I value my personal space. There's approximately a three foot radius around me that I consider sacred ground. If anyone steps into this circle suddenly and without permission, my awareness is heightened and I slightly recoil. If they could read my mind, my intentions would be hostile.
On the outside, you wouldn't see anything different. I'd be smiling and saying, "Hi! How are you?" Privately I'd be thinking, What do you want? Move back or go away! Perhaps it's hormones, but it would be juvenile to blame it on PMS (which I've never had) when the real problem is with myself.
I'm a loner. Oh, all sorts of things may have contributed to this quirk, undesirable in a society that prides itself on cooperation and co-mingling: being picked last for the recess soccer game, sitting alone at the lunch table, choosing to read instead of playing bridge with my fellow geeks. These things could have been consciously remedied, but I've always had this fear that if I imposed myself on people, they would expect something in return.
But this fear is stupid and useless. Even if I haven't imposed on anyone, they expect something of me anyway. It's the authority problem. If someone wants me to do something, fine I'll do it, but just leave me alone while I'm doing it. I like my little illusions that I'm doing it because I want to. The illusion is shattered if some taskmaster stands over me, breathing down my neck and shrieking, "No! Not that way!"
* * *
Textbook Publishers Learn to Avoid Messing With Texas. Politics and education shouldn't mix. Next thing you'll know, the teachers will be telling third graders that Mickey Mouse was the first governor of California, Davy Crockett invented the telephone, and 2 + 2 = 5.
UK Chile-Head. A few years ago, Mom decided to plant some chile. They grew so abundantly that we had to start giving them away. Then people started complaining that they were too hot.
Periodical Cicada Page. They came for my high school graduation. Hundreds of thousands of them--they swarmed the trees, the bushes, the sidewalks. I imagined that they had come out of their larval stage just to see and hear me speak. But that little bit of egoism only lasted about a minute. These cicadas were the insect world's equivalent of loud obnoxious frat boys trying to pick up drunk sorority girls. Their sexual frenzy was a constant buzz permeating the day. Instead of the solemn procession expected through Pomp and Circumstance, there were girly shrieks when certain cicadas (the ones that were too adventurous) were trampled under spiky heels. And when I got up to the podium, one cicada got up too to perch directly on the microphone. Buzzzz buzzz buzz The idiot was trying to do his best impression of Right Said Fred during a graduation ceremony. So much for my speech about cheese.
While I was waiting for the light to change to "walk", I saw a group of people holding signs in front of a pizzeria. It was some sort of protest half a block away. I didn't get a chance to see what was on the signs. Were they protesting working conditions? Or is that place unsanitary?
Schools conspire against boys: educator. Bull. Girls can be just as disruptive and lazy when it comes to school work as boys. Only they're more subtle. It just depends on the teacher who can be as prejudiced as anyone else. If they favor boys over girls, then they ignore the rough-housing but get angry at the note passing and gossiping. If they favor girls over boys, then more boys will get detention slips. Take for instance my undergraduate career. Less than a third of the student population was female, and even if particular events welcomed participating females, it was primarily male-oriented anyway. This was balanced out by the femi-nazi resident director who, well, gave boys hell for complaining. The situation can be easily manipulated depending on view point.
The beige plastic cup with green speckles steamed, impatiently cooling off. Drink me! It screamed like an Alice wonder-size pill. He paid no attention to the huffy, self-important latte. He fliped through today's classifieds, unaware of the cheap ink staining his fingers.
Yard sales. Ah. He leaned forward slightly, dark brown bangs falling across his high forehead. Yard sales were fascinating. There might be a used lawnmower on sale (his wife was forever complaining about the rampant grass on the front yard) or an antique typewriter that made that characteristic ping! on cartridge returns. Two months ago, he found a handful of Victorian postcards for five cents and pair of dodecahedron speakers marked at ten bucks, which on Ebay collectively garnered at least a thousand.
A tiny wren hopped near his brown loafers searching for crumbs. He shifted his feet suddenly and the bird flew up, alarmed, and nearly upset the haughty coffee cup. The liquid sloshed up the sides and more steam rose into the air. How dare you, you stupid bird!
"Cheet cheet cheet!" the wren laughed and flew off to better hunting grounds.
The latte raged and for a moment, the wind favored its wrath, bringing the aroma to his nose. He flipped another page and his finger ran down a column, stopping at a category heading. Flea markets!
Ignored, the latte could only continue fuming.
* * *
A brief explanation of Peculiar Type: I'm thinking of doing character sketches based on actual people and the objects around them. Ever wonder about that scruffy guy sitting on the bench feeding pigeons? Or the girl in the sundress walking her dog? I do. I wonder. All the time.
Other links: Eccentric people more extreme as they age. I'm already fairly paranoid. In one of those personality disorder tests I took a few months back, I scored pretty high for being schizoid. View the Wall. You can now view all the names on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial online. rawr.net. Monsters galore. Selected interesting notebook pages. Unfortunately, when I get bored in class, I don't doodle. I fall asleep. My (former) roommate doodled all the time, but they were only one of two things: dragons or horses.
How do I feel? Like water spiralling down the sink drain.
The problem with working with a bunch of workaholics is that I feel bad if I don't put in as many hours as they do. And then when I come back home ready to hit the sack and just skip dinner entirely, everyone else is jumping up and down and being hyperactive because they didn't have anything to do all day.
Summer holiday. Summer work. Completely unfair.
Other news: Did adoption lawyer really work 44 hours in one day? The answer looks cut and dry to me. Unethical overbilling, plain and simple. Lawmakers blast Pledge ruling. I agree that the "under God" bit is a religious blip that should be cut out--in fact, it shouldn't have been added in the first place. After all, not all Americans are Christians, monotheists, or religious, but come on, this is the sort of thing that most people don't think about because in the larger scheme of things, this is not important. Only the obsessive-compulsive nit-pickers find all this wordage fascinating. Me? I'm more interested in the life or death stuff. Star Trek: Nemesis Trailer. When I was in grade school, I watched all of the ST:NG episodes and most of the original series when they came on as reruns. My Dad was the one who hooked me onto the serial--but in reality, I was a closet fan because no one else I knew admitted liking it. My favorite episodes were the ones with Roxanna Troi and/or Q because they provided so much comic relief. (As for the other series? I never got into DS9; the characters were very mechanical. Voyager went downhill after they got that Borg babe 7 of 9. And Enterprise? Just a plain bad idea.)
I am not jealous of housewives, or even professional housewives (like Martha Stewart), because that would imply that I view them as rivals or peers. But I am envious--especially since they possess skills that I will probably never master due to lack of time, lack of motivation, and smart-alecky eye-rolling.
The first time that it dawned on me that a generally accepted girl's role was practicing the domestic arts was when I was five or six years old. A ten year old cousin, second removed I think, sent a small colorful scarf that she had knitted. I used it to keep my stuffed raccoon warm. But something nagged me. Why couldn't I make something like this? I vaguely remember throwing a protracted fit which did nothing to advance my non-existent knitting talents. Afterwards, I just gave up (I tried it once or twice, but it was so mind-numbingly tedious I decided squishing bugs in the backyard was much more fun).
