I just finished reading slaughterhouse-five. I'm not sure that I fully grasp what it was trying to say, but it made me think. Although this poem has little to do with the subject of the book, time was an important character in the story, and time made me think of this:
I worry
That I will dry up, and shriveled,
Tell turgid ones of my years wet and splashing,
Then scare them, as they see no more sparkle droplets
Fly from my eyes
I fear
That the chaff of my voice will rattle,
Then fall empty and broken,
To bend the corners of sausage lips
Writhing with chagrin and distance
I know
That my thoughts will always wrinkle,
To form crevices deep,
Brimming with gold veins and quartz
Waiting for bold plunder
But, I wonder
Will the pick always reach?
Will the wheelbarrow carry?
Will the jewels reach air?
…Will the canary sing of warning?
12.17.2007
my chosen path (part deux)
I know...
I have been finished with school for an entire bliss-filled week now, and people have been waiting, wondering, becoming desperate for an update.
Right.
So when did I start writing as if there were an audience? It is an unsettling thought, as I use this merely to ramble for my own sake: to collect thoughts, remember funny stories, wax poetic, etc.
So this is part deux, a follow up to My Chosen Path (available below with a quick scroll). It is necessary to use deux instead of two, as this reveals my increasing maturity, my ever-expanding outlook, and the inherent supercilious attitude that accompanies one in graduate school and all things French.
To expound upon the realization that I was perfectly formed (fearfully and wonderfully made) to be a professor due to my absent-minded nature:
Much like a future engineer takes apart and rebuilds random household implements when they are young, and much like a future actor creates magnificent home videos of rock concerts using only a red plastic guitar and nakedness for props, (oh...wait, that might have just been my cousin- Clay, we always knew you were born for the stage),
I was famous for forgetting. I was also known for being virtually unable to find things, when, as my mom repeatedly told me, "it" [thing looked for by me] would have bitten me if it were a snake. Still today, when I search for my keys (every day), I hope that they will rattle when I come near.
After deciding the profession was perfect, I sought out research experience. This is a necessary step to becoming a professor, as at least 5 years of research and suffering are required to earn a PhD. Research, to my surprise, was not tolerant of absent-mindedness. Quite the opposite, in fact. How do all these loopy professors with paper-laden desks pull it off?
It was at my first research job that I amazed myself with my ability to forget. I would attempt some tissue staining, but midway through forget what I had and had not done. "Have I put the antibody on yet? I guess it is better to have too much than too little."
I later asked, and found that the 5 mg of antibody cost $500.
(mg = milligrams for you non-scientists who actually think the english measuring system is valid. I mean really, do you even know how many pints are in an ounce? Oh, pints are bigger? You already knew the milligrams thing too, huh.)
This is also when I found out how expensive science is. You can sell a scientist what are essentially steel tweezers for $100 if it has F.S.T. stamped on it (Fine Science Tools- real company), or the scientist could get the same tool for $5 at walmart. If the cheaper option is chosen, it must be made clear that they are called "forceps", not "tweezers".
At my next research job, I saw the practicality of my advisor, who had a device made from coffee cans that was perfectly effective (except when you touched the right lower side where all the knobs were, and it shocked you. "You" was usually Steph, who always cussed loudly when this occurred, or if she was reading email, or if she was just present in the lab. I miss her.)
Anyway, I didn't forget as much in my second research job. Upon my graduation I had successfully completed an undergraduate thesis! (it's true, just google my name-and PLEASE don't read it. You will quickly tire.)
All of this experience (2 solid years of research, 4 solid years of class) was supposed to prepare me for graduate school.
It did not.
I entered my first neuroscience class thinking, "yes! neurons, action potentials, saltatory conduction...I got this covered!". Within the first 5 minutes, Paul (whom I have come to know and love/fear) gave us all our very own electronics learning lab. He then describes the class (Intro to Neuroscience Methods- cutely abbreviated as "Meth lab" on our schedules). This class could have also been named "Electrical engineering and biophysics class for which Kara was sorely unprepared!"
Generously, Paul gives us the chance to make up half of the points missed on the midterm exams. To earn these points we take an oral test with him.
TORTURE.
He actually makes us do math in our heads, on the board, in front of HIM (human calculator).
It is terrifying.
I never believed my mom when she told me I have "math anxiety", but it sure is clear now. Though, I am not sure how much of it is actually Paul anxiety.
The first time I went through this, he implied that going back to "basics" (i.e. elementary school) would be a good idea for me. The next time I did the oral exam for Analysis of Neuronal Function, it was better. I was much more confident, and all he said was "you are showing a weakness in algebra here"
YES. Algebra is totally high school level. I'm movin' on up.
