Finally, a picture!

I took the picture above last night, looking out from behind the Gym into Golden Gate Park. It doesn't really capture how ethereal and beautiful the swirling fog was, but it's the best that I could do. It was warm and sunny and summery in Palo Alto, but in San Francisco (and in the mountains) it was cool and foggy (which I guess is "summery" for San Francisco and the mountains, but I still have trouble getting used to that concept).

At class, I learned the "no-hands wheeldown" which would be great except for the fact that the more I roll down, the tighter the silks get around my waist until (after only two turns, lame!) I can't breathe. I asked Monica about that, and I think that it's something with how I'm rolling, but I'm not sure. In the morning, I went to the "intermediate" gymnastics class, and went so far as to do a front handspring. Which I was pretty happy with, especially since I haven't done any tumbling for about a year. Also worked on presses; I can almost do them. My goals for the end of the quarter: a front handspring that isn't a full stop (maybe front handspring into roundoff or something) and a press. It's not a long time, or I would be more ambitious. The coach is chill and friendly, the people are goofy, and in general it's a fun time. The gym is amazing; of course all of the apparati (sp?) (and a full-sized spring floor), but also pits for all of the apparati. Which is awesome for learning new things (front handspring from tumble-track into a pit was not something I was in the least bit afraid of, although if scrambling awkwardly out of said pit looked half as ridiculous as it felt, well, I'm sure I'd make a good clown). Plus it's fun.

Had an interesting conversation yesterday. People were talking about learning to read, and remembering learning to read in the first grade. These were brilliant people -- five PhD students and one tenured faculty member. And they all remembered learning to read in the first grade. They were puzzled why anyone would want to teach a kindergartener how to read; kindergarten, they proclaimed, was about cutting things out and pasting them, play time and naps. I, by some strange quirk of fate or UChicago-educated parents, was reading chapter-books by that time (bad ones; the Oz series mostly, but chapter-books nonetheless). I can't remember a time before I knew how to read; two of my first memories are of trading books with the neighbors, and reading the words to sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" for a talent show (according to my mother, no one believed I could read then, either, but I didn't notice). I remember the librarian in my Maryland elementary school remarking upon my predilection for bad young adult novels when I was in kindergarten -- you don't want to read those, they're boring and they're at a fifth grade reading level. And my response that I knew what I liked and I wanted to read those. (I guess some things never change, I still have a predilection for fluffy young adult novels, although I intersperse them with "literature" which, as I see it, is the same thing but either with a larger vocabulary, more sex, more philosophy or -- if you're really lucky -- better writing.)

I just find it so strange to think about even a five-year-old kid not knowing how to read. All the stories they're missing out on, all the adventures they could be dreaming of that they aren't, because they don't know how to read. I guess part of that is peculiar to me -- I have always been a storyteller (and I still am, even my science I think of as a logic puzzle and a story waiting to be discovered). I define myself by the stories I know and the stories I tell. To me, before I could read, I wasn't really a person in a way; I couldn't access this vast history of human stories. If that makes any sense at all. I'm not sure it does.

Of course, when I said, quietly, that I could read before kindergarten, and that I was reading the Oz novels in kindergarten, my friends' response was (I guess predictably), "Why am I not surprised?"

I told the story of my brother organizing his friends and dividing the labor of writing/drawing/coloring for writer's workshop, to defuse the situation. It's a funny story, and very Kevin. I know only two things that I wrote in the kindergarten, and I remember them only second-hand: first, a confession that I was angry my brother got moved out of the daycare because he threw a temper tantrum, whereas I had no such choice in the matter (it sparked a parent-teacher conference, I think) and second, the treacherously naive statement: "The world would be a better place if Bill Clinton was President."

It wasn't until first grade that I started writing the beginning of the same story every day. But that has lasted for almost seventeen years so far. Maybe one day I'll finish that story; but then I'd have to find a new one, and that would be terrifying.

Photographic Memory

So, I have a camera. I brought it to silks class last night. And foolishly forgot to exchange the standard-installed 32MB SD card for one of my 2GB SD cards. Which means that after about 10 seconds recording the preparation for the cool new drop I learned (Monica calls it the 'mission impossible'), the card was full and no more pictures or videos of Elizabeth. It pretty much looked like 10 seconds of me flailing about midair. So I'm not posting it, much as I'm sure a few of you would get a laugh out of that.

On the other hand, the trick (which I promise to get video of sooner or later) is really wacky, and somewhat terrifying. It's one of those things that you have to train your body to be used to -- on the verge of very painful, and half the neurons in your head firing saying "I should be falling to a concussive death right about now; the only thing that's holding me up is this tenuous knot that I don't trust." Of course, the other half are firing to say "Wait, what the heck do I do next?"

And then there's the moment when you're suspended fifteen-or-so feet up, horizontal, arms as wide as you can, fabric over your shoulders in an impromptu harness, holding on tightly, and paused midair. And then you slowly let the fabric slide through your hands, and you rotate head-over-heels as you sink to the ground. Flip, flip, flip.

And then there's the best moment of all, which is when you land on your feet, shrug the fabrics off of your shoulders, step out of your impromptu harness, and walk (or in my case half-walk half-skip half-trip) away.

So, to those of you to whom I promised pictures, well, maybe next week? I am hopeful. I am more hopeful about taking pictures of the garden this weekend, which will almost certainly happen, 2GB SD card or no.

In other news, I have fabric burns on the backs of my knees. There's this evil, evil climb (called a knee climb?) which if I ever figured out probably wouldn't give me rope burn, but apparently my knees are not strong enough to clamp on to the fabric, and as such they slide, to interesting (and not altogether pleasant) result. Honestly, I can see the choreographic value of the climb -- it keeps the silks separated and you in the middle, which is the starting position for a large number of tricks, and besides it looks fairly cool -- but... ouch.

In other other news, I think I have a strange talent for remembering lots of random details about a person but not their name. I ran into a post-doc by the coffee machine today (strange only because it's the Pathology coffee machine and we're both Geneticists), and she said hi, and "I think I remember you from the retreat," and I responded, "Oh, I remember you, you're in so-and-so's lab, you're a post doc, and you presented in CIG this fall."

