Snood and Tetris- totally addictive, the perfect grad student TP. You match up the pieces, and when you get the pattern right, it all falls apart. And for some reason that makes you a winner.And when you win all it means is that the pieces come at you faster, and you have to figure out the patterns quicker.
Talk about crappy metaphors for life. And I play these to get away from my so-called work. I don't even want to think about what that makes me.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Sunscreen for the cynic
"Never take anything in life too seriously, including me and yourself."
In a completely (oxy)moronic way, I find myself drawn to that line over and over. Beyond all logic, I try to reason that sentence out. Like a lost key, I fit it into every single lock, trying to figure out where it fits. I'm not sure what I'll do if I find out. But I carry it around and test it on almost every situation, just to see how far the little cogs and wheels inside the lock spin, twisting into kaleidoscopic new perspective. So I hang on to those words, as what remains- after love and friendship, walking barefoot through night rain in Pune and conversations from Bombay to New York to Bangalore and beyond.. what remains of it all is these words. Like a real-life game of rock,paper and scissors- what survived is the one thing that defeated the rest.
In real-life terms,however, that doesn't make sense. Evolution craves balance, and one thing that shatters (or feeds on/ overpowers) the rest cannot indefinitely survive. So there must be a lock, somewhere, that is strong enough to withstand that key. I know for sure the statement must unlock something, and the day I find it, hopefully I will drop the key, as I have the rest of the memories.
In a completely (oxy)moronic way, I find myself drawn to that line over and over. Beyond all logic, I try to reason that sentence out. Like a lost key, I fit it into every single lock, trying to figure out where it fits. I'm not sure what I'll do if I find out. But I carry it around and test it on almost every situation, just to see how far the little cogs and wheels inside the lock spin, twisting into kaleidoscopic new perspective. So I hang on to those words, as what remains- after love and friendship, walking barefoot through night rain in Pune and conversations from Bombay to New York to Bangalore and beyond.. what remains of it all is these words. Like a real-life game of rock,paper and scissors- what survived is the one thing that defeated the rest.
In real-life terms,however, that doesn't make sense. Evolution craves balance, and one thing that shatters (or feeds on/ overpowers) the rest cannot indefinitely survive. So there must be a lock, somewhere, that is strong enough to withstand that key. I know for sure the statement must unlock something, and the day I find it, hopefully I will drop the key, as I have the rest of the memories.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
What holds together..
The last few weeks have been a bit of an emotional roller-coaster, making me question relationships I held dear for so many years.
Childhood friendships are sheer unquestioning acceptance- The neighbour's kid is my friend because we play together every day. The girl I sit next to in class soon becomes my best friend. My parents told me not to play with the rough kids, so they aren't my friends. Adult relationships tend to be similar- not unquestioning, but more accepting- I can play tennis with you even if you support the politicians I hate. You're a content mother, so I'll overlook the fact that you have no ambitions to a career like mine. The lines are clearer, yet fuzzier- I have learnt not to broach uncomfortable subjects, make small talk, and accept that someone who disagrees with me on some things may be the most passionate supporter of some of my other causes.
The big realizations come from adolescent friendships- the ones forged in fire, where passion and ideals and big dreams are the bedrock of the relationship, and they're held together by the mundane cement of life- We share the same dreams, so we drool over the same books at the book fair. Go to the same concerts, and like the same coffee shake at Barista. And then we grow up, grow apart, and real life happens.
Some relationships hold so strong over years of not talking, as if our minds grew in the same ways even without words or contact. Others fall apart- without the mundane to hold it together, the deepest dreams and highest passions crumble to extinction.
And I find myself aching for lost time. When love was unquestioning and absolute, when I took a silent stand to be there for a friend no matter what. My idea of "no matter what" accounted for bad decisions, tough times, and the other person waking up to the realization that they were wrong. I even accounted for the possibility that maybe I would reverse my opinion of what I thought was a bad decision, imagining myself gloriously open-minded and forgiving in my outlook. I considered geography and careers, time zones and lifestyles- the perfect plan for life. I could and would make this relationship work, no matter what.
Except the one thing I forgot. The other person. Perhaps we had already grown apart, or perhaps we were never together. The realization was mine- That sometimes a bad decision is merely the lack of decision, not a conscious choice at all.
I can account for everything in my "no matter what", but it takes two people to make a relationship work. And a conscious choice by both. Whether it is the child next door who chooses to come out and play with me, or the mother who overlooks my career choice as I do hers- it takes a conscious choice. A mindless, circumstantial drifting together of two people is not a friendship, it is a convenience.
And conveniences, like plastic grocery bags, are disposable, recyclable, and not worth a second thought.