Anyway, classes panned out just fine, and I hold my own. (That's self-effacing code to let you know that I ROCK.)
I will make it through this graduate school thing. Although I have contemplated quitting more than once, I am resolved never to do so. I quit piano lessons when I was young, and to this day it remains my biggest regret.
(Really? Biggest Regret? Yes. I was a careful child. No drunken mistakes or anything of that sort.)
Now that I have written that I won't quit in a semi-public venue, people have to hold me to it.
Exception: Accidental babies (but only if there is more than one, otherwise, I still have to go through with it.)
I honestly wouldn't have made it through grad school so far if my wonderful husband had not been there every night to make me laugh, calm me down, reassure me, and remind me that I am not stupid. Thanks my love.
I have been finished with school for an entire bliss-filled week now, and people have been waiting, wondering, becoming desperate for an update.
Right.
So when did I start writing as if there were an audience? It is an unsettling thought, as I use this merely to ramble for my own sake: to collect thoughts, remember funny stories, wax poetic, etc.
So this is part deux, a follow up to My Chosen Path (available below with a quick scroll). It is necessary to use deux instead of two, as this reveals my increasing maturity, my ever-expanding outlook, and the inherent supercilious attitude that accompanies one in graduate school and all things French.
To expound upon the realization that I was perfectly formed (fearfully and wonderfully made) to be a professor due to my absent-minded nature:
Much like a future engineer takes apart and rebuilds random household implements when they are young, and much like a future actor creates magnificent home videos of rock concerts using only a red plastic guitar and nakedness for props, (oh...wait, that might have just been my cousin- Clay, we always knew you were born for the stage),
I was famous for forgetting. I was also known for being virtually unable to find things, when, as my mom repeatedly told me, "it" [thing looked for by me] would have bitten me if it were a snake. Still today, when I search for my keys (every day), I hope that they will rattle when I come near.
After deciding the profession was perfect, I sought out research experience. This is a necessary step to becoming a professor, as at least 5 years of research and suffering are required to earn a PhD. Research, to my surprise, was not tolerant of absent-mindedness. Quite the opposite, in fact. How do all these loopy professors with paper-laden desks pull it off?
It was at my first research job that I amazed myself with my ability to forget. I would attempt some tissue staining, but midway through forget what I had and had not done. "Have I put the antibody on yet? I guess it is better to have too much than too little."
I later asked, and found that the 5 mg of antibody cost $500.
(mg = milligrams for you non-scientists who actually think the english measuring system is valid. I mean really, do you even know how many pints are in an ounce? Oh, pints are bigger? You already knew the milligrams thing too, huh.)
This is also when I found out how expensive science is. You can sell a scientist what are essentially steel tweezers for $100 if it has F.S.T. stamped on it (Fine Science Tools- real company), or the scientist could get the same tool for $5 at walmart. If the cheaper option is chosen, it must be made clear that they are called "forceps", not "tweezers".
At my next research job, I saw the practicality of my advisor, who had a device made from coffee cans that was perfectly effective (except when you touched the right lower side where all the knobs were, and it shocked you. "You" was usually Steph, who always cussed loudly when this occurred, or if she was reading email, or if she was just present in the lab. I miss her.)
Anyway, I didn't forget as much in my second research job. Upon my graduation I had successfully completed an undergraduate thesis! (it's true, just google my name-and PLEASE don't read it. You will quickly tire.)
All of this experience (2 solid years of research, 4 solid years of class) was supposed to prepare me for graduate school.
It did not.
I entered my first neuroscience class thinking, "yes! neurons, action potentials, saltatory conduction...I got this covered!". Within the first 5 minutes, Paul (whom I have come to know and love/fear) gave us all our very own electronics learning lab. He then describes the class (Intro to Neuroscience Methods- cutely abbreviated as "Meth lab" on our schedules). This class could have also been named "Electrical engineering and biophysics class for which Kara was sorely unprepared!"
Generously, Paul gives us the chance to make up half of the points missed on the midterm exams. To earn these points we take an oral test with him.
TORTURE.
He actually makes us do math in our heads, on the board, in front of HIM (human calculator).
It is terrifying.
I never believed my mom when she told me I have "math anxiety", but it sure is clear now. Though, I am not sure how much of it is actually Paul anxiety.
The first time I went through this, he implied that going back to "basics" (i.e. elementary school) would be a good idea for me. The next time I did the oral exam for Analysis of Neuronal Function, it was better. I was much more confident, and all he said was "you are showing a weakness in algebra here"
YES. Algebra is totally high school level. I'm movin' on up.