I'm not a complete bumpkin. I can make the bed and vacuum the floor. I'd rather wash the dishes by hand than stick them in the dishwasher (machines tend to leave residue). I can turn on the oven without setting the house on fire (unlike a previous roommate). However, it is the tiny labor-intensive-over-a-long-period-of-time things that are out of my reach. Cross-stitch? I'd rather admire the multitude colors the threads come in than making myself bleed with a needle. Sew? No. Maybe put a button back on a shirt, but that's about it.
The skill (or lack thereof) most lamented is cooking. Cooking, derived from fire, was what made man civilized. People who don't know how to boil water and yet go to fancy restaurants aren't really civilized. They're leeches--nothing but helpless and dependent. I am not far off from this low lifeform. I can only zap things in the microwave and make pasta. A few times, I managed to make edible creations without the aid of recipes (ironically, I don't use recipes unless it's in the lab) but that was probably due more to sheer luck than anything else.
If there was a genie who only granted selfish wishes, I would wish to be a great chef. I want to cook a roast that's not dry or burnt. I want to make fancy cakes that taste like heaven. I want to know how to make a delectable dish out of anything. Is this too much to ask?
1. When was the last time your pet gave you a scare? What happened? If you're not a "pet person", how come?
I currently do not have a pet due to the place where I'm living and my schedule.
2. How do you think the things that you think, in other words what do you think consciousness is?
I took a class on consciousness once. Actually it was on the neuronal basis of visual consciousness, i.e. visual perception so I got to read lots of papers and textbooks on the subject. Most of it was about neurophysiological experiments and such--not very much philosophy unless you count the prof going off about zombie systems and seizures.
In rough terms, consciousness can be defined as being aware. Sure, you can pick up a book from a desk. Anyone or anything could do that. Humans have the unique ability to be aware that they are picking up the book. But this is an oversimplification. No one knows how the brain cells fire in order for this to come about. If there is an "outside agent" (a "soul" as some people would argue) that provides consciousness, it has yet to be proven.
The mystery of consciousness will probably not be solved in our lifetime. The philosophers and religious fanatics can rant all they want, but actual progress will only be acheived by the scientists who stick subjects in MRIs and prod their brains with electrodes.
3. Taking off from last Tuesday's question # 3, check this out: Women's Treaty, and do something about it. If you don't live in the United States, check out the position of your country on the treaty. Thanks to Elaine for her post on the treaty.
Interesting. I'll have to take some time out to read it.
I've been warned, not so subtly, that a man with the name of an angel has a devil of a reputation. So what do I say? "Yes, yes, whatever you say. Okay." I pretend to be agreeable.
What is gossip and rumor but unsubstantiated opinion? I refuse to be swayed by whisperings in the air. I will not form any opinion (good or bad) about someone I had no idea existed until someone else mentioned him or her. Of course, if all I hear about the person is bad, I will be cautious. What does he say? What does his body language show? Does he frown and glare, or does he smile? (Or more important, is he insincere while he smiles?) And if all I hear is good, I will still be cautious. I've met more than one charming person who've lied through their teeth.
Reputation is a tenacious dog. Were certain reputations won by accident or deliberation? Once gained, a particular reputation is hard to shake off. I don't judge people unless I've met them face to face, but that doesn't mean that others follow my reasoning. And what of my own reputation? I would be lying if I said I didn't care about what others are saying about me behind my back. However, I would rather remain blissfully ignorant.
Linkage: Cat spat turns offcolor. This story reminds me of Ender's Game, particularly Ender's brother Peter who liked torturing small animals.
What your computer says about you. Although I keep desktop items at a minimum and everything is filed away (relatively) neatly, I despise default settings. My desktop icons are stylized geometric shapes. My color scheme is light green. The wallpapers I use are usually from Digital Blasphemy or covers of fantasy novels (currently it is this picture). My screensaver of choice is Ephemera V1.2. I have nothing on my monitor (no stuffed toys, no post-it notes, no stickers, no velcroed voodoo dolls) and very little beside the computer itself (a planter with a "plants & planters sold separately" sticker holding some pens, a handful of CDs, some reference books, and my alarm clock). My mousepad is a faded square with the Rockwell Software logo. My Dad got it for free at some computer convention six to eight years ago. So what do I think this says about me? I'm minimalist, I'm frugal, and I like pretty eye-candy.
Actually I'm not that bad. I'm just glad I now have my computer plugged back in. Working on other computers for a week is like switching from a PC to a Mac. I don't know where anything is, navigation is wonky, people have installed weird programs on it, and none of my programs are on it. I have my bookmarks back (whew!) which includes my ever growing list of reads not included on my links page and a bunch of other random sites that interests no one except me.
So why have I waited a whole week just to plug my computer back in? I had to wait for the previous occupant of my current room to move out. Now, do I not only have to live out of a suitcase any more, I have an entire room meant for two people to myself. Of course, there's the downside--the smell. Don't let those quacky pheromone studies fool you, sweaty guy odor is not pleasant. (Problem solved: air out the room with open door, windows, incense, scented candles, air fresheners.)
I can also listen to my music instead. No more geeky video game music (plus commentary about hit points and special powers and leets--whatever the hell those are). Elvis? Sting? The Carmina Burana? Raunchy Broadway tunes? No problem! Now I can play those as loud as I want.
Other things: Moving Target by Elizabeth Lowell. Initially I picked up the book because like The Club Dumas, it looked like a mystery about antique books. However, it was a bit different--the protagonist was ignorant of books and simply inherited an illuminated manuscript from her grandmother who was murdered. The only other interesting thing about Moving Target was the dedication page which was for the webmaster for her site and all the fans (including my sister) who frequent her messageboard. Otherwise, I'd say the three stars on Amazon are about right. Origamiboulder.com. Some guy's selling wadded up paper. I bet someone's going to be stupid enough to buy it.
"Yes, you are," the pink elephant insisted. "You look like you want to dip me in boiling green wax or paint me yellow with purple polka dots or even better, throw me out the window. But you can't because the window has a permanent screen."
"I hate pink," I replied, not trying to deny his accusations.
"But pink is such a cute color. The Powerpuff Girls use it a lot."
"I didn't even know what they were until some guy wrapped himself up in a blanket with the cartoon characters and called it a Halloween costume."
The elephant turned his back on me and began smoothing down the non-existent hairs on top of his head. "Why don't you like pink?"
"It's so girly. It's stuck in one niche. It doesn't go anywhere. Pink is snobbish. Like a former calculus teacher of mine who decorated her entire classroom with pink. Pink curtains. Pink planters. Pink paper decorations. If people didn't complain of illegibility, she would have used pink chalk and pink overhead pens. And she insisted on people using her title doctor as if it was her God-given right. She got all uppity whenever a student accidentally called her missus."
"Well, pink is girly. You can't change that even if you use scientology brainwashing techniques. Maybe your former calculus teacher is trying to show how proud she is that she is a woman. She worked hard for that doctorate, so she deserves to be called 'doctor'."