(What do you know? Even at 27, I learn something new every day.. Maybe there's still some growing up to do, and life isn't as jaded as I thought it was! )
Childhood friendships are sheer unquestioning acceptance- The neighbour's kid is my friend because we play together every day. The girl I sit next to in class soon becomes my best friend. My parents told me not to play with the rough kids, so they aren't my friends. Adult relationships tend to be similar- not unquestioning, but more accepting- I can play tennis with you even if you support the politicians I hate. You're a content mother, so I'll overlook the fact that you have no ambitions to a career like mine. The lines are clearer, yet fuzzier- I have learnt not to broach uncomfortable subjects, make small talk, and accept that someone who disagrees with me on some things may be the most passionate supporter of some of my other causes.
The big realizations come from adolescent friendships- the ones forged in fire, where passion and ideals and big dreams are the bedrock of the relationship, and they're held together by the mundane cement of life- We share the same dreams, so we drool over the same books at the book fair. Go to the same concerts, and like the same coffee shake at Barista. And then we grow up, grow apart, and real life happens.
Some relationships hold so strong over years of not talking, as if our minds grew in the same ways even without words or contact. Others fall apart- without the mundane to hold it together, the deepest dreams and highest passions crumble to extinction.
And I find myself aching for lost time. When love was unquestioning and absolute, when I took a silent stand to be there for a friend no matter what. My idea of "no matter what" accounted for bad decisions, tough times, and the other person waking up to the realization that they were wrong. I even accounted for the possibility that maybe I would reverse my opinion of what I thought was a bad decision, imagining myself gloriously open-minded and forgiving in my outlook. I considered geography and careers, time zones and lifestyles- the perfect plan for life. I could and would make this relationship work, no matter what.
Except the one thing I forgot. The other person. Perhaps we had already grown apart, or perhaps we were never together. The realization was mine- That sometimes a bad decision is merely the lack of decision, not a conscious choice at all.
I can account for everything in my "no matter what", but it takes two people to make a relationship work. And a conscious choice by both. Whether it is the child next door who chooses to come out and play with me, or the mother who overlooks my career choice as I do hers- it takes a conscious choice. A mindless, circumstantial drifting together of two people is not a friendship, it is a convenience.
And conveniences, like plastic grocery bags, are disposable, recyclable, and not worth a second thought.
(What do you know? Even at 27, I learn something new every day.. Maybe there's still some growing up to do, and life isn't as jaded as I thought it was! )
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Come, tell me a story..
My earliest memory of a book would be from when I was about six or so. I'm not sure why, perhaps the lack of a babysitter, but I spent three hours after school everyday (atleast it felt like that much time) waiting for my mom to get done with her classes. I read before that, fairy tales and the brothers Grimm and the little match girl and little stories from the Panchatantra. But that book from the musty school corridor stands out.
It was the wizard of Oz, and sitting in a darkening corridor in an almost-empty school, it was so much more fun to be out in Kansas or Oz, both equally fantastic to a six year old in Bombay. Now that I think of it, I'm not really sure how I managed to read at that level- Did I understand everything I read? Who taught me the big words or told me that emeralds were green? I don't remember asking those questions, or any of the other details my mother does, but the book stayed with me like a little secret, three hours of childhood solitude expanding into an omnipresent cosmos of words swirling in the brain.
I don't remember a time, before or after that, when stories haven't been a constant presence, whether I'm looking for one or telling one or reading one. The only important part is sharing them- Few lasting stories live on memory alone, they need re-telling and re-thinking and constant life infused into them. Real stories grow with us and change as we do, as memory and experience meld together. Real stories hold us to our roots, reminding us of honor and doing the right thing when every brain cell screams with anger and a desire to hurt. Real stories warm and comfort, reminders that things can turn around overnight even when they are at their bleakest.
So come, tell me a story today.. Even a little one will do- just as long as it means something to you. It could be six words long to sum up your life, or an epic poem of your love. It could be a fairytale that you loved, or a tale about Cinderella slippers that you wore for a birthday long ago. Perhaps a memory, of schoolyard bullies. Or a wish unfulfilled. But tell me about something that touches your heart. An experience or a memory, fact or fiction... come, share a story today.
It was the wizard of Oz, and sitting in a darkening corridor in an almost-empty school, it was so much more fun to be out in Kansas or Oz, both equally fantastic to a six year old in Bombay. Now that I think of it, I'm not really sure how I managed to read at that level- Did I understand everything I read? Who taught me the big words or told me that emeralds were green? I don't remember asking those questions, or any of the other details my mother does, but the book stayed with me like a little secret, three hours of childhood solitude expanding into an omnipresent cosmos of words swirling in the brain.