Of course, I couldn't for the life of me remember what her name was. Score one for creepy!Elizabeth. I guess it's better than one alternative -- which is, remember absolutely nothing about anyone, rather like my father -- but I'd sort of like to remember people's names every now and again. Maybe I should write them down, like flashcards. If I work really hard at it, I could become good at remembering people's names. I wasn't too terrible when coaching, although there were definitely a couple of kids who got the worse for it. But that's how I am, I guess -- I'll remember that your second cousin from Missouri's new husband does R&D for GM, but I won't remember that your name is Jim.

She asked how the rotations were going, I told her they were going quite well, and that it just came down to choosing a lab -- and that I was a bit nervous to do so. She said to choose based on the relationship with the PI over the science, because the science is good at pretty much any lab here, and having a good mentoring relationship with the PI can make or break a PhD. Which I sort of agree with, and I sort of already knew, and my "problem" is not really a problem so much as a surplus of good choices -- two out of my three rotations have been interesting projects, with good and accessible mentors, in friendly labs that I could get along with. A couple of the more significant differences between them have recently dissolved, as well. So that's awesome, because they dissolved in the 'potential downside disappearing' way instead of the 'potential upside disappearing' way, but it means there are fewer clear-cut differentiators to make my decision on.

What even makes a good PhD lab? I've heard everything from "The science. The science will sustain you." to "The environment; good environments lead to good science, bad environments lead to burn-outs and misery." I think it's probably somewhere in between, especially someplace like where I am, where everyone is doing "good science", and the question becomes more what is personally interesting to me. But that's never been much of a guide, since "what is personally interesting to me" has always been a terribly broad category (at least I've gotten out of the 'a' word careers: I will be neither an Acrobat nor an Author, or perhaps I will be both but neither as a profession).

I went to a talk on Wednesday, and the majority of each of the three labs I rotated in was present. The talk was very good, and very interesting, and the fact that all three labs I rotated in were there was a demonstration of one thing: even though I have interests in a wide variety of areas, I have narrowed it down in terms of what I want to study. (Of course, narrowing it down to something like "Chromatin Regulation" doesn't say very much; what aspect of chromatin?) I guess I just need to start drawing up a flow chart, full of positives and negatives, and really thinking seriously about the choice I'm faced with. Talk to people outside of any of the labs; they will most likely have advice. Because general subject won't get me anywhere and managerial style or size of the lab will only get me so far. Any suggestions?

Inspired, interestingly enough, by the word "Crepuscular" (the world might be worth a whole story, but I don't have a main character, an antagonist, or a plot (yet?). On the other hand, it might be too similar to something I've already written.)

The clouds had been designed to reverse global warming. At first, everyone rejoiced as the temperature dropped, children running out in the rain after an oppressive summer day. The inventors of the miraculous technology were made Nobel Laureates – for peace, no less. I saw the old newspaper headlines: “The Climate Change Dragon Slain”; “Man Triumphs Over Nature.”

But the clouds kept growing.

Grandmother says there used to be hot, sunburnt summer days, when you had to shield yourself from the bright light, and golden sunsets as the sun gradually crept beneath the horizon. But now, everything is gray, and cold.

Started (and finished) Pride and Prejudice and Zombies this weekend; I highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys Pride and Prejudice, Zombies, or both. The first line is undoubtedly my favorite:

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.

I think it's most people's favorite as well, because that is a truly wonderful first line.

Round one of the Genetics v. Biochemistry Olympiad was Friday (challenge: Trivial Pursuit). I am proud to report that even though the Biochemists had a ringer in the form of one Journalism student (notably not a Biochemist!) the Geneticists were victorious! It was as close as could be -- we won on the tie-breaker, by a single question. And some of the questions (in particular the one about Timbuktu) I should have known and didn't. Next year, we will be even better!

Round two (next Friday) is Rock Band; I have hopes, but not particularly high ones, since I have only ever played Rock Band with the Biochemists (and I am one of the worse players at said game). On the other hand, since there is no clear competitive mode, perhaps any victory or defeat will be debatable.

In other news, I have not yet killed the plants I planted (hooray!) and Rose Season has begun, this time in earnest -- in that twice a week (at least) I have to go out and cut roses from the bushes outside my apartment. I have a vase sitting full on the table and I am sure that by Wednesday I will have another vase's worth of roses and nowhere to put them (my apartment is rather small). I guess I shall bring some into lab, and give them to friends. I gave most of the ones I cut Saturday to my neighbors (their response to my cutting the roses: "Well at least someone cares about the landscaping!"), and then when I left the apartment today there were even more blooms than I had cut (in my defense, I cut almost a dozen and a half) looking about ready to be cut. Wow. On the upside: roses! On the downside: so many roses!

Also, I set up my first fly crosses this week! It was truly exciting. Hopefully they are very fecund, as insects tend to be. Have I mentioned that I feel like a real geneticist now that I'm doing fly genetics? Because I do. It's like... everything I was doing before was fake genetics; half molecular biology and half genetics. On the downside, there is not so much computer/statistical work to do in my current rotation, and it was one of the things that I have liked the best about my first two quarters. I'm not sure exactly how I could do computer stuff in my current rotation, but perhaps I'll find a way. And at least I have a class that demands programming every week. (Hooray for image processing!)

At silks class, someone came in to practice for a show; she was doing an aerial loop bungee act on roller skates. As in, she was on roller skates, climbing and securing herself in various impromptu harnesses from a loop of strapping attached to a movable point with bungees. Someone else was pulling the movable point up and down to make her bounce. She would move outwards in increasingly large circles, and spin and twist. It looked like just about the most fun thing ever, and I was almost certain that if I tried it I would break my ankle. Perhaps even without the roller skates. But it might have been worth it. Wow.

On a more personal front, I did a wheel down from the very top of the fabrics and got out of it, and moved into another trick. It doesn't sound like much when I say it that way, but I was very proud of myself. Also, I learned/relearned a move called the "elevator", with a tee-shirt this time, so I didn't get more rope burns on my armpits. It was much more enjoyable without the burning pain!