Anyway, classes panned out just fine, and I hold my own. (That's self-effacing code to let you know that I ROCK.)
I will make it through this graduate school thing. Although I have contemplated quitting more than once, I am resolved never to do so. I quit piano lessons when I was young, and to this day it remains my biggest regret.
(Really? Biggest Regret? Yes. I was a careful child. No drunken mistakes or anything of that sort.)
Now that I have written that I won't quit in a semi-public venue, people have to hold me to it.
Exception: Accidental babies (but only if there is more than one, otherwise, I still have to go through with it.)
I honestly wouldn't have made it through grad school so far if my wonderful husband had not been there every night to make me laugh, calm me down, reassure me, and remind me that I am not stupid. Thanks my love.
12.06.2007
studying too long
After hours of silence in a room all alone, I noticed ticking. Regular but subtle, and certainly present. I took note of my pen. It was ticking? How could this be? I pondered the spring inside, and thought, "perhaps". Why was the ticking so frequent and consistent? I gently laid it down on the table. Still ticking. As I timidly lowered my ear to the level of the pen, my head turned, and I saw the face of a clock on the wall.
Ah. More likely source.
Ah. More likely source.
12.02.2007
a first?
This is an old wooden wheelchair behind Brian's grandma's house. So quaint.
I never hesitate to choose the handicapped stall, as I had gone a full 22 years without ever seeing a handicapped person in a public restroom. My justification for this was destroyed the other day, when I saw a wheelchair parked outside of the restroom, and crutches leaning against the inside of the handicapped stall. A moral obligation had now fallen upon me. No more roomy stalls for me...or so I thought. The girl then walked out carrying her crutches. Fake. I'm not changing.
After studying spinal cord injury for my undergraduate thesis, one would think me to be more sensitive.
I AM profoundly against parking in a handicapped parking space when the person to whom the pass was given is not present.
There will be a "my chosen path pt.2", but not until finals are finished. I will then be better able to judge the efficacy of my schooling.
Oh...it turns out I had written similarly about why I am more suited to be a professor than a doctor, but it was back in '04, so that doesn't count. Upon inspection, I was fearful of using many paragraphs back then.
11.21.2007
my chosen path
Picture taken on the 6th floor of evan's library. The color of the carpet is completely real. shocking, I know.
When did I first decide academia was for me?
I have never told anyone this. (Naturally, I choose to write it online- the most private of venues. Actually, it is quite private other than a few family members who might give it a pity-check periodically.)
Cut to freshman year:
I was quite down on myself after forgetting that I left my car parked illegally outside my dorm. I parked it to run up to my room, change clothes quickly, and drive accross campus to a meeting. I did change clothes, and then proceeded to walk across campus to the meeting, and didn't realize this fatal mistake until 1.5 hours later. This resulted in a hefty fine and a towed car.
Such stupidity, and I wasn't very surprised with myself.
Let's just say, similarly mindless actions had caused me some trouble before.
Anwyay, I was pondering: What job in life is friendly to absent-mindedness? WHAT? Nothing. This tragic character flaw will haunt me all my days! I cannot be a doctor, for doctors cannot begin replacing a knee on the wrong leg. Doctors cannot leave a woman on the brink of labor to grab a cup of coffee, get caught up reading the paper, and forget about the imminent baby struggling for escape. Doctors cannot finish surgery, sew the last suture and say "Well darn it...I left the scalpel inside."
These are all things I could imagine doing. My life a a doctor would make for a ridiculous film noir sitcom (new genre) where about 3 times per show I would make a mistake, and the camera would subsequently cut to my face as I gave a sheepish grin, rolled my eyes, and shrugged my shoulders, and a goofy voice said "wuh-whoa" in the background.
Other things precluding me from doctor-hood:
1. I don't like sickness
2. I don't like people (en masse)
3. I really don't appreciate sick people in my close vicinity, coughing, germs, snot, or other things about which my mother
effectively scared me. This is also why, if by chance you offer me a sip of your drink, I will find a reason to turn it down
despite just having proclaimed my infinite thirst.
4. three (?) words: methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus. (MRSA)
white : rice :: MRSA : hospitals
5. So cliche. I mean really, everybody's doing it these days.
Nonetheless, I have this really absurd passion for anatomy/physiology and disease (on paper, not people). I also would look impeccably intelligent in a white coat.
Anyway, I was pondering my absent-mindedness when the well known epithet came as music to my ears:
absent-minded professor.
PERFECT!
