my seat, dangerously close to my rumbling discontent, left over from this morning's run-in with the exam from hell. I distrust happy people.
"Um well, yes. I can read and write Vietnamese..." I hesitated before she rudely interrupted me. "Oh, so like are you a first generation immigrant?" I paused, contemplating her use of this very politically correct, sociologically accurate description. I was expecting something more coarse, like "so when did you get off the boat?", my mind in gear to protest the banal and stereotypical assertion it had concocted. No, she's too smart for that, and I, too ready to be offended. "Like, were you born there?" She thought I didn't understand her the first time around.
"Yes. I came here when I was 10." I declared.
"Oh, see, I was 4." She remarked quickly, pausing, then resumed darting her tongue. "Oh wow, you couldn't tell I was Vietnamese, not from my last name?"
I pounced quickly, feeling gleeful for having caught her off guard. "No, I don't notice these things. What is your last name?" I felt like telling her that not everyone looks for others of their 'kind' on the roster.
That was cruel. She was only trying to make rapport. Could I blame her for seeking sameness, maybe friends? I admonished myself.
"Um, so, are you from around here?" I asked in a gentler tone.
"No, I'm from Northern California." She stated.
I shoot. I miss. The ball's back in her court.
"Uh huh..." I continued the conversation, asking her about the New England weather, where she went to school. She's incredibly sharp: tongue, eyes, mind, a Smith graduate with a fiance. Now I felt safe.
She mentioned some movie she saw in Thailand. "It's called something 'Green Papayas'. It's by a Vietnamese American director, supposed to be really seminal. I didn't like it..." She was fishing for dialogue too.
'Well why are you telling me to watcht it then?' My internal monologue droned on.
"I don't know, you could check it out." She laughed awkwardly.
"Oh, um, sure. Maybe I'll look it up sometime. Thanks!" I hurriedly sped in front of the line. Class was over. I wanted to leave. She waved back, also awkwardly.
I'm so bad with strangers.
I know, me and my megalomania issues.
"Can you read and write it too? Like, literature?" chirped this petite girl behind her dark, all encompassing glasses that circumscribed her face most unflatteringly. I'm not quite sure what about her made me recoiled, maybe it was the florescent lighting that bleached her face, or the inquisitively darting eyes floating on a sea of teeth she kept flashing repeatedly. Her effervesence was spilling over onto my seat, dangerously close to my rumbling discontent, left over from this morning's run-in with the exam from hell. I distrust happy people.
"Um well, yes. I can read and write Vietnamese..." I hesitated before she rudely interrupted me. "Oh, so like are you a first generation immigrant?" I paused, contemplating her use of this very politically correct, sociologically accurate description. I was expecting something more coarse, like "so when did you get off the boat?", my mind in gear to protest the banal and stereotypical assertion it had concocted. No, she's too smart for that, and I, too ready to be offended. "Like, were you born there?" She thought I didn't understand her the first time around.
"Yes. I came here when I was 10." I declared.
"Oh, see, I was 4." She remarked quickly, pausing, then resumed darting her tongue. "Oh wow, you couldn't tell I was Vietnamese, not from my last name?"
I pounced quickly, feeling gleeful for having caught her off guard. "No, I don't notice these things. What is your last name?" I felt like telling her that not everyone looks for others of their 'kind' on the roster.
That was cruel. She was only trying to make rapport. Could I blame her for seeking sameness, maybe friends? I admonished myself.
"Um, so, are you from around here?" I asked in a gentler tone.
"No, I'm from Northern California." She stated.
I shoot. I miss. The ball's back in her court.
"Uh huh..." I continued the conversation, asking her about the New England weather, where she went to school. She's incredibly sharp: tongue, eyes, mind, a Smith graduate with a fiance. Now I felt safe.
She mentioned some movie she saw in Thailand. "It's called something 'Green Papayas'. It's by a Vietnamese American director, supposed to be really seminal. I didn't like it..." She was fishing for dialogue too.
'Well why are you telling me to watcht it then?' My internal monologue droned on.
"I don't know, you could check it out." She laughed awkwardly.
"Oh, um, sure. Maybe I'll look it up sometime. Thanks!" I hurriedly sped in front of the line. Class was over. I wanted to leave. She waved back, also awkwardly.
I'm so bad with strangers.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Nip Tuck
The message is everywhere: loose weight, bulk up, look tight, shave this, nip that, and your boyfriend will love you.
"So you're on a diet?" I asked my friend as we casually waited in line for 'Capote' last night.
"Yeah, I haven't had dinner," he replied.
"Starvation is not a diet you know." I quipped.
"I know...been busy. I do try to eat healthier though. Today at lunch I had a chicken breast, some sunflower seeds, carrots, and a small salad. Those damn sunflower seeds got husks or something, 'cause they stick to my teeth..." said my friend in his trademark Southern drawl.
"That's practically bird food for you." I snickered, looking at this 6 feet tall, stockily built, lumberjack of a man.
"Yeah well...I'm really hungry now. Was at the gym for like an hour." He conceded.
I waffled and waxed on some nutritional knowledge I learned in medical school, namely, that skipping meals was not a good idea. He seemed genuinely interested.