Genetics has a summer softball team, and practices start on Tuesday. I need to get a glove!

The seder went off without a hitch. Lots of delicious food, and enough people that they ate almost all of it. Which was happy because everyone was goofy and happy and well fed, but sad because I did not have much by way of leftovers for the rest of the week. Also, they are still talking about the matzo ball soup. (Which I thought could have been much better; I used a funky recipe for matzo balls with lots of parsley in it, and the leaves did nothing for the texture. Next year, back to the cayenne-spiked matzo balls. Also, more liquid for the brisket, which was well-flavored and not tough but not so tender it fell apart on my fork. They ate all but one slice, which amounted to more than half a pound of meat for everyone eating it, so it couldn't have been too bad). I didn't pull off my crazy afikomen idea, either, and given the size of my apartment and the number of people searching (very small, and 11, respectively) it would be the only way to make the search last any significant length of time at all. I did fool them, however, on where I had put it -- it was not in the first place which anyone looked.

July 20th is the 40th anniversary of man walking on the moon, as well as being Biff and Alex's birthday; they are going to have a Moon Party -- first, moonbounce in the form of a room full of trampolines (my favorite is the "all trampoline walls"), and second, in the form of a two-room party in which one is decorated to look like the moon, and the other to look like Mission Control. Upon entering Mission Control, you would have to put on a white, collared, short sleeved, buttoned shirt, with a thin black tie. Possibly also be handed a slide-rule. I'm getting plastic fishbowls and decorating them ala astronaut helmets for the two birthday boys, as my present to them. I also put in a vote for the moon room having "Ground Control to Major Tom" and maybe a few other space-themed songs on a short loop. It will be awesome.

Much else has happened, but those are the principle things.

Good deeds, roses, and lemonade

I gardened today! Went to the store to get drought-resistant plants (they remembered me! Asked me how I was settling into the area. I was shocked, and quite pleased. I guess they don't get many customers on bikes, and that would make me memorable? Also I went in just about three weeks in a row to get books + research + supplies and finally plants.) Pulled up all the weeds I had let grow over the winter (eek!), applied pesticides to and turned over the proper soil (in preparation for tomatoes, basil, and possibly another herb) and planted flowers (iris and geranium) in the two clay pots. If the iris and geranium are bigger in three weeks or so, I'll plant tomatoes + herbs. The weeds were these low-lying, mostly water (hence grows faster?) plants that smelled vaguely of honeysuckle and had big lily-pad like leaves. They covered everything. It was really quite impressive. My goal for next winter: Do not let them take over my garden. My goal for the next three weeks: water the plants twice weekly. I haven't taken up the strawberries, and I should pinch off the flowers until June if I want them to produce more fruit, but they look pretty pitiful and so I'm not sure what to do. I really can't have strawberries next to tomatoes (tomatoes harbor a fungus that kills strawberries), but I think my strawberries are dying of said fungus anyway, so... yeah. I have to think. I have a big raised bed, which I'd like to turn into a kitchen garden, but I know I need to start small, or I'll just do nothing at all.

I was on such a roll from pulling out weeds that when I finished cleaning the back, and packing them up, and watering my plants, I checked on the roses on the common walk. The land lord does all of nothing to take care of them (it seems), so there were (already?!) all these rose hips. I cut off as many as I could reach without drawing blood; hopefully more roses will bloom. And I took one mostly-gone rose, and a bud, for myself, because they are pretty. But seriously, this rose bush was more like a rose tree than a bush. It was kind of absurd getting the blooms from them, because I had to pull them down from the roof. Maybe it'll be a project for this winter to actually prune it (they say, for places without true winters, to prune in December and January, and for people with true winters to prune in early spring -- it's late for either case; drat! Also, I do not know if I have a true winter or not -- that sounds like something to ask the people in the gardening store). I would feel a little bit strange about doing it, and would probably want to talk to the landlord first, but... seriously; you can't hardly see the blooms because they are above the roof. Sheesh. I consider what I did a good deed for my neighbors, because now we can share many more roses. Hopefully. I wonder if the landlord waters the roses. I wonder if my hose stretches far enough. My hunch: not, on both counts. They only take about an inch of water a week, so maybe I could go back and forth with the watering can. Hmm. (Since it will likely not even drizzle again until September at the earliest, this bears thinking about.)

Anyway, now I have washed all the dirt from my knees and hands, put the rose + bud in water in a wine bottle, and am drinking lemonade. (I made two glasses. I will drink both.) There is something very satisfying about a day spent outside, planting and tending things. It is more concrete than the typically intellectual problems which I face on a day-to-day basis. Plus, I don't have to do in on a daily basis, which makes it much more fun, by definition.

This week: preparing for the seder! I will likely be cooking eight pounds of meat. The reality of that just hit me. Huh.

A productive morning

I missed the post on Boingboing last week entitled "Marx Was Right", which I find mostly amusing because it's the same oversimplified worldview that I told my P.I. in the fall (to which she responded "You sound just like my husband"). But Marx's theory seems more and more relevant as time goes on, or rather does not seem less relevant as time goes on, at least to me. Of course, whether it leads to a worker's paradise or a paternalist authoritarian state is harder to tell. Also, unsurprisingly, the boingboing comments are 2/3 inane drivel (along the lines of either "Marx was a fascist!" or "Marx was righter than Adam Smith!"), 1/4 trolling, 1/12 moderators chastising the commenters, and 1/12 actually insightful. Actually, maybe a little bit more inane drivel there, and a little bit less insightful. But you get the picture.

One of the actually potentially insightful comments brought up socialism in Scandanavia, and why it seems to work so well there. Which in turn led to this wikipedia entry, which sort of confirms my view that in societies in which individualism is prized, Socialism has a harder time getting a foothold and it would be neary impossible to work on a large scale, whereas in societies in which the collective is prized over the individual, Socialism is almost workable: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jante_Law. Of course, that's an oversimplification too, and basically comes down to the idea that "Well, if everyone believes in Socialism, it'll work", and the drawbacks on an economic system based on collective belief (fantasy?) can be shown pretty clearly by the current economic collapse.