The cherubim sang, and the prototypical Jesus-on-a-cloud came surfing down from the golden rays of heaven, winked, and gave me one of those single handed gun shot gestures as if to say "this one's for you, kid".
That's how I decided on my profession.
More to come.
10.15.2007
Happy Birthday...to me?
I have a pretty poor track record with birthdays.
It stems, I think, from an awful memory for dates. It took me 20 years to learn my parents birthday, and I still am not exactly reflexive about knowing the current date, and connecting it to the day a person was born.
Last year, I was actually in San Antonio the weekend before my mom's birthday. She made a point to preemptively chide me about the fact that I wasn't going to call her that wednesday, and I indignantly replied that I would OF COURSE call her on her birthday. I followed through with that promise.
She didn't answer when I called, so I left a message. She told all of her bible study friends, "oh, that was just my daughter calling to wish me a happy birthday". She later listened to the message, and I think it went something like this:
"Hey momma! I was just realizing that I am actually getting kinda low on funds, so since rent is coming up I should probably get some money. Anyway, call me later... love you!"
IDIOT...freaking IDIOT!!!
I called my mom on her birthday to ask for money. I am a massive failure.
I was actually pretty torn up about it when she told me. I cried and stuff. My roomates had to do the whole pat-on-the-back "she still loves you" kind of pep talk.
Anyway, she does still love me, and the incident was written off as " oh...we know how you are, Kara. It was funny. Don't do that next year."
I also have to point out that I really de-emphasize my own birthdays, since I had very traumatic experiences with my birthday parties when I was young. They aren't the kind of stories that one looks back on and laughs. These are stories that made me teary when I retold them only three years ago. After a first grade party it took me a few years to recover, and I tried again in the 5th grade. I vowed that night to never have another bday party. I followed through. Nothing for 16, nothing for 18, and nothing for 21. Dinner is as far as I go.
Even dinner stunk for my 15th, when I went to Logan's roadhouse with my Mom and Aunt. They told the waitress it was my birthday, which is a bad idea in certain restaurants. This is one of those restaurants. They dragged me into the middle of the place and yelled "It's this girl's birthday! Throw peanuts at her while we sing!". The audience followed through, as this is a peanut-laden restaurant. Who the hell thought that throwing peanuts would be a pleasant birthday celebration? What happened to the clapping and free dessert accompanied by a copyright-safe song? Small projectiles and happiness don't mix except at 4th of July and New Years.
So this is all to lead you up to tonight, when I was at a lovely wine party hosted by my sister. First, her friends asked which one of us was older. ? Five years apart and you can't tell? I have young features! One time a lady almost didn't sell me a ticket to a PG-13 movie, so I had to show her my drivers license!! (I was 16). A high school teacher thought I was still in high school only four months ago!
Anyway, I guess they saw my grey hair, which is starting to become quite prominent when I part on the fault line.
I answered them, "I am only 21!". Or something to that effect.
My sister paused. "You are 22, Kara"
*Critical moment of social awkwardness. fight or flight kicked in. I chose fight. fatal mistake*
"Haha, no I am not! I am 21!"
"You were born in June of 1985. It is October" she said, with a wry smile.
I paused.
Crap...I am 22.
Who has arguments about their own age, and LOSES?
You know, we all have our lapses. Age forgetfulness is well accepted past 60. (I am 22, however)
As a single incident, this is just really funny. I was under the influence of a little wine, so silly mistakes happen. It was during that pause, however, that I realized I had been telling everyone I have met in the past 3 months that I am 21. All the people in my neuroscience program were surprised by my youth! I affirmed...yes! I am young for my grade!
I truly only became aware of the fact that I was 22 last night.
Tomorrow I have to confess to them all.
In my defense, my 22nd never really sank in, since it was right before my wedding. Who thinks about birthdays when your wedding is just around the corner?
But still...come on. I am supposed to be sharp, and with it and all.
So don't feel too bad Mom. I don't even keep up with my own birthdays anymore.
It stems, I think, from an awful memory for dates. It took me 20 years to learn my parents birthday, and I still am not exactly reflexive about knowing the current date, and connecting it to the day a person was born.
Last year, I was actually in San Antonio the weekend before my mom's birthday. She made a point to preemptively chide me about the fact that I wasn't going to call her that wednesday, and I indignantly replied that I would OF COURSE call her on her birthday. I followed through with that promise.
She didn't answer when I called, so I left a message. She told all of her bible study friends, "oh, that was just my daughter calling to wish me a happy birthday". She later listened to the message, and I think it went something like this:
"Hey momma! I was just realizing that I am actually getting kinda low on funds, so since rent is coming up I should probably get some money. Anyway, call me later... love you!"