"Girl power, you mean?" I frowned when his eye turned to focus on me. "I don't understand it. It's like trying to say that you're better than everyone else when you're really not. People are equal, not better."
"People won't listen to you. They like being told that they're better. It makes them feel good. What woman wouldn't like to be told that she's a goddess, a paragon without equal. What man, for that matter, wouldn't like to be told that he's stronger, smarter, wiser, than other men. People love praise--it makes them motivated to achieve more."
"Praise?" I tapped my pen for emphasis. "Too much praise can be like too much cotton candy. You eat all of it and you get sick. You have to stay in bed and do nothing except to cry for mommy to bring you your favorite teddy bear. Too much praise is just like that--you end up doing nothing except bothering other people because you think you're so much better than everyone else."
The pink elephant finally turned to regard me with a tilt of his head. "Looks like you've got issues with the color pink. Like people, you'll have to treat the colors equally."
"No, you've got issues," he replied waving his trunk emphatically like a psychiatrist with a stopwatch. "So. Are you going to throw me out the window?"
"Why are you asking me that? You're just a damned plastic watering can."
* A fake name for the AIM-addicted librarian's former roommate.
Links: Charles Murtaugh has some interesting recommended reading. I'm somewhat ambivalent to Lileks' response to college students thinking that Western culture is not superior to Arab culture. College students aren't all that experienced or knowledgable as some people would like to think. Here at Tech? Most people would prefer wasting time on Warcraft III than reading the news. College life is extremely insular, even if the student population is diverse. The 18-22 age range is most concerned with schoolwork and social life. In the whole context, culture is an amalgam of religion, politics, and society. But some people may have seen it as something separate. I'm not saying that college students condone subjugating minorities or killing for religion, but they may have seen culture as something different, i.e. holidays, dances, regional cuisine. Compare that to the commericalized west's Mickey Mouse, McDonald's, and the Gap and you might see why some students responded the way they did.
Want to Read This? Ask First. Very funny rant. If NPR doesn't change its (useless) "linking policy" because of this, nothing will.
The beginning of summer was a drizzle, a periwinkle mist that cloaked the sky. The air smelled musty and rain-streaked--the sky was a dripping nose. A perfect day for an outdoor walk.
The wetness drove most people inside. A lone man (on the lookout for valet parking) stood underneath the awning of a restaurant. Shoppers briskly whisked by, ignoring the rain, their eyes straight ahead. Rain was nothing to them. It didn't touch them. But their white bags were stained with dark speckles and their sandles squeaked. Hair looked oilish, not quite dry. They weren't superhuman.
It's spring, I think. A relief to the plants from the previous day which baked sidewalks into molten concrete.
"It's like winter," a woman nearby said aloud, contradicting me. The wet season, you mean. It's not like winter. It's not cold. But then, most of the time, I don't think most of the weather here is cold. I'm still too used to the four seasons. California hasn't broken me out of that in four years. Now it doesn't look like it ever will.
What I saw: Lilo and Stitch. Yeah, a kiddie movie, so what am I doing at the theater watching this? I like animated Disney movies--so I don't mind braving the crowds of hyperactive children to go watch it. I found it pretty funny. The audience didn't. Or maybe the jokes were too sophisticated for these particular moviegoers.
The pen moves against paper. Cross a t. Dot an i. Music--Tal Bachman, Garbage, No Doubt--tumble down the hallway and spill into the room. The pen continues to move, scaring the paper with black. A rustle of a page. More ink.
"Do you have lighter fluid?" The disembodied voice halts the pen.
Another bodiless voice replies. "No, I'm sorry. What's it for?"
"Burning four years of work."
Work. The brown-covered lab notebooks with graphs, sketches, and lists of self-important numbers. Lined paper with meticulously taken lecture notes. Homework sets scratched in the finality of flourished graphite. The work, used to obtain those tiny letters on the report card, was doomed to be burned, finally going up in bits of ash and swirling smoke. The pen falters and drops against the paper in a dull tap. This work, not homework or labwork but just imagination, trembles. But I could never just burn work. Especially years of work. Call me a packrat, if you will, but I will not kill work.
The disembodied voice moves down the hall asking someone else, "Do you have lighter fluid?"
But work doesn't just die. It's still there in those leftover dust motes and the slightly singed air. If he stands close enough to the fire, he will inhale the fumes released from the burning paper. The work will become part of him, reincarnated physically into the very cells of his body an unwashable residue, an echoing memory.
Another book: I first watched The Ninth Gate the previous summer. The video box on the Blockbuster shelves attracted me with its garish, devilish red. Sucker, it screamed at me. And indeed, I was a sucker. The occult can be irresistable because it speaks to something dark inside of us--something that goes back to flickering blood-red flames on ancient cave walls. Actually, the movie turned out to be quite cheesy, tinted into a grainy film reminiscent of 70s B-rated flicks. Johnny Depp was a bumbling anti-hero, his glazed eyes lacking just short the intelligence that made his character move from clue to clue. The only saving grace was Wojciech Kilar's soundtrack--the slow and ominous strings contrasted by the irreverent trumpet.
Soon afterwards, I found out that The Ninth Gate was based on a book called The Club Dumas by Arturo Pérez-Reverte. Usually, I read the books before I see the movie, but the movie intrigued me enough to want to see the written word. The Club Dumas is fundamentally different than The Ninth Gate. There are two intertwined mysteries, one more sinister than the other, and mirroring Pérez-Reverte's motif, the serials of Alexander Dumas. There's a liberal tribute to other works on which this was based, The Three Muskateers, Sherlock Holmes, and Agatha Christie's detective heros. The movie, however, was a bloody surgical experiment, attempting to condense two mysteries to one--so it won't tax the average movie-going intellect.
Pérez-Reverte's writing is fresh and persuasive. He made me completely forget the characters from the movie, plunging me into a completely different world where only the primary props were the same. The protagonist was older, more experienced, and smarter. He was surprisingly self-aware, at one point believing himself a fictional character. It was credible, this time, of the leaps from clue to clue. Informative, The Club Dumas revealed a glimpse into a world obsessed with books. The author's knowledge of ancient tomes was encyclopedic, perhaps at times gluttonic. It's easy to see why someone would kill to possess a book.
Other stuff: Public Protests NPR Link Policy. Dvorkin says we'll just have to live with the guilt, eh? So where does it say that linking is evil?
In a Chinese restaurant, the patrons revealed as regulars from their easy strides and assuming smiles stride around the tables as if they were in their own living rooms. The chatter is unconscious boiling water--the talkers completely unaware how their voices rise and rise until my ears are deafened by suffocating noise.
In the corner, I sulk, getting drunk on weak, cheap tea. The waiter or the waitress (whoever is nearer at the time) clanks down plates and bowls. Their dull eyes glaze over me. I'm an invisible ghost, perhaps one of those ambiguous dead ancestors that lie forgotten in some musty cave. The food is placed in front of me. An obligatory offering. And then the waiters are gone.