In any case, a few more wikipedia articles later, I happened upon the trailer for 2081, a movie based on the short story "Harrison Bergeron" by Kurt Vonnegut, which I am now very excited for: http://www.finallyequal.com/. It looks very cool, although trailers usually do.

... now if I could just get my apartment cleaned like I meant to do to begin with. (oops).

Yesterday's Drabble

Why even pretend anymore? I didn't post this because I am lazy and distractable.

Nothing reminds me of my childhood as much as the song of the mourning dove: Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo. Doves were as common as crows and noisier in the twilight hours. It always sounded not like a mournful wail but a lonely whistle – there were birds in my parents’ backyard that cried like children, but the mourning dove was the sound of wind through a flute; empty, sweet, and alone.

Now, its longing call, through the gray mist of memory, reminds me that I am no longer a child.

Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo; you have left.

Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo; you can never go back.

Coo-ee-coo-coo-coo; it is gone.

I have discovered that I cannot write my short story without reading some more Sherlock Holmes mysteries, and possibly that I should read Frankenstein, The Island of Dr Moreau, and The Moonstone as well. This whole trying-a-different-style thing is interesting. And non-trivial. Next step: download an anthology onto the Kindle.

So, it will be a while (especially when the next quarter starts and, again, I drop off the face of the planet).

Drabble: This time, with the same number of words.

I know immediately the flowers aren’t for me. No one sends me flowers. The only occasion upon which I have ever received a bouquet was my twenty-first birthday; a bottle of champagne nestled in a small yellow, white and pink arrangement. When someone wants to please me – when I need to cheer myself up - a used book store is a better bet. So the vase squatting at my doorstep cannot be mine.

But I don’t know who, or where, the rightful recipient is, and so I indulge in a brief, harmless fantasy.

And throw away the card, strangely guilty.

There's another one in my head. Perhaps that one will be tomorrow! Or perhaps (gasp) I'll actually write a full-out short story. I have the recipe for one: a first line, a premise, and an idea for a plot.

OMG Bioperl!

So, I've been doing a lot of thinking and have not had much time to actually put any of that thought into action. I have two short stories that I swear I'll sit down and write... sometime. I'm thinking spring break, which fortunately enough starts oh-so-soon (by which I mean, basically, Tuesday).

BUT, what I have been doing is programming in Perl. Specifically, bending those wanton BioPerl modules to my will. And I am (fairly ridiculously) proud of the output, so you all get to see it. I think it's pretty darn beautiful, if I do say so myself. Once I figured out how to print anything in an image, the rest of it was fairly straightforward (surprisingly, since it took me basically a full day to find a server I could run my script on and get it to print anything even close to what I wanted). The overlay at the bottom took me quite a bit of puzzling to figure out, because online there were three tutorials that described ways to do it (none of which worked, of course), and because the parts of BioPerl that our instructor even vaguely went over were all "here's how you download a sequence" and "here's how you find enzyme digest sites on that sequence" and not "here's how you output a picture".

Next quarter: Computer Analysis of Biological Images, in Java! I will learn how to deal with the data I was getting last year; all those pictures of nuclei I dreamed about. And given that my favorite parts of this quarter have been learning Perl, I think it's fitting that I'm now taking a class in Java. I'm pretty excited, but I predict that my friends will not be in that class, since they (by and large) did not enjoy Perl nearly as much as I did. Which is sad. *sigh*

Continuity

Today was a beautiful April day, and my neighbors were complaining about how bad the weather was -- oh my gosh, clouds in the sky. The fact that it is still February is not lost on me. I'm sort of amazed. I feel like I'm halfway through spring quarter already, and winter quarter isn't even over. It's pretty wonderful that a warm Saturday sitting outside and reading a new book (Last Watch; so happy it's out, so sad the series will be over) can make everything -- absolutely everything -- feel happy. Even a book about (possibly?) Armageddon.

I got to thinking, however, about my NaNoWriMo piece. It's fairly interesting, because I feel like I have too many characters that aren't important enough. In many instances this is a small deal and fixable (swapping out one new character for a reappearance of an old character, for example), but it's somewhat interesting to me because one of the main characters in this story is entirely new, which doesn't jive so much with it being a sequel and all. Of course, I like the character too much to do away with him entirely, but it got me to thinking, and my sense is that in order for the later story to flow the way I want it to, I need to edit the earlier story to make it more sequel-able. Since when writing the first one I was not thinking "You know what this needs? A sequel."

A good example that everyone knows about -- in book one of Harry Potter, Hagrid borrows Sirius Black's motorbike. It's a throwaway reference that no one pays attention to, and doesn't stand out particularly, but it introduces at least a name so that when Sirius becomes a main character in book 3, readers aren't up in arms saying "If Sirius was James' best friend, where was he the night that James died?" The character isn't really developed until book 3, but he exists in the world as of book 1. (Of course, Remus and Peter aren't mentioned, but the fact that one of them was makes the other two more believable, somehow; mentioning all three would have been overdoing it.)

My problem is that, since I first set out to only write one story, those references are conspicuously absent. I don't mention a character just for kicks, or on the off-chance that I would be writing a sequel. Most of the new characters in the piece I wrote in November I hadn't even thought of when I was writing the first story. So there are characters that logically should have been present in some of the events I describe in the first story, and aren't mentioned. Places and things that should have made an appearance, and didn't. Because I hadn't thought of them. Nothing contradictory, necessarily, but just strange -- the long lost brother or sister who is never mentioned until he conspicuously shows up. So I want to rewrite the first one, to add those elements -- nothing big, but enough to make it not seem strange that I'm bringing up these characters, places, and things in the second one. Also maybe change some names (that's a separate issue). But I know that I don't have the time to make the second one readable and the first one better at the same time. (I barely have enough time to get the second one readable on any sort of schedule). So I'm just sort of puzzling about what to do. The obvious solution, of course, being to go back and change the first one when I'm through with the second one. Which I might do. We'll see.

Andrew Bird!