IDIOT...freaking IDIOT!!!
I called my mom on her birthday to ask for money. I am a massive failure.
I was actually pretty torn up about it when she told me. I cried and stuff. My roomates had to do the whole pat-on-the-back "she still loves you" kind of pep talk.
Anyway, she does still love me, and the incident was written off as " oh...we know how you are, Kara. It was funny. Don't do that next year."
I also have to point out that I really de-emphasize my own birthdays, since I had very traumatic experiences with my birthday parties when I was young. They aren't the kind of stories that one looks back on and laughs. These are stories that made me teary when I retold them only three years ago. After a first grade party it took me a few years to recover, and I tried again in the 5th grade. I vowed that night to never have another bday party. I followed through. Nothing for 16, nothing for 18, and nothing for 21. Dinner is as far as I go.
Even dinner stunk for my 15th, when I went to Logan's roadhouse with my Mom and Aunt. They told the waitress it was my birthday, which is a bad idea in certain restaurants. This is one of those restaurants. They dragged me into the middle of the place and yelled "It's this girl's birthday! Throw peanuts at her while we sing!". The audience followed through, as this is a peanut-laden restaurant. Who the hell thought that throwing peanuts would be a pleasant birthday celebration? What happened to the clapping and free dessert accompanied by a copyright-safe song? Small projectiles and happiness don't mix except at 4th of July and New Years.
So this is all to lead you up to tonight, when I was at a lovely wine party hosted by my sister. First, her friends asked which one of us was older. ? Five years apart and you can't tell? I have young features! One time a lady almost didn't sell me a ticket to a PG-13 movie, so I had to show her my drivers license!! (I was 16). A high school teacher thought I was still in high school only four months ago!
Anyway, I guess they saw my grey hair, which is starting to become quite prominent when I part on the fault line.
I answered them, "I am only 21!". Or something to that effect.
My sister paused. "You are 22, Kara"
*Critical moment of social awkwardness. fight or flight kicked in. I chose fight. fatal mistake*
"Haha, no I am not! I am 21!"
"You were born in June of 1985. It is October" she said, with a wry smile.
I paused.
Crap...I am 22.
Who has arguments about their own age, and LOSES?
You know, we all have our lapses. Age forgetfulness is well accepted past 60. (I am 22, however)
As a single incident, this is just really funny. I was under the influence of a little wine, so silly mistakes happen. It was during that pause, however, that I realized I had been telling everyone I have met in the past 3 months that I am 21. All the people in my neuroscience program were surprised by my youth! I affirmed...yes! I am young for my grade!
I truly only became aware of the fact that I was 22 last night.
Tomorrow I have to confess to them all.
In my defense, my 22nd never really sank in, since it was right before my wedding. Who thinks about birthdays when your wedding is just around the corner?
But still...come on. I am supposed to be sharp, and with it and all.
So don't feel too bad Mom. I don't even keep up with my own birthdays anymore.
9.01.2007
8.30.2007
domestication
As my life comes to the border of that country they call adulthood (brought about by the title of Mrs., and nothing else), I think on what prepared me for this. Marriage is utterly fantastic, and although I am only two months in, I can't imagine a more wonderful "institution". How can something so adult be such a rollicking good time? People always speak of marriage with such disdain and warning. What a tragedy- even if it is in a joking manner. Ball and Chain? More like trampoline and water hose. Ah, what a brilliant combination.
Anyway, as my newlywed mind wanders, I think about the fact that maybe we aren't really grown up yet. In fact, maybe I never learned the facilities for grownupness or good wifery.
Baby animals (at least in most mammals) play, just like children do. The play time is supposedly biologically beneficial to help the animals learn and hone vital skills needed in adulthood.
When I learned this in my animal psychology class, I immediately thought of common child pastimes. The most typical and applicable example is "playing house". That particular game arose in any gathering of children where a small plastic kitchen with accessory plastic food was present. I distinctly remember that every time this game was suggested, all the girls immediately claimed the role of mother. There was usually arguing involved, until eventually the more outspoken girl won and made her least favorite girl the father, and assigned child positions to any other remaining children. This game always made me nervous, because whenever it was suggested, I wanted my position in the family so much, and I was always afraid someone would try to take it.
I had to be the dog.
My frantic worries proved to be unwarranted, as no one ever challenged me on it.
I can't help but think that maybe I missed out on some essential childhood learning because I always chose the role of family dog.
Mine was a non-speaking part, but I made up for it with ample panting and tail-wagging.