I don't remember a time, before or after that, when stories haven't been a constant presence, whether I'm looking for one or telling one or reading one. The only important part is sharing them- Few lasting stories live on memory alone, they need re-telling and re-thinking and constant life infused into them. Real stories grow with us and change as we do, as memory and experience meld together. Real stories hold us to our roots, reminding us of honor and doing the right thing when every brain cell screams with anger and a desire to hurt. Real stories warm and comfort, reminders that things can turn around overnight even when they are at their bleakest.
So come, tell me a story today.. Even a little one will do- just as long as it means something to you. It could be six words long to sum up your life, or an epic poem of your love. It could be a fairytale that you loved, or a tale about Cinderella slippers that you wore for a birthday long ago. Perhaps a memory, of schoolyard bullies. Or a wish unfulfilled. But tell me about something that touches your heart. An experience or a memory, fact or fiction... come, share a story today.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Writing, writing
When the mood is right, words flow so freely, half unconsidered, drifting in the rhythms of what I last read or who was on my mind.
Other times, I spend days mulling over the ideas of other minds, weaving them together to form a coherent enough mesh to hold my own leap of faith, a list of references to justify every thread of the net that holds up the hypothesis. Sometimes the threads congeal to the perfect shape almost effortlessly- Three days of mulling things over, and writing from 3 am to 10 am produces the near-perfect hypothesis (for my needs of the moment), and the perfect language, and it is done.
And on yet other occasions I spend months on end sifting through things- papers, ideas, plagiarism in hope of inspiration, endless drafts, help from mentors- NOTHING.
There is no formula to writing, even after all these years. Outlines, schematics, moods and inspiration- they chase after each other in a dance I cannot put my finger on. All I know is that I run with them, no matter how tiring it gets, until we come together fingers entwined in one last inspired whirl of a finish. The roots of inspired writing that soars above the rest are simple perspiration- the mental kind.
Is it presumptuous to call myself a writer, or write about writing before I have actually written? To speak of inspired writing that soars, when almost no one else would agree? Perhaps.. But when I write like that, it lifts me above the ordinary, and that high is all that matters :)
Other times, I spend days mulling over the ideas of other minds, weaving them together to form a coherent enough mesh to hold my own leap of faith, a list of references to justify every thread of the net that holds up the hypothesis. Sometimes the threads congeal to the perfect shape almost effortlessly- Three days of mulling things over, and writing from 3 am to 10 am produces the near-perfect hypothesis (for my needs of the moment), and the perfect language, and it is done.
And on yet other occasions I spend months on end sifting through things- papers, ideas, plagiarism in hope of inspiration, endless drafts, help from mentors- NOTHING.
There is no formula to writing, even after all these years. Outlines, schematics, moods and inspiration- they chase after each other in a dance I cannot put my finger on. All I know is that I run with them, no matter how tiring it gets, until we come together fingers entwined in one last inspired whirl of a finish. The roots of inspired writing that soars above the rest are simple perspiration- the mental kind.
Is it presumptuous to call myself a writer, or write about writing before I have actually written? To speak of inspired writing that soars, when almost no one else would agree? Perhaps.. But when I write like that, it lifts me above the ordinary, and that high is all that matters :)
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
un-organising
Everywhere I look are signs to help me. Find time to exercise ! Unclutter your desk space! Thirty organising tips ! How to find time for everything you want to do NOW!
Yes, my days overflow into one another, last week's to-do lists often spilling over into next month. I look them over, re-evaluate and promise to attack the neglected tasks with more vigor. I tell myself I can do more if only I'm more organised, more focused, more efficient.. a little more of everything. One of my favorite magazines has a little footer at the bottom of each page, which goes "If you have ten minutes.. do this!" "If you have 20 minutes, do that!" "If you have an hour, you can take in the latest CD/ book/ movie/ inspiring cancer survivor story!"
The latest article I read along these lines was about meal planning- How, if I only plan out the meals for the week ahead beforehand, I can order the ingredients online, pick them up at my local supermarket, and save myself so much time every single day. Of late, my culinary interests have ebbed and waned, but overall I've cared more about what I eat than I ever did before. Conscious choices- Strawberries without the sugar, just pure fruit. Lets try steaming an artichoke today, shall we? Chocolate-orange noodles.. why not? Hands wander over strange vegetables at the store (Ghost pumpkins, anyone?), and new flavors fuse with the familiar to create comfort and excitement in my kitchen.
Why would I want to trade in a lazy Saturday morning of wandering around the stores for meal plans and ten minutes more every day? And by the same token, I could be more organised, so I'd have more time to relax and spend time with people and things I care about- but thats what I usually waste my time on anyway- Lounging around on the sofa watching old movies with A, or rummaging at garage sales for silly funny treasured finds, long after-dinner walks... If I have time enough for these, why be more organised?