Concert was last night. It was awesome. My brother's (and my) only disappointment was that he did not play "Not a Robot but a Ghost" from his latest album. But that's not much of a complaint, and those older songs that he did he did in new ways. ("Why" -- which I want to choreograph a silks act to as soon as I get good enough to do so, and a song titled "The Water Jet Cilice" but which I call "Serendipity" instead). He's very... affable on stage. And the crowd sort of just sways to the music, in part because it's not dance music so much. And by far the best part of his concerts, in my opinion, is that they don't sound like his albums. Which means that even if I can't see a thing because there are all of these tall people standing right in front of me, I still get a different experience than just listening to my mp3 player. (other than the tall people standing right in front of me, the smoky bar, and the volume)

He had the audience sing a part of "Tables and Chairs" -- instead of playing the melody on his violin and looping it, he just sort of held out his hands like a conductor and hoped that people would pick up. My brother and I did, of course (I always sing along with the violin at that part anyway), but I think much of the audience was sort of mystified. In part because he plays with rhythm so much in his concerts (less so in his albums) that even if you wanted to sing along with the vocals, it would be nigh impossible. And in part because instead of something like "You guys sing the chorus!" he instead said "You guys sing the melody to the instrumental interlude!" (actually, he didn't even say anything; he just stopped playing and singing and pretended to conduct us. I think it would have been cool in a really strange, eerie way if no one had sung at all -- just gone silent right then, and he's conducting, but there's no noise).

Also, some woman shouted out, about halfway through the concert, "We love you Andrew, welcome to San Fran... (cisco)". To which one guy standing near me responded: "You're not from around here, are you?" Because yeah; no one in the bay area calls San Francisco "San Fran". It's "San Francisco" or "SF" or "The City". Or, if there are some people, they're very rare. I can, of course, understand why she didn't want to shout San Francisco (it's rather long) or "The City" (it's rather vague). And maybe she just moved here, or something.

And we got free posters! Mine will be up on my wall as soon as I figure out where I want to put it. Possibly in the kitchen.

A plot, to go with my idea:

Thought this up last night. I'm pretty pleased; it's very goofy. Might post a rough draft up here, when/if I write it:

Imagine a world in which digital clocks really caught on; so that no one used analog clocks or watches anymore. In this world, because time appears to be quantized and discrete, peoples' perceptions of the world change fundamentally. Also, since velocity and thereby motion is based on limits and continuity, in a world with no continuous time motion becomes illusory -- you still think that you're moving, but really you're jumping from (stationary) place to (stationary) place in very small leaps. Basically, in this world, motion (and hence progress) is an illusion ala Xeno's paradox of the arrow.

This wouldn't be an issue, but it means that conceptually, this world is stalled out circa 1990. And so my hero will go back in time (using a tea kettle; you knew it was coming) and destroy (or ridicule) the digital watch in order to save continuity and progress.

An Idea

A very goofy idea, in fact. Perhaps two, in the form of a conversation, because that's how they came to me.

"You've heard of time dilation?"
"It sounds familiar."
"It's the idea -- if you move fast enough, time moves differently. So you can go faster, and depending on how fast you go, you either move forward or backward in time."
"Is that the idea?"
"No -- everyone is working on that, just like everyone is working on wormholes. Everyone and their prehistoric ape cousin. But there are plenty of other ideas. For example; what if you stop moving?"
"What?"
"Time dilation; it works with acceleration, basically. But what if you slow down? Or stop?"
"You mean, like just sit around all day?"
"No! Even if I don't move a muscle, I'm still moving; the planet is spinning on its axis and traveling around the sun, and that in turn is torquing through the galaxy. And every molecule, every atom, every subatomic particle in my body is flitting around even faster than the earth is moving through the universe. I can't stop; can't break the inertia, can't go lower than ground state, but what if I could? If I could stop moving..."
"The world would move without you?"
"Time would move without me."
"So, you'd be taken to the future."
"Perhaps. Even if I was, I'd be floating out, who knows where relative to the Earth's place in the expanding Universe. And I might not travel at all; I might just spontaneously decompose into dust."
"Is that what you're studying? How to do it safely?"
"Heh. Not quite. I'm studying tea kettles."
"Tea kettles?"
"Well, and pasta pots. Containers for heating and boiling water, basically."
"Um. What does that have to do with time travel?"
"Haven't you heard the phrase, 'A watched pot never boils'?"

Literature

So, one of my Stanford friends is turning twenty-three soon, and to celebrate (I think this will become a birthday tradition) we had a ladies' brunch and watched a Chick Flick. Since this was the first time, we started with the paradigm: Pride and Prejudice. While three out of four of us knew the story incredibly well, the remaining woman had not seen, nor read, nor heard told, the story. (She thought that it was "A love story between a white woman and a black man in the deep south." I kid you not. Personally, I thought that Pride and Prejudice was required reading for every twelve year old girl, but I must be wrong).

Now, while this created problems when the three of us had to bite our tongues to stop the words "The perfidious Wickham!" from coming out of our mouths the first time he was on screen (and come on, you have to admit that perfidious is a very, very fun word to say), what was most remarkable about watching this movie with this woman was that she didn't like Mr. Darcy. It is usually a safe bet that any woman watching Pride and Prejudice will, by the end of the story, like Mr. Darcy. But my friend's response to the comment of "Man, Mr. Darcy is awesome," was not affirmation, and not even denial, but staunch disbelief. She argued that he could not have existed in Victorian England, and she much preferred works like "The Awakening" (which, as far as I can tell, follows roughly the same plot as Anna Karenina).

I don't really want to spend much time here picking apart that argument -- but it seemed to me that she was operating under several inaccuracies which she stalwartly did not accept: mostly, she assumed that Georgian England (i.e. the time of Pride and Prejudice) was the same as Victorian England. In fact, "The Awakening" was written in 1899, and "Pride and Prejudice" in 1813, and as such comparing the two eras as being synchronous is, in fact, roughly equivalent to drawing the same parallel between the aforementioned late Victorian era (circa 1900) and the mid 1980s.