Did I never learn how to become a proper domestic wife/mom because I never played the part? I don't fix meals every night...or any nights, really, and life with Brian is full of childish giggling. Often our meal is a frozen pizza (for financial reasons AND convenience)...however I do own an apron.
I have been known to wear the apron while putting the frozen pizza in the oven. After it comes out of the oven, I also sprinkle with basil, oregano, and paprika, which evidently justifies the apron, I think.
Perhaps, in time, I will learn to be more domestic. Maybe one day I will always have a meal prepared, and the house will sparkle with cleanliness, and our bed will be fluffed and appropriately adorned with multiple sizes and colors of pillow. For now, it is still sort of ...what's the word...
College. With an awesome roomate.
Is this quasi-adulthood such a bad thing?
I think not.
I rather enjoy it, and so does he.
5.13.2007
commence
That is it. I am no longer a college student. I am so very stuck in the middle of uncontainable excitement and twinges of sadness or nostalgia that I can't very well say just how I feel. Thin is the word, maybe. The fullness of being a college student, with the joys of impractical late nights and sleepy mornings, the incomprehensible amounts of learning (or in many cases, I hate to admit, just memorizing/regurgitating), and the impromptu hang outs...all the joyful stuffing of life for the past four years... is finally taken out of my plans. It wasn't ripped from me, and I certainly have no insecurity about handing it over, but with change comes adjustment. There is so much that will fill my life so soon, but still the unfortunate reality is that it isn't here yet. So for now, life is thin, but enjoyable.
You know, I had a grand time at graduation. Three hours is long, that mortarboard is unflattering and itchy, and about 6 people could hang out inside my graduation robe and no one would notice, but is was neat. It was sort of a mini reunion with many of my classmates and friends from over the years. Since we are nerdy biologists, we entertained ourselves for a while by looking at optical illusion cards (provided by Caroline, my organic chem lab partner and alphabetical neighbor) while I excitedly explained the neurological mechanisms behind them. Appropriate you think?
I hate to admit this, but having to wait while the announcer said lots of stuff about me before I walked across the stage was pretty cool. I worked for that, even though it feels like I was so lazy sometimes. I got a nice yellow stoll with some extra patches, and I was internally proud enough of it to confirm my academic vanity. I might throw it away in a couple of years, but for now it will hang with my belts.
Graduating and leaving this place is easier for me than most, I think, because of how much I have to look forward to! Marraige, moving, starting a new life with the man who will be my favorite roomate ever, and starting graduate school are all sufficiently exciting to make leaving College Station easy. That doesn't mean I do it without looking back fondly, though.
I will miss roaming campus on those perfect fall days.
You know, I had a grand time at graduation. Three hours is long, that mortarboard is unflattering and itchy, and about 6 people could hang out inside my graduation robe and no one would notice, but is was neat. It was sort of a mini reunion with many of my classmates and friends from over the years. Since we are nerdy biologists, we entertained ourselves for a while by looking at optical illusion cards (provided by Caroline, my organic chem lab partner and alphabetical neighbor) while I excitedly explained the neurological mechanisms behind them. Appropriate you think?
I hate to admit this, but having to wait while the announcer said lots of stuff about me before I walked across the stage was pretty cool. I worked for that, even though it feels like I was so lazy sometimes. I got a nice yellow stoll with some extra patches, and I was internally proud enough of it to confirm my academic vanity. I might throw it away in a couple of years, but for now it will hang with my belts.
Graduating and leaving this place is easier for me than most, I think, because of how much I have to look forward to! Marraige, moving, starting a new life with the man who will be my favorite roomate ever, and starting graduate school are all sufficiently exciting to make leaving College Station easy. That doesn't mean I do it without looking back fondly, though.
I will miss roaming campus on those perfect fall days.
The boot of Lawrence Sullivan Ross. All his friends call him "Sully", and Ags lay pennies at his feet for good luck on tests. It gets really full around finals.
4.04.2007
the skin of things
I have such trouble explaining the heart of things that I often settle for explaining the skin of things. It proves to be a hazardous and fruitless habit, bringing only frustration and constricted feelings -conveying a mere penumbra of the truth. Yes, I use the word penumbra naturally and I will not hide the fact, damn it. (My lexical prowess has degraded over the years of simplifying for the sake of the less nerdy collegiates (!) who lack my appreciation for precision AND accuracy in the realm of verbal expression. I want it back.)
The propensity to jump around the center of a question, and to trade what I wish to say for something far easier, has only served to make me mull over past conversations continuously. I revise and refine them, hoping that the new polished conversation will somehow be converted into future “real-time” conversation and consequently replace the old conversation.