Yes, my days overflow into one another, last week's to-do lists often spilling over into next month. I look them over, re-evaluate and promise to attack the neglected tasks with more vigor. I tell myself I can do more if only I'm more organised, more focused, more efficient.. a little more of everything. One of my favorite magazines has a little footer at the bottom of each page, which goes "If you have ten minutes.. do this!" "If you have 20 minutes, do that!" "If you have an hour, you can take in the latest CD/ book/ movie/ inspiring cancer survivor story!"
The latest article I read along these lines was about meal planning- How, if I only plan out the meals for the week ahead beforehand, I can order the ingredients online, pick them up at my local supermarket, and save myself so much time every single day. Of late, my culinary interests have ebbed and waned, but overall I've cared more about what I eat than I ever did before. Conscious choices- Strawberries without the sugar, just pure fruit. Lets try steaming an artichoke today, shall we? Chocolate-orange noodles.. why not? Hands wander over strange vegetables at the store (Ghost pumpkins, anyone?), and new flavors fuse with the familiar to create comfort and excitement in my kitchen.
Why would I want to trade in a lazy Saturday morning of wandering around the stores for meal plans and ten minutes more every day? And by the same token, I could be more organised, so I'd have more time to relax and spend time with people and things I care about- but thats what I usually waste my time on anyway- Lounging around on the sofa watching old movies with A, or rummaging at garage sales for silly funny treasured finds, long after-dinner walks... If I have time enough for these, why be more organised?
Monday, September 22, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Work
To be praised simply for what you are is a strange feeling. Like praising water for liquidity, or fire for burning.
To touch fully that innate quality is the only thing we are taught to strive for- a point where there are no lines between the doer, the object and the observer.
To touch fully that innate quality is the only thing we are taught to strive for- a point where there are no lines between the doer, the object and the observer.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Why would I want to do a thing like that?
Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that?
- John Hodge, Trainspotting
....
Some quotes slide through peripheral thought the first time they go by. And then they come back and stick in my head, nagging until I look them up, and read them ten times over on an idle Saturday morning.
- John Hodge, Trainspotting
....
Some quotes slide through peripheral thought the first time they go by. And then they come back and stick in my head, nagging until I look them up, and read them ten times over on an idle Saturday morning.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Saturday, December 22, 2007
In a world going wrong..
A sixteen-year old is pregnant, and is all over the news- How will you explain this to your children? Will her wacko elder sister be a good influence on the child (which presses the question- the 16 year old child, or the 16 year old's child?)
A fourteen year old girl kills her seven year old sister in a "game" mimicking Mortal Kombat moves. Her slightly older boyfriend claims to be uninvolved, since he was "drinking and watching a movie downstairs".
India's first school shooting- Whoopee.
The news about kids gone bad has been coming in in a steady stream over the past week- It makes me glad I am not a child, old enough to be untroubled by these influences. No matter how good an upbringing one has, the world creeps into a child's mind, and if that mind is innocent and inquisitive, the questions it asks are only more hard-hitting, and the answers more elusive.
So I'm spending this weekend with a five year-old. She chases her elder brother around, and hates being called a "girl" - someone who is less capable of things than he is. She's less concerned with femininity and body image, and more with being seen as an equal by her big brother. She's creative enough to make a snowman with an inch of rapidly melting snow, and not afraid to question her father's authority when he sides with her nanny.
She asks questions- Why is that man always inside his house? Why do I have to fit in with my first grade class and pretend to be unable to read? Why can't I stay home and study like you did?
She is wise and innocent, daring and funny and silly, and the kind of child I ache to meet once more. She does not question the absence of her mother, and trusts her elder brother when she follows him into a neighbour's yard in the middle of the night. Knows he will not hit her or rape her, knows that she can listen to him and things will be fine, mostly.
A rare find- Even the most well-brought up kids today lack that complete innocence and freedom of thought. Street-smart, confident, computer-savvy. But where did the innocence go? Who is telling these children that courage is not having a gun in your hand, but knowing when to use it? That teenage sex is not acceptable unless it is a conscious choice and not peer pressure?
That peer pressure is not a substitute for a brain and a conscience.
Not knowing the answers to those, I chose to spend time with a child who still has those traits. So what if she's a fictional eight-year old who lived in Alabama decades ago? Scout Finch is still far better company than most children (and adults) I've read about lately.
A fourteen year old girl kills her seven year old sister in a "game" mimicking Mortal Kombat moves. Her slightly older boyfriend claims to be uninvolved, since he was "drinking and watching a movie downstairs".
India's first school shooting- Whoopee.