The Georgian era was marked by social upheaval, unrest, and as tends to go hand-in-hand, relative social freedom. The other authors one associates with Austen (Bronte, Eliot) are also Victorians and, once again, not her actual contemporaries. On the other hand, the most famous novelist of the time was Walter Scott, who certainly had strong female characters. The most famous writer? Lord Byron (hah). And a few other well known personages who were actually Austen's contemporaries were, wait for it: Casanova, and the Marquis de Sade. I mean, I have trouble thinking that the era which gave us Casanova, Don Juan, and sadism was also known for its repressive social norms. The late Georgian period showed a lessening in restrictions in everything from class (trade and industry were becoming respectable) to undergarments, and those restrictions subsequently tightened right back up in the Victorian era. And although I told her several times that Pride and Prejudice was not Victorian but earlier, and that social mores were actually much less strict in Georgian/Regency society than they were in Victorian culture, she resolutely refused to believe me, and went on and on about how Elizabeth obviously should have killed herself because Darcy wouldn't actually fall in love with a liberated woman, being a product of Victorian society.

Why does that bother me? I mean, yes, it is one of my favorite books, but why should it matter to me what she thinks of it? Or if her opinions are legitimate or founded on false assumptions? Would I have found it easier to deal with if she had compared to an actual contemporary of Austen's, instead of someone writing some eighty years after her death? (And what would she have compared it to, Ivanhoe, which is itself historical fiction? Don Juan? Justine? That would have been a good one -- Darcy is not realistic because he is neither as depraved as de Sade, nor as womanizing as Don Juan.) But why should I care if my friend prefers Queen Victoria to Casanova? (Even if I find that rather odd?)

Except that wasn't entirely what she was saying -- instead, she was implying that Jane Austen failed at what Jane Austen was perhaps best at (creating realistic, three-dimensional, and compelling characters). She was saying Darcy wasn't realistic. Which rankles with me, because I think the strength of Austen's writing is in her characters. Not just the main characters, but even the very characters she satirizes: Mr. Collins, Lady Catherine, Lydia, and Mr and Mrs. Bennet. To say that even Mr. Darcy was unrealistic and impossible, and especially basing that statement on the social mores of the time (which I am fairly certain Jane Austen understood better than my biochemist friend), strikes me as the kind of ridiculous stubborn vanity as would make her, well, more akin to Lady Catherine than any other character in the movie we watched. And that is the sort of baseless condescension which I really dislike.

Still Alive

I have been writing, lately. But I feel like I have been writing the same thing over and over again, and the thing I have been writing has not been particularly interesting. So until I have an idea with some (albeit small, I have few enough illusions on that count) degree of originality, I'm forbearing from posting. I would not want to become that crazy emo whiner who writes the same immature poem over and over, with slightly different cadence (second verse same as the first a little bit louder a little bit worse).

However, things have been happening. (Happening!)

First (and most interesting): I went to the Jonathan Coulton Concert, which was amazing. I had a ton of fun, I ran into Yitz and some other Chicago people there. It was awesome! And JoCo (and Paul and Storm) signed my Half-Pony Half-Monkey Monster. Unfortunately, I did not have a camera and Yitz only had his cameraphone, so photographs are blurry. This one is my favorite:



Second: Saturday is the Edwardian Ball. I am working on my headpiece for the costume; the rest I scrounged up. So it is not as cool as potentially could be, but it's something, and it's already paid for, and it allows me to go to the Ball with impunity and observe the costumes there for ideas for next year. Krystal and Ruth are pretty much demanding photos, so I am borrowing a camera this time and they will be forthcoming. Hopefully the social dancing there will be in part swing (or salsa), since I am not terrible at those. Or (and perhaps moreso) hopefully someone there will be willing to give me a crash course in waltzing. After all, I cannot be 22 and not know how to waltz.

Third: My friends here are all into the dressing-up-sexily-and-going-to-dance-parties scene. Which is not really my scene, or has not been in the past. I am trying to get them into the costumes-and-doing-wacky-stunts scene, which is much more my kind of scene. But so far it has been wacky-stunts-when-Elizabeth-demands-and-otherwise-not. Caltrain dance is turning into something halfway in between (in part due to the choice of "Bye Bye Bye" as the song). But, you know, I have to be willing to meet them halfway. And choreography for that is... well... it's almost coming. I know half of one verse, and Krystal knows two thirds of that. So I should work on that, or put more energy into it, if I want it to actually happen. Otherwise, it'll be events like "Scantily clad night" and "Stoplight party", and Elizabeth feeling awkward in a little scrap of clothing while everyone else gets hit on by random (or not so random?) guys. And since I apparently have little or no choice in those two events anyway, I need to find outfits for them. Scantily clad night, of course, seems to be more "popping out of our attire night" than the former, so that will be much easier said than done for someone with as few curves as myself.

Fourth: Week two of Stanford Aerial Fabrics was much better than week one of Stanford Aerial Fabrics. I am basically playing TA, which is okay with me, and I was able to mess around a little bit at the end (and I sprinkled a few fun tricks throughout when no one else wanted to climb). And at San Fransisco Aerial Fabrics, I was informed that I could probably do five pull-ups all by myself. I am still dubious, but part of me is now eager to try. It's been so long since I could do more than one, and that with swinging to make it easier. But I am also stronger than I've been in a while. In other news, I can do a wheel-down now with some degree of smoothness! It's this move. Of course, I'm still slow, because doing it smoothly and quickly requires huge amounts of core strength and body control (you have to stay perfectly straight + hollow while pivoting around your waist). But Tuesday and Wednesday for the first time I was able to do it without being totally terrible. I need to get another leotard; that trick has a wonderful way of getting any shirt you wear stuck in it. Hooray!

Fifth: Rock climbing is more fun when you try to do routes; without that it presents not nearly the challenge of otherwise. On the other hand, routes tend to be designed with 6 foot guys in mind, and not five-foot girls. Which makes reaching things much more difficult. No, challenging.

Escapism in Literature

This is a response to an ongoing discussion on Duff's blog about fantastical literature and television and why we like it better (in exclusion of?) realistic stuff.