An example of this insufferable defect in my communication skills (perhaps not skills, so much as tendencies) is found in conversations with my new friend from London. She is the most delightful person I’ve met in a fairly long time, and as such I can spend hours talking to her and remain completely fascinated. She is quite excited to experience College Station, and at one point during lunch she asked very decisively, and in a manner indicating that she intended to listen at length, “So. Tell me everything about College Station!”
My mind was full, and a lengthy discourse was shooting through my head as I intended to explain that “although I love this city and the spirit of its people, it is shocking for its homogeneity and congruent resistance to the influx of diverse people and thoughts which make for a rather narrow-minded population that overwhelmingly claims to be Christian but shows few signs of such allegiance other than a Sunday ritual and an elephant-like stumbling around the precepts of a supposedly grand old party which actually no more accurately represents their aforementioned ‘faith’ than the donkey upon which Jesus rode- but rather has stolen their faith to use as a platform upon which it elevates itself while it wipes its dirty feet… and all of this consequently drives the few who know they aren’t followers of Christ far away from ever wanting to know Him. Oh yeah, and the guy that stands on campus periodically yelling at the sinners passing by while singing a song about how all homos go to hell doesn’t really help their ‘cause’ either…”
*NOTE: no I am not really a total democrat, nor am I a republican hater, and yes, there is a guy who has sung an ‘all homos go to hell’ song and several guys who frequently yell at sinners walking by on campus.*
So as this discourse runs through my head in response to her question, my mouth actually says, “well now, let’s see… there are four main streets that form a square around campus. You have University Drive at the North…”
Useful information? Absolutely. Is it what she was interested in finding out about the cultural climate of this place? Not really. Would I actually ever have expressed the inner discourse? Yes, but in a much softer manner. I really just want to warn her. Coming from a largely secular country, (not to generalize, but hey, I fully realize I am grossly over-generalizing College Station, so it is only fair to do it to both sides.) I feel the need to prepare her. This place can either be an amazing and life-giving resource to people who are open or desiring to hear about God, or it can be an utter turn-off.
Basically, this is just one example of my issue with communication, and I used it because it is a recent example, AND one that allowed me to indirectly stand on a soapbox for a bit.
The most prominent example in my life is when people ask me about Brian. What I want to tell them is how he laughs contagiously like the most endearing little boy, and I want to tell them how his eyes lose their ever-present laughter when he is stirred up with passion, and I want to tell them that he is passionate about the RIGHT things, and I want to convey how he is the most singular and fantastically unique person I’ve ever met…but those things are so hard to explain. I tell them what they are expecting. The dissatisfaction comes, however, with the understanding that the measure of a man just cannot be explained through age, height, eye color, or college degree. It also comes from knowing that what people think matters is skin. We communicate on surface levels not only because it is easy, but also because we rarely notice or prescribe value to much that is deeper.
A fried chicken leg gets some flavor from the skin, but it’s the meat that fills you up and it’s the bone that gives it strength and structure.
I don’t want to only value the heart of things anymore, but I actually want to be open to letting others know what I value.
God is the most difficult to explain, because I truly cannot. There are no skin-deep things of God. Platitudes and clichés, perhaps, but when examined closely they are plenty difficult to fully grasp. As I am vastly dissatisfied with incompleteness, inaccuracy, and diluted power in words, He remains rarely described by me. A thorough vocabulary just won’t do it.
The propensity to jump around the center of a question, and to trade what I wish to say for something far easier, has only served to make me mull over past conversations continuously. I revise and refine them, hoping that the new polished conversation will somehow be converted into future “real-time” conversation and consequently replace the old conversation.
An example of this insufferable defect in my communication skills (perhaps not skills, so much as tendencies) is found in conversations with my new friend from London. She is the most delightful person I’ve met in a fairly long time, and as such I can spend hours talking to her and remain completely fascinated. She is quite excited to experience College Station, and at one point during lunch she asked very decisively, and in a manner indicating that she intended to listen at length, “So. Tell me everything about College Station!”