The news about kids gone bad has been coming in in a steady stream over the past week- It makes me glad I am not a child, old enough to be untroubled by these influences. No matter how good an upbringing one has, the world creeps into a child's mind, and if that mind is innocent and inquisitive, the questions it asks are only more hard-hitting, and the answers more elusive.
So I'm spending this weekend with a five year-old. She chases her elder brother around, and hates being called a "girl" - someone who is less capable of things than he is. She's less concerned with femininity and body image, and more with being seen as an equal by her big brother. She's creative enough to make a snowman with an inch of rapidly melting snow, and not afraid to question her father's authority when he sides with her nanny.
She asks questions- Why is that man always inside his house? Why do I have to fit in with my first grade class and pretend to be unable to read? Why can't I stay home and study like you did?
She is wise and innocent, daring and funny and silly, and the kind of child I ache to meet once more. She does not question the absence of her mother, and trusts her elder brother when she follows him into a neighbour's yard in the middle of the night. Knows he will not hit her or rape her, knows that she can listen to him and things will be fine, mostly.
A rare find- Even the most well-brought up kids today lack that complete innocence and freedom of thought. Street-smart, confident, computer-savvy. But where did the innocence go? Who is telling these children that courage is not having a gun in your hand, but knowing when to use it? That teenage sex is not acceptable unless it is a conscious choice and not peer pressure?
That peer pressure is not a substitute for a brain and a conscience.
Not knowing the answers to those, I chose to spend time with a child who still has those traits. So what if she's a fictional eight-year old who lived in Alabama decades ago? Scout Finch is still far better company than most children (and adults) I've read about lately.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Nothing ventured..
More often than not, we "land up" in bad situations- not a choice, but a circumstance.
I didn't ask for this to happen to me.
I don't deserve this.
Life sucks- I hate grad school.
What did I ever do wrong that things had to come to this point?
How much longer must I put up with this before things go back to being normal again?
This is depressing.
After a not-so-great day, I stumbled across this guy- the Coconuter-
http://coconuter.blogspot.com/2004/12/introduction-about.html
To take your life in your hands and toss it to the winds, out of your own choice, your own free will- Immensely courageous, though some might (and probably did) say it's ridiculous. He probably gets more hits off Blogs of Note, but David the Coconuter definitely deserves more than a passing glance.
And another person, in some ways just as courageous-
http://www.usatoday.com/news/offbeat/2005-01-24-robbery-call_x.htm
Both of them left me tonight with the same questions-
What was he thinking?
What pushed him to walk away from his life/ make that phone call?
Did he not know he would need money for his wife and child?/ Did he not know he would get caught?
What did he think was going to happen when he got there/ when he asked her out?
What keeps you going, when life sucks, and you hate grad school? And whatever it is-is it strong enough as the urges of these two men- for a date, for a meaningful life?
I didn't ask for this to happen to me.
I don't deserve this.
Life sucks- I hate grad school.
What did I ever do wrong that things had to come to this point?
How much longer must I put up with this before things go back to being normal again?
This is depressing.
After a not-so-great day, I stumbled across this guy- the Coconuter-
http://coconuter.blogspot.com/2004/12/introduction-about.html
To take your life in your hands and toss it to the winds, out of your own choice, your own free will- Immensely courageous, though some might (and probably did) say it's ridiculous. He probably gets more hits off Blogs of Note, but David the Coconuter definitely deserves more than a passing glance.
And another person, in some ways just as courageous-
http://www.usatoday.com/news/offbeat/2005-01-24-robbery-call_x.htm
Both of them left me tonight with the same questions-
What was he thinking?
What pushed him to walk away from his life/ make that phone call?
Did he not know he would need money for his wife and child?/ Did he not know he would get caught?
What did he think was going to happen when he got there/ when he asked her out?
What keeps you going, when life sucks, and you hate grad school? And whatever it is-is it strong enough as the urges of these two men- for a date, for a meaningful life?
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Debate
If you push me too far into my irritation, I will usually land up too far from whatever insight you are hoping to provide me.
The two of us stand facing each other, and we have come from diametrically opposite directions to this crossroads. If you push me so far back along the road I walked all this while, how am I to see the road you want me to take ahead?
I can only look so far beyond my own feet, so don't drag me to your point of view. I am blind there. I cannot stand in your shoes and see what you see.
They are your shoes, they have walked different roads to come to this point where we stand together. The dust on them is from different memories, different impulses. My heart and mind cannot respond to them.
So speak to me from here, from now. From what we share, what we know together. And maybe we can both walk a few steps forward in the same direction- In our own shoes, you understand, but just for this one understanding, we can share the same path.
And for a few years, we could maybe share this- And someday years from now we will speak from the same place, and share a common point of view.