I can see two reasons for this, one personal and one artistic (aesthetic?). Personally, I spend all day reading papers that endeavor to precisely and accurately describe the workings of the world around us. I find some of them fascinating and exciting and wonderful, for their ideas and (very occasionally) for their precise style. Mostly for their ideas, though. I look at the world around me through a biologist's lens, and specifically through a geneticist's lens, and that's okay. It's better than okay. When I read fiction, (and when I write fiction), however, I do not do it to understand the world around me or express my views thereupon. At least, not with precision and accuracy. For me, that's what science does, what (good) anthropology does, what sociology does. But more and more, that's what science does. [Aside: There's a great line from Stoppard's latest play, where an aging Communist is going on about materialism and physicalism and the fact that we're all just very comlex automata, that we are our bodies, and his wife (who is dying of cancer) yells at him that her body is killing her and she needs to believe that there is more. She demands that he love her with something more than the body-as-mind-as-machine, and he replies, "But that's all that I have." Which pretty much just sums it up.] But basically, all day every day I strive for accuracy, and in my free time and in my recreation I want, instead, hyperbole. (And if it's hyperbole we're going for, then Duff's comment that Austen somehow gets around his need for fantasy makes sense to me.)

The second reason is a more aesthetic choice on my part, because I agree that, to a certain extent, elements of the fantastic, or the hyperbolic, are in most of the works of fiction I would describe as the "best" works of fiction. I think that if we want something that accurately and precisely details real-life situations, it behooves us to read nonfiction. After all, the most accurate fascimiles of real-life are going to be straight-up nonfiction accounts. Memoirs and autobiographies, perhaps, in order to get into the emotional state of the main character. Point being that the strength of fiction is that you can describe things that never happened -- and hence things that could not, ever, happen. Every single work of fiction, when it really comes down to it, no matter how realistic, is, at base, a fantasy. Someone dreamed it up. And as such, I appreciate works of fiction that embrace this fact and turn it to their strength -- works of fiction that use the ability for hyperbole and fantastical elements, those which put themselves into the world of this-could-never-happen from the world of this-never-happened, and those which force us to look at the world we live in differently because of the fantasy and hyperbole they employ. I could go on all day about examples, because there are thousands upon thousands. One of my favorites, though (and the one that comes to mind immediately) is what Rushdie does in "The Enchantress of Florence". There is one thread of fantasy that runs through the story, and it is the magic of storytelling and creation. Through the hyperbole -- the Mughal Emperor creates two wives, one through his imagination alone and one through his imagination with the help of a storyteller -- we are forced to look at storytelling and creativity in a different way, and through the potency of the second wife (who becomes a part of the collective imagination and not just that of the Emperor) we are forced to think about the physical power of ideas. Sure, someone could write (most likely has written) an essay or a non-fiction account about the power of ideas and the act of creativity as creation (and in terms of realistic fiction with this theme, I could make an argument for "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolfe" I think?), but with the hyperbole -- the emperor actually creates a /physical human being/ out of his imagination -- it stands in stronger contrast, and whereas "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolfe" left me with the feeling that this ability of humans to latch onto an idea and make it true (or as true as it can get) is a weakness that feeds into our need for societal approbation and our hypocrisy: that creation through ideas is essentially false and we are weak for falling for it; "The Enchantress of Florence" left me with the feeling that creativity was humankind's greatest strength. (Of course, that might very well have absolutely nothing to do with the form and absolutely everything to do with the writers.)

One final thing that Duff said -- "Yet for some reason, when I open the pages of some literary review, all the novels the critics rave about are precisely [realist works]. I think it has to do with the existential and narcissistic glorification of those critics, as they are reading about themselves."

I think you maybe have a point, but even if that is the case it is not the whole story. No critic would say that the authors you named are less than stellar. Nor would they say that about any one of a number of other truly fantastical writers. "Time Traveller's Wife" is a good example of a critically acclaimed new book that was deeply fantastical at base. As is Rushdie's latest, as is "The Adventures of Kavaleir and Klay" (sp?). On television, "Pushing Daisies" is hugely critically acclaimed -- but people aren't watching it, and so it is being cancelled. Critics are treating graphic novels with respect these days, and so saying that fantastical literature is not being taken seriously is I think somewhat disingenuous. It is entirely possible, instead, that the predominance of critically acclaimed realist versus fantastical literature has as much to do with what is being published, and what is being written, as what is being critiqued. Perhaps there is just more realist literature than fantastical, and as a result more good realist literature and more critically acclaimed realist literature.

Treasure (Scavenger) Hunt!

So I'm tipsy and keyed up and incapable of sleep for a little while longer, after just about twelve hours of planning for and seeing out my treasure hunt party. If I do say so myself, it went splendidly. Chlymate, the god of California Weather, smiled down upon the proceedings; it was something like 70 degrees and sunny out today, which was wonderful. It was also convenient since we were almost all outside, and it ended up taking about twice as long as I thought it would. A good time was had by all, however, so I cannot complain by any means. Highlights:

1) Unrelated, but the check-out guy at the grocery store this morning read my name off of my receipt (which I am still not used to, and it really disconcerts me, but I think they're instructed to do so for everyone with the special discount card -- I knew I should not have gotten it) and commented that it was both good and Irish. My response (standard in said situations): "Yeah, it'd be even better if I were Irish."

2) Waiting for people to show at the second location; we (Biff and I) knew people were at the first, having seen them go there. But no one was showing up. So we called them, and they said they were waiting for us. Us: "We're not going there. There's a clue in the vicinity."

Some thirty seconds later, there's a huge stampede of people. Apparently they all ran en masse into the library, cracking the librarian up. I can only imagine.

3) Discovering that the last clue, to a bus route, was impossible: either the bus route does not exist or it does not run on weekends. I had to go to the library, print off a hastily worded and poorly thought out clue, and substitute it in for the final clue for every team, all the while hoping that no one saw me so I wouldn't give away the location of any of the clues.

4) The text messages I received from Alex (L.) about the clues: "Is this supposed to be possible?" and "[That] was a great clue."