My mind was full, and a lengthy discourse was shooting through my head as I intended to explain that “although I love this city and the spirit of its people, it is shocking for its homogeneity and congruent resistance to the influx of diverse people and thoughts which make for a rather narrow-minded population that overwhelmingly claims to be Christian but shows few signs of such allegiance other than a Sunday ritual and an elephant-like stumbling around the precepts of a supposedly grand old party which actually no more accurately represents their aforementioned ‘faith’ than the donkey upon which Jesus rode- but rather has stolen their faith to use as a platform upon which it elevates itself while it wipes its dirty feet… and all of this consequently drives the few who know they aren’t followers of Christ far away from ever wanting to know Him. Oh yeah, and the guy that stands on campus periodically yelling at the sinners passing by while singing a song about how all homos go to hell doesn’t really help their ‘cause’ either…”
*NOTE: no I am not really a total democrat, nor am I a republican hater, and yes, there is a guy who has sung an ‘all homos go to hell’ song and several guys who frequently yell at sinners walking by on campus.*
So as this discourse runs through my head in response to her question, my mouth actually says, “well now, let’s see… there are four main streets that form a square around campus. You have University Drive at the North…”
Useful information? Absolutely. Is it what she was interested in finding out about the cultural climate of this place? Not really. Would I actually ever have expressed the inner discourse? Yes, but in a much softer manner. I really just want to warn her. Coming from a largely secular country, (not to generalize, but hey, I fully realize I am grossly over-generalizing College Station, so it is only fair to do it to both sides.) I feel the need to prepare her. This place can either be an amazing and life-giving resource to people who are open or desiring to hear about God, or it can be an utter turn-off.
Basically, this is just one example of my issue with communication, and I used it because it is a recent example, AND one that allowed me to indirectly stand on a soapbox for a bit.
The most prominent example in my life is when people ask me about Brian. What I want to tell them is how he laughs contagiously like the most endearing little boy, and I want to tell them how his eyes lose their ever-present laughter when he is stirred up with passion, and I want to tell them that he is passionate about the RIGHT things, and I want to convey how he is the most singular and fantastically unique person I’ve ever met…but those things are so hard to explain. I tell them what they are expecting. The dissatisfaction comes, however, with the understanding that the measure of a man just cannot be explained through age, height, eye color, or college degree. It also comes from knowing that what people think matters is skin. We communicate on surface levels not only because it is easy, but also because we rarely notice or prescribe value to much that is deeper.
A fried chicken leg gets some flavor from the skin, but it’s the meat that fills you up and it’s the bone that gives it strength and structure.
I don’t want to only value the heart of things anymore, but I actually want to be open to letting others know what I value.
God is the most difficult to explain, because I truly cannot. There are no skin-deep things of God. Platitudes and clichés, perhaps, but when examined closely they are plenty difficult to fully grasp. As I am vastly dissatisfied with incompleteness, inaccuracy, and diluted power in words, He remains rarely described by me. A thorough vocabulary just won’t do it.
1.19.2007
another thing
So after it is all said and done, after museums, new years party (pinata included), enchanted rock, numerous photographic expeditions, riverwalk rambling, running around with friends, eating at the best Mexican food restaurant in the world (Guajillo's), and lots of fun family time with blood fam and (future) in-laws...
after all those great fun things, my absolute favorite was seeing Brian every day. The best of all was him coming over to my house in the morning and waking me up. I've never been happier to wake, and it was such a delightful preview of the joys to come.
One thing I look forward to most in marraige is waking up with him next to me. sigh...
I'm sorry I'm sorry, I'll stop.
after all those great fun things, my absolute favorite was seeing Brian every day. The best of all was him coming over to my house in the morning and waking me up. I've never been happier to wake, and it was such a delightful preview of the joys to come.
One thing I look forward to most in marraige is waking up with him next to me. sigh...
I'm sorry I'm sorry, I'll stop.
photo of us courtesy of Wes Kitten - taken at the Mcnay
Painting by Robert Indiana, who unfortunately didn't copyright his work and thus it was ripped off for all sorts of uses.
1.18.2007
The Mcnay
Over my incredible month-long break, I realized something very important: I LOVE museums. I did lots of fun things, but I think visiting the Mcnay art museum was my favorite activity. (Sad you couldn't come, Katherine- hope you feel better!) Actually it ranks behind the trip to enchanted rock, but what indoor activity can possibly compete with the coolost chunk of granite known to man? Much like our trip to erock, a large amount of our museum time was devoted to taking pictures. At the Mcnay, we probably spent as much time doing that as we did looking at the pictures inside.
*Brian, the photographic fiance, trying out his nice new fancy digital SLR (canon XTi)
The Mcnay is located in an enormous Spanish-style mansion, and houses ALOT of great art. What made the trip even better was the fact that I had use of some bad a** camera equipment courtesy of friend, photographer, and constant winter-break companion Wes Kitten. All the pictures I took here were taken by me with his Canon 20D. great camera.
Anyway, back to me loving museums. This is all thanks to my parents, who used to take the family hiking and to museums fairly regularly. I loved both of those things, and still do, so thanks, Mom and Dad. Brian and I plan on taking museum and hiking excursions with our family, too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)