The two of us stand facing each other, and we have come from diametrically opposite directions to this crossroads. If you push me so far back along the road I walked all this while, how am I to see the road you want me to take ahead?
I can only look so far beyond my own feet, so don't drag me to your point of view. I am blind there. I cannot stand in your shoes and see what you see.
They are your shoes, they have walked different roads to come to this point where we stand together. The dust on them is from different memories, different impulses. My heart and mind cannot respond to them.
So speak to me from here, from now. From what we share, what we know together. And maybe we can both walk a few steps forward in the same direction- In our own shoes, you understand, but just for this one understanding, we can share the same path.
And for a few years, we could maybe share this- And someday years from now we will speak from the same place, and share a common point of view.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Boiling eggs the Nike way
How many ways can you think of to boil an egg? And why would you want to do it in each of those different ways, if your only purpose was to get the egg boiled?
Sometimes, the journey is NOT the destination. If it is, I can understand taking the long scenic route and stopping to admire the sights. But if you're sprinting to a finish line, and hte prize is a grant that covers your next three years of research, DO NOT tell me the scenic route matters. The destination matters.
The most pathetic journey is when you don't know where you're going or why you want to go there, or even how to get there. All you know is that there's cool stuff along the way. Oh, and if you're not at your destination in a month you might as well be dead.
The same goes with science- Find the answer, and it doesn't matter how you got there- whether it was the coolest new method of sequencing DNA off a single bacterium, or you grew 10 liters of culture.
Boil the egg, and your breakfast-eater is happy. Get to the destination, and it doesn't matter what road you take. Do the experiment, and you get your paper published.
Bottom line- Just do it. It doesn't matter how.
Knowing that the means is not the end, if you still choose to think of the coolest means of getting there, what kind of scientist does that make you?
Sometimes, the journey is NOT the destination. If it is, I can understand taking the long scenic route and stopping to admire the sights. But if you're sprinting to a finish line, and hte prize is a grant that covers your next three years of research, DO NOT tell me the scenic route matters. The destination matters.
The most pathetic journey is when you don't know where you're going or why you want to go there, or even how to get there. All you know is that there's cool stuff along the way. Oh, and if you're not at your destination in a month you might as well be dead.
The same goes with science- Find the answer, and it doesn't matter how you got there- whether it was the coolest new method of sequencing DNA off a single bacterium, or you grew 10 liters of culture.
Boil the egg, and your breakfast-eater is happy. Get to the destination, and it doesn't matter what road you take. Do the experiment, and you get your paper published.
Bottom line- Just do it. It doesn't matter how.
Knowing that the means is not the end, if you still choose to think of the coolest means of getting there, what kind of scientist does that make you?
Monday, October 15, 2007
A dream deferred
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
(Langston Hughes)
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
(Langston Hughes)
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Finding grace
Life, at its heart, is most like dancing-
A sense of balance is critical- through all the leaps in the air and the pirouettes, hold your center still and let that core be the source of every dip and bend.
Listen- Move with the music; it might not always be the song you wanted to dance to, but keep moving with the flow, the next track is just a few minutes away.
Feel. Let your every movement stem from the deepest emotion, and never waste a movement, not one finger out of place that was not MEANT to be there.
Smile. Sometimes the smile stems from the simple joy of the movements, and at others, you smile through the pain in every screaming muscle- but smile anyway.
And somewhere at the end of years of practice, you find grace- the center and source of every movement, and the destination of any good dancer. It begins with a sense of balance, and that sureness of movement that comes from extreme self-awareness. Move past the childish flinging of limbs in mindless motion- listen and feel every pulse of the music, even when it is not what you wanted to hear, and still hold yourself in perfect posture.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Today, for a change..
Candles
by Carl Dennis
If on your grandmother's birthday you burn a candle
To honor her memory, you might think of burning an extra
To honor the memory of someone who never met her,
A man who may have come to the town she lived in
Looking for work and never found it.
Picture him taking a stroll one morning,
After a month of grief with the want ads,
To refresh himself in the park before moving on.
Suppose he notices on the gravel path the shards
Of a green glass bottle that your grandmother,
Then still a girl, will be destined to step on
When she wanders barefoot away from her school picnic
If he doesn't stoop down and scoop the mess up
With the want-ad section and carry it to a trash can.
For you to burn a candle for him
You needn't suppose the cut would be a deep one,
Just deep enough to keep her at home
The night of the hay ride when she meets Helen,
Who is soon to become her dearest friend,
Whose brother George, thirty years later,
Helps your grandfather with a loan so his shoe store
Doesn't go under in the Great Depression
And his son, your father, is able to stay in school
Where his love of learning is fanned into flames,
A love he labors, later, to kindle in you.
How grateful you are for your father's efforts
Is shown by the candles you've burned for him.