Even here, in this supposed melting pot, these people are bound together so tightly that anyone different is glossed over so much like a speck of dust. Even with my same colored hair and skin, I am separated, an outsider. Perhaps this is their punishment for someone who has managed to get along with the others.
Maybe it's my fault for not understanding these intricate community customs. If I had an anthropology degree, perhaps I could have made some sense about it. But it goes both ways. For either side to embrace each other, both sides must be willing. I did not see any willingness when they refused to bring the check, and when they did, they attempted to overcharge by $10.
About books: Summer has always been a heyday for reading. Now I can catch up with all the books that are currently half-finished or unread. Summer also has the tendency to crowd my brain with lethargy and temptation. Today, I bought yet another book. Maybe I'll say a few words about it once I get around to reading it.
Last night, I finished the final volume of Philip Pullman's trilogy His Dark Materials, The Amber Spyglass. It's not just a children's fantasy filled with talking polar bears and soul companions called daemons. The author borrowed heavily from Milton's "Paradise Lost", poses many interesting philisophical questions, and challenges blind faith.
What I found interesting was the author's treatment of the plot and the explanations that lead to the denouement. The serpent in Pullman's metaphorical Garden of Eden was a scientist and the causes, finally revealed, were surprisingly biological. Fact and truth versus blind faith and ignorance.
This struggle is not just confined to fiction. Perhaps it wasn't by accident that this article caught my eye: 15 Answers to Creationist Nonsense. Some people would go to extraordinary lengths to cocoon themselves in comforting myths than face facts that may be ugly or frightening.
Memes: Request Permission to Link to NPR.org. Ridiculous. Hoarding links just defeats the purpose of the web. Cat Boxing. Cats are funny. Why just today, I got an e-mail from some guy who was warning people not to feed his cat tuna because it will deplete calcium. He didn't know why, but I did a little research. Look here and here.
1. What's your favorite browser? Why do you hate "the other one"?
I mostly use Internet Explorer because most sites are optimized for this browser. I don't really hate any of the other browsers--I'm more exasperated that they all have different standards which makes it a headache for web designers in general. Netscape is okay, but makes my clunker of a computer run slower. Opera and Mozilla are also okay, but as before, I'm just more used to Internet Explorer. Maybe I should break this "habit", but at the moment, I don't see any reason to.
2. Are you fascinated by technology and the internet, or is it just a handy tool for you? How did you get involved in blogging?
The more I read about it, the more interesting it looks. What I'm referring to are the applications that people are developing to work with the basic blogging programs such as blogrolling or commenting.
I initially updated manually every couple of weeks. Very sporadic. I had stumbled upon blogs before, but most of them were filled with eye-straining teen angst and for a while I avoided them like the plague because that was what I thought blogs were--angsty journals.
I actually got into blogging last year, early November, due to Nanowrimo. Many of the participants were already into journalling and I figured it might be a good way to keep writing after Nanowrimo was over.
3. What do you think about the alliance of conservative U.S. Christian organizations with Islamic governments (Iran, Libya, Iraq) "to halt the expansion of sexual political protections and rights of gays, women and children at United Nations conferences" (Washington Post article by Colum Lynch, June 17, 2002)?
Disturbing. Seemingly disparate groups have picked strange bedfellows in order to advance a particular agenda. This is particularly troubling because of several things: these people have reached a high enough position to propose these actions, that other people will actually listen to them, and that they probably will not act ethically to acheive their goals even though they believe that these goals in themselves will establish morality.
This may also be an attempt to concentrate power to a few (if you take away gays, women, and children, what you have is a minority). It's all a matter of control. There are some people who want to control others even though they have no right to meddle and impose into others' lives. But it's probably futile to reason with these people--their notion of basic rights are drastically different than mine.
Graduation is another word for endurance. I sat between two guys who kept complaining about the heat and the length of the ceremony. There was a general edginess as everyone who had received a B.S. was impatient to escape but was forced to endure the late morning sun as Masters and Doctorates lined up for their degrees. I didn't think much about the whole ordeal. I had to rush back to my room to pack up some things to head off to San Francisco in the next hour.
I was the typical tourist. Riding the cable cars, I waved to pedestrians as they took photographs. Fisherman's Warf was an explosion of people within a misty odor of fried, boiled, grilled seafood. Odd performers drew in knots of people, spilling out into the street. There was a glimpse of Chinatown, and I walked a bit on the Golden Gate Bridge, feeling the concrete vibrate underneath my feet.
My sister and I visited SFMOMA (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) and pondered avant garde painting and sculpture. I'm partial to Paul Klee and Henri Matisse. The exhibition of Edward Weston's later photographs was particularly excellent. My sister was disappointed, though, that the Yoko Ono's exhibition won't be shown until the 22nd. However, we got to oogle a sculpture of car parts, lab equipment, and organic materials spiralling up five stories.
The next day, we drove back down to Tech, where in a mad frenzy completely moved everything out of my dorm room. Perhaps if the people currently in my future room moved in a more timely manner and housing had not shoved high school students in immediately after the end of school, I wouldn't be so stressed out. But even after that was over, we had to hurry to visit an aunt who lives on top of a mountain overlooking the Pacific in Malibu.
There was lots of new things to be seen--and lots more that I haven't seen--which in a way was disappointing. If I had avoided working on the weekends during the school year, I could have visited the places that I wanted.
My room's a packing mess. I've just gotten out of the graduation ceremony (the crowds are horrendous!) and I'm rushing off to San Francisco for the weekend. Extensive commentary on graduating, my brief vacation, and shoving my belongings out the door will come on Monday when I get back.
Caltech Graduation Class of 2002: Dormiani.com. Parsa has some pics he took at the graduation ceremony. I haven't looked through any of them yet, but I might be in there somewhere. Commencement Info. Yep. Here's everyone who made it through. Available today starting at 3 PM at PST. And Alan Alda's speech at commencement will be available in its entirety on RealPlayer. He said something about birds and sex and love and Richard Feynman.
Perhaps they wanted to appease the parents by providing a reception in the President's garden with fancy finger foods served by elegantly groomed maitre d's. I did not find it impressive. This afternoon affair catered to graduating students and their families was a soupy occasion, speckled with furtive glances in a jazz-filled haughty air. Most people looked out of place: the intellectual elite stuffed into a scene meant for high class society snobs.
My sister and I scrunched ourselves into the shadowed edge of the kiddie pool which rimmed the floral background. We snacked on expensive crackers while I made snide remarks about the pretentiousness of it all: the too-tight ties, the strappy heels, the hairspray-petrified hair, the insinuating questions. This education that I've scrapped up--has it come to this?
But this snootiness eventually affected people around me. In the evening, when the banquet was served at the Athenaeum, we were seated at a table with two other families politely bickering about the stock market and international politics. Servers filled crystal glasses with merlot and chardonnay and offered delicate salads that looked like chewed up dandelion leaves. Where am I? What sort of purgatory is this? I said something stupid and my sister laughed. For a brief moment, the pendulous atmosphere broke.
