the setting is everything

Last night it rained. It was cold, and it rained.
My car sheltered me from the rain and the heat of the engine kept me warm from the cold. My phone was locked in the car’s trunk. And a Schubert piano sonata mused me as I parked the car.
8 minutes after parking I found myself still sitting in the driver’s seat. Car on, music on, rain still falling. It was beautiful – the warmth, the peaceful procession of raindrops on the windshield, and the warm glow of the streetlamp. Everything came together to provide the perfect backdrop for the full enjoyment of Schubert.
Now, imagine if I were trying to listen to Schubert in the cold. Or the wet. Or the rain. Ummm, DISTRACTING! Or what if I were to talk on the phone while trying to distinguish subdominant notes from the dominant key of Trout Quintet? My brain, at least would be confused. And dissatisfied.
So, for the full enjoyment and full benefit of a particular activity, that activity must be the predominant or only activity that the brain has to process. And the setting must compliment --not clash with-- that activity.
So stop watching TV while trying to read my blog. You won’t get the message.

john the meter butler

SLOW DOWN! he says.
i was hurrying alongside a line of parked cars at 430 in the afternoon.
abidingly, i slowed down. i turned my head, and i looked at the dark short man as he smiled to reveal three lonely teeth illuminating a dark dark mouth. his smile suggested good intentions but his hands grasped bad intentions. so i stopped to see what he had to say.
I DON’T WANT YOU TO TRIP. AND NO WORRIES, I WONT GIVE YOU A TICKET.
okay, i replied. but my car isn’t parked here.
JUST TO SHOW YOU THAT I WON'T GIVE YOU A TICKET, I’LL EVEN WALK YOU TO YOUR CAR.
but it’s not parked here, i’m just in a hurry.
he started walking with me. ‘great!’ i thought to myself. ‘now i have to make idle conversation!’ ‘and i’m already late for where i need to be.’
ARE YOU A STUDENT HERE?, and he pointed up the hill to my school.
yes. –hey! i have a question for you. do you have to fill a ticketing quota each month?
NAH. NAH MAN. NO QUOTA. THIS IS THE BEST JOB I’VE EVER HAD. I’M ABOUT READY TO BUY A NEW CAR, GET MY TEETH FIXED. PAY’S GOOD.
so if you don’t have to fill a quota, do you get incentives for writing a certain number of tickets each month?
NAH, LISTEN. YOU COMING BACK THIS WAY?
so at the end of the month, when you’ve given 1,000 tickets, you’re not rewarded for it?
OH. YEAH. HOW YOU THINK I'M GONNA BUY MY NEW TEETH? PAY’S GOOD. BUT I WON’T GIVE YOU A TICKET.
my car’s not parked here.

how fish fall in love

Guppy didn’t like me when we first met. But then, he’s fairly picky when it comes to choosing a mate. His opinion on me was that I swam too fast, ate all the flake food given to us by ‘the hand’, and flaunted the under part of my fin to too many other guppies. Hmpf.

Over time, I showed Guppy with subtle, elaborate, and blatant means, that I like him. I looked him directly in the eye when we released bubbles with each other. I smiled and pursed my mouth to show my delight at his presence. When he showed interest in swimming in circles, I showed a similar interest (but ended up swimming much faster than he – though don’t tell him I told you). On days that his pigmentation was particularly bright, I complimented him. And when he had a bad day, I empathized with him or gave him a big hug.

All in all, I have to say, the seduction of Guppy worked quite well. He now yearns to swim in my circles. He’s always trying to look under my fin. And when we’re alone in the tank together…we speak poetically to one another: about why we swim in circles, why we blow bubbles, why the bacteria in the tank smell, and why he likes me so much. It’s so nice.

the Law of Diminishing Returns

Over the past year, I have found it increasingly difficult to design and implement experiments. I am a student in the 5th year of a PhD program studying Hepatitis delta virus RNA editing, and frankly, my research fervor is waning. Why is this? And how could I go about waxing my scientific ingenuity?

A friend recently introduced me to the concept of diminishing returns. She spoke of it in an economic sense, but flavored the explanation with the sweetness of strawberries. She proposed: You eat one piece of strawberry pie. It tastes good and satisfies your sugar craving, right? What about if you eat two pieces? Does this second piece further satisfy your craving? The third piece? Fourth? Fifth? According to the law of diminishing returns, more input (i.e. # of pie pieces) results in less output (pie satiation).