But today, for a change, why not a candle
For the man whose name is unknown to you?
Take a moment to wonder whether he died at home
With friends and family or alone on the road,
On the look-out for no one to sit at his bedside
And hold his hand, the very hand
It's time for you to imagine holding.
by Carl Dennis
If on your grandmother's birthday you burn a candle
To honor her memory, you might think of burning an extra
To honor the memory of someone who never met her,
A man who may have come to the town she lived in
Looking for work and never found it.
Picture him taking a stroll one morning,
After a month of grief with the want ads,
To refresh himself in the park before moving on.
Suppose he notices on the gravel path the shards
Of a green glass bottle that your grandmother,
Then still a girl, will be destined to step on
When she wanders barefoot away from her school picnic
If he doesn't stoop down and scoop the mess up
With the want-ad section and carry it to a trash can.
For you to burn a candle for him
You needn't suppose the cut would be a deep one,
Just deep enough to keep her at home
The night of the hay ride when she meets Helen,
Who is soon to become her dearest friend,
Whose brother George, thirty years later,
Helps your grandfather with a loan so his shoe store
Doesn't go under in the Great Depression
And his son, your father, is able to stay in school
Where his love of learning is fanned into flames,
A love he labors, later, to kindle in you.
How grateful you are for your father's efforts
Is shown by the candles you've burned for him.
But today, for a change, why not a candle
For the man whose name is unknown to you?
Take a moment to wonder whether he died at home
With friends and family or alone on the road,
On the look-out for no one to sit at his bedside
And hold his hand, the very hand
It's time for you to imagine holding.
Today, for a change.. II
http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/08/30/twins.stabbed.ap/index.html?iref=mpstoryview
If you read that story, light a candle in your mind for the child that lives. For the grandfather that held him as he bled, and the little sister that will not understand where all her brothers went.
If you read that story, light a candle in your mind for the child that lives. For the grandfather that held him as he bled, and the little sister that will not understand where all her brothers went.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Thanks to G.
Lately I've felt an increased sense of urgency about everything in life. Perhaps it has something to do with my ageing-related anxiety- this constant sense of running out of time, "How will I get it all done?" - so sacrifice the sleep, the sense of fun, the simple pleasure of a late night conversation. Get the work done, clean the house, do the laundry, work out, and after it there's a long list of 'important' things that need doing- Strangely (sadly?), a large part of that list is what would once have been FUN. When did I need to start making lists of movies and books to catch up on? When did I need to "find the time" for a long phone call?
Of course, I could attribute it to the current state of my work, or the many deadlines we've had lately. Or just the world in general- This life is so full of care, the standing and staring isn't appreciated anymore. The things I'd like to stare at are usually moving too fast anyway. And if you stand long enough, eventually you'd get run over/ arrested/ shot at/ have chunks torn off your limbs by a giant bird-eating spider. The horrible fate mostly depends on where you stand, but ultimately a horrible fate befalls those that stand anywhere.
Moving targets are usually harder to run over, arrest, etc.
Somewhere in this almost-perpetual rush, I came across a blog post by G., about how patience and complacence are probably equivalent, and are the scariest thing in the world. Once you're complacent, you're old. He LIKES the perpetual rush, the constant burning to see and do the big things- travel and read the "good" books and write things of deep impact, and hopes to be able to live like this all his life.
If you'd asked me ten minutes ago, I might have said the same things. However, G. is someone I choose to disagree with- I dislike him, his views, and most things about him, and will disagree with him just because its him.(I know, I'm a small, petty, intolerant person, but I like it that way!)
I began contradicting, just on principle (The principle being: "I hate him, everything he says is wrong"), and ended up with this-
The difference between patience and complacence- Choice. Patience is caring enough to stand back and wait, complacence is not giving a damn in the first place.
Somehow, a random thought intended to annoy ended up making me respect all the patient people around me so much more. Just the capacity to stand back and hold on- To run fast and hard for something, then stand back and wait for it to get away and come back on its own. Patience needs more courage, more grit and more will than the burning ambition that asks to travel the world and live the good life.
Thanks to G., I understand patience a little better. And the fact that in writing this, I have not been able to think of a single synonym that truly empathises with the meaning of the word only rubs it in deeper, somehow.
No one word to describe that unique combination of deep strength and silent hope that makes up patience- A rare trait, worth holding on to where I find it- and hope some of it rubs off on me :)
Of course, I could attribute it to the current state of my work, or the many deadlines we've had lately. Or just the world in general- This life is so full of care, the standing and staring isn't appreciated anymore. The things I'd like to stare at are usually moving too fast anyway. And if you stand long enough, eventually you'd get run over/ arrested/ shot at/ have chunks torn off your limbs by a giant bird-eating spider. The horrible fate mostly depends on where you stand, but ultimately a horrible fate befalls those that stand anywhere.