This self-congratulatory rhetoric made my palms sweaty and my shoulders itchy. I almost imploded into jelly-filled gibberish when a trumpet player began strolling through the room with waiters trailing behind, each carrying a cake embroidered with the Caltech insignia. One cake per senior. And as I blew the candle out with the cameras flashing, I thought I'm a deviant, instead of wishing for world peace, the end of hunger, or even selfish materialism.
The speeches began and I started checking my watch. In the middle of the dean's litany of statistics and random ranting (29% women...3 aeronautics majors...leftover peanuts in the aisle of the airplane), I skittered outside, past the busboys and the serving trays, to hurry to the concert.
In the uncluttered night air with a sheaf of music in my hands, I was free.
With my trusty roll of duct tape and some cardboard boxes, I began dumping my folders and books to be shipped back home. Packing is easy because I've been anal in my organization. My folders are color-coded. My textbooks are wrapped and meticulously labeled. All I have to do is swipe them off the shelves and into the boxes. (Oops. I swiped too hard. My yearbooks came tumbling down onto a hapless candleholder. Now there's glass all over the carpet.)
I'm not quite sure what to do with my lab notebooks though. They feel too personal to be lumped with droning textbook pages and copious (but boring) handwritten lecture notes. Perhaps I should stick them with my writing journals which will eventually end up in carryon bags.
No, I'm not leaving quite yet, but housing in its usual blunt-headed way will be shoving in transient summer boarders as soon as possible. I'll be rooming with a friend during most of the summer, particularly the AIM-addicted librarian, whom I roomed with last summer. Hopefully I won't have too many things following me around by then; her other roommate's stuff will still be sitting around waiting for their owner to come back from Europe.
But after all this packing, I had to find room to stack the boxes before shipping them out. So for the first time in three years, I actually took the liberty of moving my roommate's (the fencing roommate, not the AIM-addicted librarian) belongings. She's a lot more scatterbrained than I am--her side of the room was overflowing with blunt swords, aluminum bats, fantasy novels, comic books, plastic tubing, a fishing tackle box, a picnic basket, sheets, spare change, notebooks, bags, parts of sewing kits, etc.--and I normally am tolerant to a mess as long as it doesn't include dirty underwear. So now, after about a month or so, the room on a whole looks more manageable. (Now you may ask, where is your roommate? I don't know. I haven't seen her this past week. She's probably at her home which is 15 minutes away from Tech.)
So in the middle of this self-induced mess, my father and sister dropped by. They had just arrived from LAX a few hours before. My sister made a bee-line to my computer, intent on finally registering to her new school, the University of British Columbia, because her previous attempts had all mysteriously failed.
She finally logged on. "Should I major in Arts and Applied Science?"
I looked around me, the brown boxes stacked up against the wall, a testament to four years of undergraduate work. Some of it required. Some of it detested. Most of it actually interesting. I shrugged. "Choose what you can handle. You can always change your mind later."
She looked back at the screen. "I'm no good at science," she finally told me. She clicked on Degree for Bachelor of Arts.
Other links: Parade Tentatively Set for Friday. (via Martin from L.A. Blogs) Good God. I tell you, whenever the Lakers win something, something else will go wrong. I'm going to have to warn my parents of impending traffic jams when they come for my graduation. Stalker tech. Well, you could simply leave the PDA in your room, can't you? Book taste linked to dreams. Interesting concept. But that's no surprise. If you're exposed to something long enough, it's bound to affect your unconscious. Students, for instance, will dream of equations and proofs while hard at work on their problem sets. Me? I once dreamed about an entire immunology lecture. That was scary.
In this round of Blogger Insider, I was paired up with Martin from Schism.ca. I had fun answering his "what if" series of questions.
1. If you could name the book from your childhood that had the greatest influence on you, what would it be?
There are a great number of books that probably impacted me while growing up. Most of them are probably in the list I included on the reading chronology page. I'll mention one of them, my favorite, The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley. I found it by accident while I was grousing the shelves of the local library for something to relieve my boredom. When I started reading it, I found that I "couldn't put it down." The heroine was a sympathetic and relatable character, she was both awkward in her own culture and the new culture that she was forced into. And the sword and sorcery stuff didn't hurt either. I told anybody who would lend an ear to try the book, yet they all ignored me and continued plowing through thriller drivel like Christopher Pike. To this day, I still don't understand why nobody else has read this book.
2. If you were to describe your first kiss, what would you say?
My imaginary first kiss would be clumsy, wet, and unsatisfying.
3. If you could accomplish only one thing in the rest of your life, what would it be?
The first thing that popped into my mind was: to get published. Except on second thought, if I never got published, I wouldn't consider it a great loss. Then I thought--I want to be famous. However, that seemed too difficult to tackle, and even if I remained in obscurity for the rest of my life, I really wouldn't care.
I suppose the only thing that I would care to accomplish would be to have no regrets in life. I want to be able to do whatever I put my mind to--to pursue any opportunity that I have even the smallest inclination to take. It would be tragic, if fifty years from now I wall myself up with self-pity, thinking of what I could have done. Fifty years from now, I want to be as aware and in awe of the world as I am presently. Currently I have no regrets, so I might as well be on my way of accomplishing this goal!
4. If you had to eliminate one emotion from your life, which would it be?
Apathy. Not feeling anything is worse than fear, depression, and anger combined. Apathy breeds non-action and stagnation--a dangerous mix in a world that thrives on change.
5. If you had to name the thing that most limits your freedom, what would it be?
Time. If I had enough time, I would have taken all the classes that I had wanted to take, done all the experiments I wanted to do in lab, written down all the ideas that had ever surfaced to consciousness. With more time, I could have planned a road trip, or learned how to throw clay on a wheel, or just simply stopped to smell the roses. There would be a lot of things I could also be doing--if only I had more time.
6. If you had to name the craziest thing you ever did in your youth, what would it be?
I'm not a very implusive person by nature. Many of the things I do (especially the pranks) are thought out beforehand. Maybe the weirdest thing I've done was sometime when I was visiting France. There was an overnight train from Nice to Paris and when I was boarding, I screamed really loudly for no apparent reason.
I have no idea why I did that, and I'm still trying to puzzle it out.
7. If you had to pick the biggest Freudian slip you have ever made, what would it be?
I was squashed in a car full of guys heading back home from a midnight game of mini-golf. The woman on the radio was crooning "horny, horny, horny" over and over. As usual, I was staring out the window thinking about something completely different when I said aloud, "This song is giving me ideas!"
To say the least, everyone in the car cracked up except this one guy who admonished me like a prudish and suppressed great-aunt.
8. If you had to repeat the worst thing you have ever said to your mother, what was it?
I honestly don't remember. Maybe my consciousness is actively suppressing the memory.
9. If you could personally see one natural phenomenon that you've never seen, what would it be?
An erupting volcano.
10. If you could fall asleep every night with your head resting upon anything, other than your pillow, what would it be?
A really fluffy blanket.