The movie ended. All we could talk about was food. We settled on Rock Bottom for its easy decor, proximity to the T station, and most importantly, a kitchen that wasn't closed.
"I'm so hungry right now my brain ain't workin' straight. I'm gonna get a nice, juicy steak,” proclaimed my friend. From a distance, he looked like a blond version of the Brawny Man on TV, husky, hirsute, a man’s man, practically oozing confidence. I felt safe around him.
A very late dinner ensued. I asked him about his recent motivation to diet. Twenty minutes later:
"He called me fat."
"What?" I shouted, raising my eyebrows, flabbergasted. "That's low. "
"Yeah. Totally. He was drunk, and he said that the reason we didn't have chemistry or whatever, was because I was fat. He was trying to let me down gently." Said my friend, disgusted, slightly hurt.
"You're not fat." I tell him. He doesn't believe me; I see it in his eyes, but I continued. "You're stocky. It's your build. Nothing wrong with that."
"No, no I know. It's also been something I've been meaning to change about myself. You know, be more healthy, eat right, exercise, lose a couple of pounds here and there." He retreated to the rational.
"Those are all good reasons. I just hope that you're doing it for yourself. What that boy said was an impetus, I'm sure, but..."I was interrupted.
"No. Yes, it's an impetus.” He quickly recaptured what I meant to say. “But it's not like all that important..."
"So deep down there isn't a part of you that said 'had I been thinner things would have worked out’?" I inquired honestly.
"No. Of course not." His voice had a resolute tone that declared the topic was over. I sensed the confidence in his blood rising, in time with his vodka tonic. We toyed with news of his other prospects, 'in the pipeline' as he called it. My friend had been busy, not letting the previous rejection curve his enthusiasm.
It was late. The last train was leaving.
"All right. Well, I hope you feel better." I spoke reassuringly as he wrapped me in his bone cracking, but friendly, embrace.
"What do you mean--feel better? You mean about my impending cold?" He questioned, fully knowing my answer.
"No, not just that. About everything." I smiled, walking away, the dim glitter of the city to my back.
ideas?
Nevermind anniversary. Valentines' Day. I've never had to plan/engage/act on anything on this particular day, except to wish ill on anyone who wishes me a happy... Yes, death to well-wishers.
Because I'm new to this, I'm pathetically out of ideas, or at least good ones.
Any suggestions from the peanut gallery on some good Valentine Day things for Mikey?
Because I'm new to this, I'm pathetically out of ideas, or at least good ones.
Any suggestions from the peanut gallery on some good Valentine Day things for Mikey?
productivity
I came back from a night out at 12:50 am on Friday to the sounds of stifled giggling eminating from the common kitchen. "Have you ever put marshmallow in a microwave?" Seth, a first year medical student, asked me gleefully. "Um, no." I blurted, half wishing I'd said yes so I could be on my way. Seth pulled me into the kitchen. I watched, for almost a full minute, five other grown men glue their eyes to the bubbling, expanding sugary balloon as it turns brown and goopy inside the radiation chamber. The fluffy gop finally imploded in comical silence to a cheering crowd. "You don't know how many burnt marshmallows I've eaten tonight..." proclaimed Adam, as I, slowly, and with a drooping smile, walked away.
It's Friday night in a medical school dorm. You wouldn't know it except for the sign.
It's Friday night in a medical school dorm. You wouldn't know it except for the sign.
Monday, January 16, 2006
the human stain
A certain smell startled me when I did laundry today. No, I usually don't jerk reflexively at the scent of Tide, but it was the too familiar smell of anatomy lab in my freshly washed clothes that made me gag. Barbara's smell was new death, I called it, because it was more pungent and intense than in other bodies, those that have spent longer in formalin. New death. And I just caught a whiff of it. Strange. I found the offensive garment after some mild rummaging. An undershirt, pristinely white on top, with big, sprawling ovals of grease seemingly intact, stared back at me in defiance. Stubborn stains. I had washed that shirt with my other offending undergarments from the lab in a separate machine, and thought to dry all my clothing together to save a dollar. My plan was foiled. I threw the garment again into the washing machine as quickly as I could. The shirt probably could have used a pre-treat the first time around, but I was unaware of its state until now. I doused and soaked the thing in a concoction of 3 detergents, hoping to undo what was done.
I thought about why I had reacted so violently to the smell of formalin and human fat, one I've grown accustomed to, made jokes about, and taken pride in as a medical student. It was ten times milder than in the lab, and I don't gag there. I suppose it was the unexpectedness of it, a reaction to something so out of place and wholly vulgar to my sphere of domesticity, of weekend laundries and household chores. To find the garment still soiled, after having gone through a process that rid clothes of their ordinary stains, rendered these stains somehow otherworldly in their existence. The reality of how the marks got there escaped me. I just wasn't prepared for an encounter with a remnant of the dead, here, in my domain of the living. A momentary panic ensued as I frantically sniffed my laundry, hoping the offending smell didn't infect the load. An infection. As if the un-cleanliness were a viral contagion.
I inhaled deeply. Nothing but the springy scent of Tide reassured my nerves.
pic by De-Bivort; 2005
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