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?

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.

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.

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.