11. If you had a bust of yourself sculpted, where would you place it?
First of all, the bust will have to be made of copper and placed outside in an area that has plenty of air pollution. That way, it will turn green and perhaps not look like me anymore. Ideally it should be on a college campus where the students are known to play pranks. At least then I know the bust will be of some use. It's just plain eerie to have a copy of someone's head stare at the same thing every day. Or even sit in an attic gathering dust.
12. If you were going to die in ten minutes and could confess only one thing in order to pass with piece of mind, what could you say?
The hippocampus (hippos: horse; campus: sea) in Greek mythology was an aquatic monster that drove Poseidon's chariot across the ocean. This beast had the anterior of a horse and the posterior of a fish or dolphin. Hippocampus is also the genus name for all the species of seahorses.
Oddly, a section of the brain is also called the hippocampus. Here, it is associated with learning and memory. Most notably, the famous patient H.M., who had his hippocampus and the adjacent areas removed due to seizures, developed significant memory and learning deficits after his surgery. He has no short term memory (he cannot remember any of the nurses or doctors who tend to him) and cannot learn anything new. However, he retains memory from before the surgery.
Thus, the theme for this newest layout: the struggle between imagination and real memory. And, of course, a dash of biology.
Of Techer-centric things: More Comments on Serra's Vectors. The California Tech conducted a survey of the Caltech community. An overwhelming majority of 92% opposed the building of the sculpture. The negative response was uniform through all demographics, from faculty to students. However, I don't think we'll have any influence on whether or not it will be built. The only approval needed now is a vote by the city of Pasadena--and if any of the letters to the editor are any indication, the vote is going to pass no matter how much the Caltech community squeals.
Caltech Tunnels. I found this some time last night while randomly clicking around. I would like to make some clarifications since the people who took the pictures had no idea what they were doing. The supposed "torture devices" found in the steam tunnels are not part of an underground satanic cult. It was part of a Ditch Day stack--a campus-wide prank-a-thon put on by the seniors every year.
The "Hell" that was mentioned is part of a series of four murals painted in various sections of the tunnels. The other three are "Hope", "Love", and "Fear". I particularly like the one called "Fear". It is a plain blue mural at the beginning of the infamous "Wind Tunnel". You're supposed to run through the tunnel (no flashlights becuase that would be cheating!) until you crash into the opposite wall. The trick is, you see the wall just before impact because there's a tiny bit of light filtering through from the ceiling. That moment is what Techers call fear. (Oh, and the map they talked about? Real tunnelers don't need maps. Expert tunnelers don't need flashlights either. And they would have ventured into some very cool places if they had access to a southmaster.)
1. The New York Times recently had an article by David Gallagher on the war bloggers (after 9/11 and mostly right-wingers) vs. techie bloggers or so called veteran bloggers. Do you think the very nature of blogging is revolutionary?
No. Blogging is the journal, diary, scrapbook, daily planner, notes on grocery lists, phone conversations, op-eds, library card catalog, blurry pictures of your cat, dream journal, poetry, amateur media reviews, and analog ranting transferred to a more easily controlled electronic format.
2. Are labels (i.e. feminist, left or right) really important? What if the meanings change over time? Is there some particular label you're proud to wear and why?
Labels are only important to those who want to group people into an Us and a Them. These people want to take sides. Labels are uncomfortable and artificial to me--a label implies that there is a black and a white and no gray area in between so it doesn't matter if meanings change over time. It still divides. Therefore I will remain label-less.
3. Would you be willing to give up, or reassess something you strongly believe in because hard evidence suggests that you are totally wrong?
Yes. I do not take sides simply for the sake of taking sides.
Mix politics and math and what do you get? Well, how about Eigenvectors, the Techer response to Serra's wall, Vectors. The drywall-wood obstacle currently blocks the shaded area where the dining hall and the cafe intersect. A petition is pinned on the protest sculpture, urging people to sign against the implementation of "art" to the school. A forum is also on a different site, Save Beckman Lawn. It's on Geocities, not for lack of campus webspace, but perhaps to be impartial (and maybe sidestep any way that Tech might shut the site down).
I would just like to point out (again) that Techers are not modern art-hating fiends whose idea of a good time is to masturbate to calculus textbooks. Eigenvectors is the Techer's way of rebelling against the artistic and elitist snobbery, by being nerdy. But deciding against putting up Vectors is not going to destroy art as we know it--art is far from being a feeble movement. If Serra wants to express his creativity, he could stick the sculpture elsewhere. For practical reasons, spending millions on a slab of metal is a waste. The money could be better used in research (for example), which to my mind is a worthier cause than simple "entertainment".
Here are some quotes by Serra that I found on the forum: "I don't think it is the function of art to be pleasing" "Art is not democratic. It is not for the people"
He doesn't sound like a real artist. If art isn't pleasing to anyone and isn't democratic, I don't know what is.
Linkage: A Rift Among Bloggers. So according to the author, there are only two types of webloggers, war-bloggers and tech-bloggers. Since I'm neither, I guess I'm not a blogger at all, am I? Ya-Ya Name Generator. I am completely clueless to this southern women empowerment thing. But it seemed like a nice thing to waste my time on. Derived from my real name: Countess Eats Like A Bird. Derived from my pseudonym: Viscountess Sings in the Rain. I like the second one better.
Trapped Between 2 Languages. I think it has less to do with the educational system and more with motivation and encouragement at home. These kids don't have supportive parental figures to help in learning. I was lucky. In a way, I was in the same situation when I entered kindergarten. I knew little English--my parents spoke Cantonese to me and the neighborhood where I lived my first years was entirely French--but I didn't end up in an ESL class. It was total submersion for me and somehow, I floated instead of sank. It must have been due to my early fascination with books.
We Are Our Own Glass Ceilings. This post on Blog Sisters just blew me away. I have no doubt there are some nasty go-getter women. Like those grudge-holding secretaries I mentioned a while back. Some women aren't delibrately mean, although they manage to perpetuate assumed goals because of their own upbringing. As for women in high places, at Tech, there's a female prof to male prof ratio of 1:11. Not good. But unlike the woman at that other tech school that the post mentioned, all the women professors I've met or heard about at my school were nice. It may just be my naivity speaking, but science doesn't seem as conducive to fostering "queen bee" behavior as maybe an office environment. So either this woman has worked in a cubicle at one time or is a serious anomaly.
This is not a medieval woodcut. This was actually part of a presentation that my first year physics professor did in a physics seminar before any of the data was published. Even before I decided that I wasn't cut out to be a hardcore, unkempt physics major. Pretty cool stuff, though.
On a tangential note: Is the Universe Really Consistent? A flawed, yet interesting essay. The scientist in me says, "Yes, dammit, it is consistent. Your little tarot card argument can't sway me."
I know it's the thought that counts, but like shopping for a Mother's Day card, searching for the appropriate Father's Day card is a trial. I don't want the card to be too cute because I am not normally a cute person. I don't collect inordinate amounts of Hello Kitty merchandise or scruffy stuffed animals. (In fact, the only Hello Kitty object I own is a bank from my piggy bank collecting phase.) I don't want the card looking like a Piet Mondrian painting either. A stylistic card actually manages to create more distance instead of bridging a gap.