Here, I have taken the liberty of applying the law of diminishing returns to my waning intellectual satisfaction in grad school. When I first started in the PhD program, knowledge acquisition in classes, clubs, lectures, and through individual mentorship both exhilarated and titillated my intellectual eagerness. Midway through the program my synapses tired but I was able to relieve my ennui by embracing teaching. And now, as I am faced with the same stimuli as four years prior, I am gaining less and less satisfaction from a typical day at the lab. My mind is bored. And I need an escape.

So let’s look at our pie example for a solution to decreased satisfaction. How can one avoid jading on a fourth piece of pie? Can it be made enticing by replacing the strawberries with cherries or apples, or by serving it with a glass of milk? Likewise, could the last year of a PhD be made more exciting by adding new classes or by implementing new variations on the scientific theme?

In my case, I am convinced that I need a new flavor of pie. I like strawberry pie but the fruit seeds get caught in my teeth. Science still drives me but I need an escape from test tubes and lab coats. So now the question becomes: what new variable should be introduced to cure my intellectual boredom?

If there was only an economic concept to determine this…

sas

i like to think in shorthand. it's easier on my brain. i can remember more things this way...because the things i remember are more compact. for example: a tortilla with hummus and arugula. = arugahummadilla. say it. it's got a ring. and you won't forget it.

another example: swisau. for this, i know what you're thinking - i get it all the time. you're thinking of food, of a dish from the local chinese restaurant. you're thinking pork and maybe sweetsour sauce. but you're wrong.

instead, think complete relaxation. a lure on cold days. soothing on any day. cold. hot. tense. loose.
swisau. shorthand for swim, then sauna.

Shorthand, Arugahummadilla, and Swisau. SAS - try them. stat.

where the door only opens one way

Dingy yellow lights
Illuminate drip patterned stains of pale yellow, gray, brown
On cold cement and cinder cream walls.
The smell that comes with wearing a pair of jeans 7 days too many permeates the air.
Clinking, chattering, and coughing next door.
But I am alone.
There is no window, no handle on my door.
And I stare at the ceiling. At the dingy yellow lights.

church and trash

At times, I partake in certain activities only because doing them has been deemed socially as the ‘right’ thing to do.
One such instance: attending church.
Once, about two years ago, I went to church on Easter Sunday. It seemed like the right thing to do – visit a place that commemorates Jesus’ resurrection on a holiday thus designed. Everyone good goes to church on Easter. And I didn’t want to do wrong.
…The experience turned out to be bittersweet. Sweet because everyone in church was extremely friendly. --doling out honey-kissed smiles and sun-warmed handshakes. Bitter because no one seemed to know why they were there. It was scary. They chanted what they had memorized and repeated verses following the priest’s lead. But what baffled me is that no one seemed to consciously understand what he or she was saying. What they said was merely ritual. Maybe the conscious understanding of the chants was at one time mindfully processed. But why continue to repeat something that has already been understood?*

Another (recurring) instance: recycling.
I recycle. I am not exactly sure why except for the reason given to me by environmentalists: doing so saves the planet. Well to that I say, “Oh yeah?!”
I’ve been faithful to the cause for a long while now, mindlessly recycling because it is the ‘right’ thing to do. But recently I have been in a state of questioning. Does all this recycling, reducing, and reusing really actually slow the effects of global warming? Shouldn’t I be sure that all of my efforts to save the world are warranted? And, as the economist Steven Landsburg questions, is it the sacrifical ritual of recycling that I and declared environmentalists crave, or do we recycle because of our genuine concern for its consequences?*

Think.


...
*With these thoughts of skepticism, I am in no way trying to denounce faith or environmentalism, I am merely trying question why people do what they do. Insightful, humorous, and vengeful comments are greatly appreciated.

judging grocers

I purchased groceries at Trader Joe’s the other day, buying what I usually buy: tandoori naan, chocolate covered pretzels and, ummmm, around six bottles of wine. When I got up to the cashier station I found a very pleasant man waiting to scan my groceries. He was exuberant. Lively. Talkative. –like all Trader Joe’s employees.

I enjoyed his gregarious nature. I barely had to talk. Just listen. Listen and stand and stare. Stand and stare and think. Stare and think. Think.