Moving targets are usually harder to run over, arrest, etc.
Somewhere in this almost-perpetual rush, I came across a blog post by G., about how patience and complacence are probably equivalent, and are the scariest thing in the world. Once you're complacent, you're old. He LIKES the perpetual rush, the constant burning to see and do the big things- travel and read the "good" books and write things of deep impact, and hopes to be able to live like this all his life.
If you'd asked me ten minutes ago, I might have said the same things. However, G. is someone I choose to disagree with- I dislike him, his views, and most things about him, and will disagree with him just because its him.(I know, I'm a small, petty, intolerant person, but I like it that way!)
I began contradicting, just on principle (The principle being: "I hate him, everything he says is wrong"), and ended up with this-
The difference between patience and complacence- Choice. Patience is caring enough to stand back and wait, complacence is not giving a damn in the first place.
Somehow, a random thought intended to annoy ended up making me respect all the patient people around me so much more. Just the capacity to stand back and hold on- To run fast and hard for something, then stand back and wait for it to get away and come back on its own. Patience needs more courage, more grit and more will than the burning ambition that asks to travel the world and live the good life.
Thanks to G., I understand patience a little better. And the fact that in writing this, I have not been able to think of a single synonym that truly empathises with the meaning of the word only rubs it in deeper, somehow.
No one word to describe that unique combination of deep strength and silent hope that makes up patience- A rare trait, worth holding on to where I find it- and hope some of it rubs off on me :)
Monday, August 13, 2007
Life sucks, and then...?
Beginning on the (supposedly) typical third-year blues of a PhD, I've heard several stories of how to deal with things, and what comes next. Here's a listing, for whoever's interested.
(I guess it goes without saying that I'm sitting in the lab waiting for another experiment to not work.)
1. Alcohol- Works to precipitate RNA and drown your sorrows, both. However, neither of these effects is particularly long-lasting. The RNA will degrade, and you will wake up with a hangover.
2. Keep your head down, mouth shut, and plough through the work. D-uh, I work, the work doesn't. And if it worked, I wouldn't be blue in the first place (I think, since I am no longer sure of anything about my work anymore).
3. Pretend its not happening (PITH). I do this by pretending to be working on the less important aspects of my so-called life, such as looking at jobs for if/when I graduate, paying bills I should never have generated in the first place, and frowning at my computer periodically so it looks like I'm working.
4. PITH-II. Take a vacation- This works, I know. Except that the places I can afford I dont want to go/ have already gone, and I still can't afford the places I couldn't afford when I took vacations to the places I could afford. Oh, and reality just hits harder when I get back from the break.
5. ??????????? This one would definitely work. If only I knew what it was.
As to the "What comes after third year blues/ Does it get better" question, I've had two responses so far-
1. "Oh, don't worry, the third year really is the worst. You know, it feels like you work and work and nothing happens. Then all of a sudden everything falls into place, and its wonderful!"
2. "Third year blues give way to fourth year blues, which give way to fifth year blues. And then (hopefully), unlike me, you'll graduate."
Those were both fifth-year students speaking. After those responses, I didn't bother asking anyone who'd been around longer than that.
(I guess it goes without saying that I'm sitting in the lab waiting for another experiment to not work.)
1. Alcohol- Works to precipitate RNA and drown your sorrows, both. However, neither of these effects is particularly long-lasting. The RNA will degrade, and you will wake up with a hangover.
2. Keep your head down, mouth shut, and plough through the work. D-uh, I work, the work doesn't. And if it worked, I wouldn't be blue in the first place (I think, since I am no longer sure of anything about my work anymore).
3. Pretend its not happening (PITH). I do this by pretending to be working on the less important aspects of my so-called life, such as looking at jobs for if/when I graduate, paying bills I should never have generated in the first place, and frowning at my computer periodically so it looks like I'm working.
4. PITH-II. Take a vacation- This works, I know. Except that the places I can afford I dont want to go/ have already gone, and I still can't afford the places I couldn't afford when I took vacations to the places I could afford. Oh, and reality just hits harder when I get back from the break.
5. ??????????? This one would definitely work. If only I knew what it was.
As to the "What comes after third year blues/ Does it get better" question, I've had two responses so far-
1. "Oh, don't worry, the third year really is the worst. You know, it feels like you work and work and nothing happens. Then all of a sudden everything falls into place, and its wonderful!"
2. "Third year blues give way to fourth year blues, which give way to fifth year blues. And then (hopefully), unlike me, you'll graduate."
Those were both fifth-year students speaking. After those responses, I didn't bother asking anyone who'd been around longer than that.
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