The term "father", according to the M-W, originated before the 12th century from the Old English "fader" which in turn is from the Latin "pater". "Dad" on the other hand is apparently a derivative of baby talk. These origins of these terms are still influential today--father is formal, dad is informal.
When I was much younger, I called my Dad, "ba-ba". Now, of course, I call him "Dad". But never "Father". To me, the word "father" is much too haughty, as if the only association I would acknowledge of him is his genetic contribution in making me. "Father" and "Mother" makes the speaker sound like they are denying their emotional attachment to their parents. It may be the more grown-up thing to do, but I find it snooty, like listening to the playground princess expound upon her newest clothing acquisition.
So Ba-Ba, I am sorry for being ever so picky with words (and cards), but I will forever call you "Dad".
Things I've picked up: The Philosophy of Punctuation. I'm pretty sure I've abused pretty much every rule in Strunk and White, but it's neat that someone still cares about punctuation. Dangerous Liaisons. Forget about the movie. I finally got my grubby paws on the soundtrack today. Why? Because I'm an avowed George Fenton fan(atic).
Well, finals week (for me anyway) was over as of this morning--my last paper was due at "the crack of dawn". With everything completed I somehow feel a bit emptier. Part of me is missing. I also feel refreshed (although a bit tired due to the week's sporatic sleeping schedule) and ready to tackle on new projects. There's so much to do: pick up where I left off in my writing, start a new project that's been fermenting in my mind for the past month and a half, and maybe redesign the site. Oh yeah, and read the dozen or so novels that have piled up on my desk.
Some place I went today: Vroman's Bargain Books. For the past couple of weeks, I would pass by the place telling myself that I would take a peek but end up procrastinating. Today, I went in and probably bit off more than I could chew (project-wise). The anthologies for The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror were on sale and I had to get them. It didn't hurt that a great artist, Thomas Canty, was the cover artist for all of them.
I better get some sleep before I fall over onto the keyboard.
I would be pleased if happiness made the world go round, not material wealth. But of course, that would never be the case, not in my lifetime or several lifetimes after me (if ever). My mind was on money today, even though I never saw a flash of green.
Deciding to pay off the rest of my personal account (except the student loans), I trotted over to the Bursar's office to write out a check. The chunky woman behind the desk was wearing an ugly floral. I wondered what she had been working on before I came into the office. Solitare? Free cell? Minesweeper? After she looked up the appropriate amount, she warned me, "Even if you pay everything today, there might be occasional charges later if you use your ID." But I didn't care. I wasn't planning to swipe my card anywhere. My balance would be zero (except for the student loans) and I would be free of any apocalyptic and bursarian e-mails.
On that note, I next headed to the alumni house to drop off one of those forms that asked for future mailing addresses. At first I had hesitated. I don't want anyone tracking me down like prey, but I eventually relented. All they might do would be to send junk mail--particularly junk mail in asking for alumni donations. But after I handed that slip to the short, bouncy woman who worked there (her eyes seemed to drill through me, sizing me up as a future donor), I was overcome with doubt again. They would ask me for funds all right, but for what? Would it go towards improving student life? I wasn't so sure given the recent hoopla over the cost-cutting in the quality of student life despite record donations.
And then there was dinner, which dining services decided to hold outside like a buffet picnic surrounded by karaoke equipment. I asked someone if this was going on our board plan. "Yeah, I guess so." But the line terminated at one of those electronic swipe machines that was plugged to an outdoor outlet. My hand was stamped to indicate that I had paid. The stamp is red, and even several hours after dinner has ended, it's still there after repeated handwashing. I rub over it like Lady Macbeth and her stubborn bloodstain. The stamp is not blood, but moneyed ink.
Asian/Caucasian Relationships. (Here's another forum although not as well written.) I've been following, i.e. lurking, in the discussion on Metafilter since it appeared sometime yesterday. I find it immensely fascinating (and disturbing) that an Asian woman, no less, would attempt to sell her sex and race into the dating market. She must have some pretty antiquated ideas about how Asian women operate. No two women are the same (no two people are the same for that matter) and it disgusts me that there should be any pandering to stereotype. Sure, there are a lot of bigots, racists, and objectifying misogynists out there, but even if you're looking for a quick buck, it's still wrong to encourage this behavior.
Maybe I'm the wrong person to talk about this because I have no history of intimate relationships to base any of my opinions on. My view on many relationships is skewed and cynical at best--I've only observed young nerds and airheads attempt to maneuver in social circles that look more like squares. There's the obsession, the childish pettiness, the overrun of hormones, and the false sense of time running out. All I see is an oilish mess that I do not want to touch; only rarely do I see a sparkle underneath the grime.
But even from observation, I can see both sides. Some interracial and intercultural couples honestly get along with each other. They truly are culture-blind, so to speak. And then there are some couples that are the "oilish mess" where they whine and moan about their partner not understanding them or are completely indifferent to their partner's needs except to exact sex out of them. So how can these superficial relationships be prevented? By avoiding anything that could inadvertently lead to perpetuating stereotype.
And if any guy thinks that I will be the typical subservient, pliant Asian female, I will personally shove both his shoes down his gullet.
Different: Bloginality. I am an INTP. In more comprehensive personality tests (with more questions), I've scored INTJ. The P (perceiving) and the J (judging) were almost always equal, thus perhaps the wavery line between the "thinker" and the "scientist" or in more Jungian terms, an "architect" and a "mastermind" (both, I find, rather uncomfortable labels). This only illustrates that supposed personality types cannot be pigeon-holed. There are always people in the different gradations between each one. But it would be interesting to check out this site a bit later, to see if most people who go into blogging are either the rational or the touchy-feely types.
Last night, in a fit of giggles, my roommate burst into the room carrying an armful of ugly wooden carving. She plopped the elongated head onto the carpet and immediately took out a string of bells to decorate it. Two stubby arms projected out of the head to hold a half burnt tea-light.
She had stolen the house deity, Fingal.
Fingal is more like a mascot of sorts, its sole purpose to induct new students into the house and be stolen by intrepid pranksters. The thing sits there as it is decorated by string and birds and sticky eyeballs that can glow in the dark, grinning maniacally at me. For some reason in the past, it had been elevated from tacky souvenir to god. It's a pretty good deal for the curio, except for the times it had to spend under the dirty laundry of its official "priest".
Tonight, my roommate anonymously gave back the deity under one condition--that its keeper read a poem by e. e. cummings to next year's keeper. How embarassing for not keeping a tight eye on the house valuables!
Yes, I was "flicking" again: The Ravenstone Tower Chronicles. (via The Z-List) This is not your average teenage blog. The author has an enjoyable and unique voice. It makes me wish that I had been so introspective (and that adventurous!) at that age. Partial Eclipse. I don't have a telescope, but maybe I'll rig up a sloppy cardboard contraption to view it indirectly. I don't have enough money to buy a fancy filter for my camera (or me). Vectors. All right, here it is, the official page for that sculpture I talked about in a previous post. Sure the artist is famous, but that thing is not aesthetically pleasing. It would look better in a minimalist stone garden. Create Your Own South Park Mini-Me. A twisted electronic version of the old-fashioned paper dolls (but inherently less scary).