5) Running into The A Team (eventual winners) just after they had figured out possibly the hardest clue in the hunt, and running with them to the location.

6) Accidentally calling Alex K. when I meant to call Alex L. to give a hint. Me: "I hear you need an origin." Him: "What?" Me: "What clue are you on?" Him: "Clue? What?" Me: "Oh, shit. I'm sorry. I have the wrong Alex." There are three Alexes in my phone book; it gets confusing. This is made only more awkward by the fact that even when I figured out I had the wrong Alex, I was not certain which wrong Alex I had. Oops.

7) Their apparent reaction to one clue, which was about 2 stories up on a wall: "Could Elizabeth climb that? Of course Elizabeth could climb that. But would she expect us to?" I didn't; there were stairs right behind it. And even if I likely could climb it, I would not have wanted to.

8) The look on everyone's face when they saw the (ghetto) trophy I had made this afternoon, complete with lemonade-jug top, tinfoil covering, and hand inscription of their names (I added that part after I found out who won, of course).

9) How close it ended up being. It all came down, in the end, to the last clue. While not great for certain reasons (such as the fact that the clue was both too obvious and too vague), it was great for competition's sake. Up until the last clue, I thought for sure The Red Team (the Geneticists) were going to win. They were way ahead. But they couldn't find the last clue, which allowed them to be overtaken by The A Team (half of the Biochemists).

I think I'd like to take part in one of these; to be honest, while I greatly enjoyed planning it and putting it on, I think the excitement of figuring out the clues and the competitive aspect of it would be really fun too. Then again, that means someone else would have to organize it. I hope I can trust Alex L. to do so -- he said he wanted to start thinking of clues. The best situation, of course, would be to organize some and participate in some. I'll keep my fingers crossed.

Next extravaganza: Choreographed Dance at the Caltrain Station. I'm making this my baby, although arguably the next extravaganza I'm attending is either the JoCo concert next week or the Edwardian Ball in two weeks. There are also other plans that will likely come to fruition before the Caltrain Dance, but it's the next on my horizon because it will take more energy and more organization. After all, we need as many people as possible, as well as a couple rehearsals so people know what they're doing.

I'm Sorry, Chicago,

But San Francisco is my new favorite city ever.

You would still be in the running if you had something like this to spice up the mid-winter doldrums: www.edwardianball.com. I mean, You actually have midwinter doldrums badly in need of spicing. But do You warm up with a ridiculously wonderful celebration of costume, music, art, dance, steampunk, and circus? Not as far as I know.

Now if I could only convince my cohort to dress up, and buy tickets, and accompany me, it would be awesome! I am loath to take the Caltrain late at night, alone, in faux-victorian garb. Although I will if I have to.

Succubus

Inspired by It's four A.M. and I have work tomorrow but I have friends in Palo Alto and Playing Rock Band > Sleeping. I can almost do drums now!

“Have you looked at problem two?” Shelley asked.

“That’s easy,” Joanna chirped. “You just have to remember to account for phase; but otherwise it’s a simple pedigree.”

Shelley paused and stared at the eye-crossingly complicated pedigree. “What?” Joanna opened her mouth again, but Shelley held up a finger. “Last week you were as bad at this as me. Have you done nothing but study?”

“Oh. Er. I slept with the TA.”

“You cheated?”

“No, just slept with him. We didn’t talk science.”

Shelley blinked. “I was… unaware that’s how it worked.”

“Really? Huh. That’s how it’s always been for me.”

Adrenaline Rush

Inspired by the word "Yegg", which means a safe-cracker. The continuation of the story would be, they hide, are not found, and steal nothing. I would have included that but I haven't figured out how they hide yet and it would likely have pushed it over 100 words.

“You said we wouldn’t be doing anything illegal!”

“I never said that. I said we wouldn’t be doing anything we couldn’t reasonably explain to the police.”

I stared at him. “And how would you reasonably explain this?” An alarm went off. “Because it appears you’ll get your chance.”

“I needed to get something out of the vault,” he answered calmly, and there was a crack as the lock broke and the door swung open on well oiled hinges. He stepped inside. “Calm down and get in here.”

He grinned winningly. “Life’s no fun without a bit of excitement,” he said.

Honesty and a good opening sentence

I have not been writing drabbles, because I have been playing Final Fantasy VII and revising my November's novel. This has taken up all of my time. Or at least, close to it. The rest has been taken up with wondering why I bother revising if I'm just writing for myself, and in fact why I bother posting anything online if I'm just writing for myself, and with the question of whether anyone can truly "just write for themselves" or if the very act of writing something down implies an audience. None of it matters, not really, but it's an interesting question and has got me thinking. Because the fact of the matter is that if I am posting things online, I must want people to read them. But I am too averse to self-promotion to advertise to my friends "Go here! Read this! I wrote it in November and I am proud!" and as such I feel like what I really want out of the internet is not simply a place where people will read, but where people will read anonymously. My acquaintances will not judge me for writing fluff if they never see the fluff that I write. Meanwhile someone, at least, is reading it. Hopefully. And my friends, well, my friends know me well enough to forgive my tendency to revel in fluff. Hopefully.

Also, a carton of schoolbooks finally found its way here from Chicago, so I am reunited with my Durkheim. Let the collective effervescence begin? (Weber was in the first batch, and I think I gave Marx away. I could make some comment here about the importance of the Protestant Ethic in getting through graduate school, and the importance of free sharing in Communism, but I won't. So there.)

And a drabble, because, well, I wrote one. Inspired by the word "Xanthous".

Suzie was not a coward. It wasn’t cowardly to know which battles could be won and which couldn’t. It wasn’t cowardly to choose your fights.

It wasn’t even cowardly, her mother had told her, to be frightened, and to scream, when the threat warranted. And Suzie was not frightened, and she hadn’t screamed.

“This isn’t something I’ll fight.”

“You’d rather just give up?”

“I’d rather move on. I’m leaving.”

“You can’t just leave because she said some nasty things!”

“I can’t just listen to her either!”

“She’d back down if you stood your ground.”

“I can’t,” Suzie said, and left.