1. Is there a goal, or something you value highly that a simple time commitment would put within your reach? What is it? Why is it important to you? If it's a high school, or college degree that is of the utmost importance to you, why is it significant beyond the obvious reason (i.e. job)?
I like making lists, so here are my short term goals:
a) The bachelor's degree. This week is finals so as soon as these hectic days are over, I'll breathe a sigh of relief.
b) The doctorate degree. Now this is a little trickier. This involves me moving sometime this summer and spending at least the next five years in lab. After this, I'll be free to pursue research that actually interests me.
c) My pet project. This involves brushing up manuscripts I already have, writing new ones, and sending them out. And then waiting. Yeah, I really want to see something I created, printed on paper because some editor actually likes it, in a forum where lots of people can read it.
2. Why haven't you done this already? If you're already working towards it, tell us about a particularly difficult hurtle.
The first two goals are self-evident. Difficult hurtle? The amount of work that I know I have to do. As for the pet project, the first goal was in conflict. And I'm sure the second goal will start conflicting once school starts up again in the fall. I'll just have to make time. And then there's the whole thing about postal increases at the end of the month and I'll have to start worrying about how much to spend on SASEs (self-addressed stamped envelopes).
3. Be realistic. How much time can you commit towards making it happen?
Err... a) one week b) five or six years c) my spare time
I've realized that I've always had my week start of with a bang. Little sleep, deadlines, lots of labwork. Like this morning when I had to dash off a "grant proposal" before noon. The prof decided to have everyone write an original proposal instead of taking a final. I think I would have preferred to take the final. Perhaps this was his concession to the graduate students (all PhD candidates) who made up more than half of the class.
But there's the problem, how can you find a unique balance for a class where half (well, in this case more than half because this school has more grad students enrolled than undergrads) already knows the material and half is struggling to learn it? Some classes instigate two different grading curves. Others just haphazardly lump everyone together. I once took a bioorganic chemistry class--the subject matter was fascinating and the lectures were awesome--but since 99.9% of the class were grad students who already understood most of the material and the TAs geared the homework sets towards them. I felt completely out of my depth and dropped the class on the very last day that was possible. In retrospect, I should have audited the class instead, but that was two years ago when I was a very silly underclassman.
Well, despite the nearing of the end, controversy is still alive and well. A de facto art committee (with no input from the rest of the community) has approved of setting a metal 3-D recycle sign-like sculpture (by Richard Serra) in front of the Beckman Institute lawn. In conjunction with the Broad Center, the entire project is going to overwhelm the now pristine green lawn with eye-straining metal and concrete. I'm not a big fan of modern art and I like it even less when the artist tries to attach pseudo-scientific clap trap as meaning. (Example from a critic: "Serra's works may be thought of as investigations into the nature of perceptual consciousness, provided that one thinks of perceptual consciousness along the lines of the enactive conception." I may be dense, but what the hell does that mean?)
A student from a nearby art college came to the forum for discussing the sculpture to lambast Techers instead. Apparently, he said we're too nerdy to appreciate good art. Well you know what? No one here gives a crap what a pretentious art student thinks. He doesn't attend Caltech. We do, and we're the ones who will have to walk past it every day. Just as the critics may declare a certain artist a classic, that doesn't mean that we the public have to like it.
Despite being situated between two biology buildings, the thing won't even look organic.
Others: I'd prefer not to. I agree to some extent that we shouldn't be forced to like or even read "classic" authors, but come on, the guy reads books for a living. Couldn't he have finished a book before levying judgement? Blog of a Bookslut. Whee! Book news. All the time.
Some people say that dreams are actually leftover thoughts and ideas from the previous day, that during dreaming, the brain is trying to organize all the information that has been accumulated. Others say that dreams are the well-spring of the unconscious. It is the facade of what we see of our "other" self--the darker, emotional, destructive self. I see it as both, a mixture of flowing creative juices during the sleeping hours and a manifestation of things I've bottled up during the day.
My days, for that matter, are quite staid. Class, lab, work. I'm not involved in angst-ridden, complex social groups so it appears that my waking life has no obvious effect on my dreams. However, the dreams themselves are disturbing things. I've given up trying to tell them to other people. It just doesn't have the same effect. The dreams that I do remember are never pleasant--there's always some weird, alarming component about them. Perhaps my subconscious is trying to warn me about something.
For the past couple of years, I've kept a rather sporadic dream journal (not to be confused with the one online which is entirely fiction) that for one thing, is more private than any of my other journals or diaries. I'm aware that writing anything down is subject for public scrutiny, but this dream journal is more like therapy. Once I write a dream down, there isn't a chance for me to have it again. My subconscious will have to try to invent something better.
But looking over my previous dreams (and pondering my more recent ones), I feel uneasy. This is not just my brain filing excess information during the night. Who is this terrifying being inside of me?
A link: The Elderly Man and the Sea? Test Sanitizes Literary Texts. Geez. In an effort to appease the hypersensitive, the Education Department has erased any politically incorrect references in the literary passages they used for exams. The authors are understandably outraged at this unapproved censorship. What I don't get is why are they testing students on the meaning of the passage when the passage itself has already been "cleansed" of the meaning already? This is what we call just plain stupid.
This weekend, somnolent Tech has been transformed into Las Vegas. Or at least those wedding people think this is Las Vegas. There have been unconventional receptions ranging from accordian players and horse and carriage to some weird game show host type personality announcing people to cheesy music. All of this I heard with the windows closed. I do not want to hear about how the best man gave his friend a bloody nose in a one-armed fist fight or how the maid of honor went skydiving in Kenya. I want some peace and quiet. And they should hold their little get-togethers in a less residential area.
Wait, You're Not Chinese? (via Godless Capitalist) Actually, I would say, "Wait, why is this article in the Fashion and Style section of the NYT?" A person's name, changed or not, is not a fashion statement. Rather, it's permanent. This article first struck me because like the author, my roommate's mother is in the same position--she's also a white Jewish lawyer who married an Asian. Name is identity and I see nothing wrong with changing the last name to reflect a married status. But as the author of the article pointed out, certain names also carry assumptions along with it. This only emphasizes the fact that names can never be used as an indicator to judge a person. Otherwise I would be relegated to becoming a comedian, a composer, or an erotic romance novelist.
The Job Market: Lack of opportunities may benefit graduates. (via Tiger Cafe) The slower economy has really made people in my class think hard about what they want to do after graduation. Instead of jumping head first into the job market, many are considering alternatives. Some are joining the Peace Corps for a few years. Others are going to graduate school. I suppose this is either affording some time to help decide what to ultimately do or just waiting it out until the market gets better. There are also a few who will delve immediately into something completely different, like teaching high school students. Whatever the case, I don't think most people are going to do what others want them to do. (Except those people going to med school. I'm always suspicious about their motives.)