I wondered: do grocers judge customers based on what they buy? With my balanced diet of bread, sugar, and alcohol, did the grocer label me as a health food junkie? What would he think if I had bought 10 heads of cabbage and 3 cans of lentil soup? That I’m fighting constipation?

I had to ask the cashier: “Do you form an opinion on people based on what groceries they buy?” The man smiled shyly and looked down. So I smiled in return, “I’ll take that as a yes.” I paused, then, “What’s the most interesting grocery personality you’ve met?”

He hesitated and smiled. The smile grew as he thought. Then he leaned in toward me, “Once, this lady…around 60 years old. She bought 12 gallons of milk. And 12 cans of salmon. She wore a beaten up sweatshirt patterned with embroidered cats. It was covered in hairs. That lady, I knew her story. Not much to figure out. I was blazened by her thematic approach to life.”

I had so much to comment on with his statement. So much to comment on. Everything but what I eventually said. I asked if blazened was a word. Then I walked home. And I judged his judging on the way.

Why I blog:

Have you ever been trapped in a box? A small box: measuring about 3 feet tall and 3 feet wide. And you were packed in so snugly, so tightly, that you rolled yourself into a ball and contorted your neck in so many 45-degree angles that your head just barely wedged itself into the only available corner. Packaging tape sealed the bulging seams; no air intruded or escaped. Have you ever been trapped in a box this tight?
Well, neither have I – at least not literally.
Although, at times in my life, my mind feels trapped in this way. Unable to move, to breathe, to loosen, or to express. Something prohibits it from communicating. The box does. The box barricades my thoughts from entering the minds of others. It is a metaphysical social detachment that’s origins and presence I cannot explain.
It is partially the face-to-face conversations that occur too fast to convey even slightly complex thoughts. Thoughts that wonder, that explain, and that feel.
Writing on a blog breaks me from the bounds of the tight and tightly packaged box. I deliberate on and materialize my ideas, and I free my mind from social exclusion by posting with confidence to the world (or at least to my three readers). And with such a communicative form, I am able to express, explain, and elaborate on thoughts that would previously be lost in the box’s interface. My mind then feels liberated, learned, cleansed, and at peace.
And I am no longer trapped in a box.

maddening me

Where is my red, dark, dark, red, dark paint? My fat, bristles-awry, paintbrush? My canvas?

The red goes on sloppy and fast. I deliberate about what, about whom, enraged me. The thoughts cause me to work faster, with more exaggeration. More convulsively.

The large paint strokes scream. The red furrows like my brow. The clumps of paint are confusions.

The process is relieving. Relaxing, in a ravenous, gulping&spewing of air kind of way.

Finished, I feel relieved. And I am no longer mad. The feelings are out there. The rage is gone. And I forget why I was mad in the first place. Exhausted. Drained. With such a fruitful and futile confrontation.

when does life need a soundtrack?

I sat in a window seat to one side of the plane’s wing. The earphones to my ipod were nestled snugly in the center crater of my ears. And I sat comfortably but stolid as Madonna’s ‘Erotica’ pumped into my auditory canal. The plane was about to take off, and I had this (wonder of an) album playing as my departure soundtrack.
Rome was amazing. More than I could have imagined. And I am not yet sure what I can contribute its allure to. … the people that I traveled with, the quaint nature of the neighborhood restaurants, or the city’s intense history and extensive column displays (see photo). Or all of the above? ...And it wasn’t clear at the time but now, looking back, I know that there isn't a song in the world that could express or enhance the excitement, the enjoyment jitters, or the extra hops involuntarily added to my steps, as I breathed in Rome.
While still taxiing around the airport runway, an AirFrance stewardess kindly but sternly asked me to please ‘éteignez votre artifice électronique’. Grudgingly, I turned off Erotica. I was angry. I had to sit in silence!?! I had to do absolutely nothing until we were at 20,000 feet? That could end up being, like, 5 whole minutes!
Out of sheer boredom, I glanced out of the window. As the plane lightly bounced off Italian ground, I stared out of the window. And as we got higher and higher, I couldn't take me eyes off the view from out of the window. The emotions I felt as I looked down upon the world on which we live was beyond beautiful. I had tingles in my spine. I had an extra beat to my heart. I had excitement flowing through my blood.
Erotica would have doused my inner fire.
…Not necessarily because Erotica was cool for only 2 months in 1992 but rather because no album in the world could have heightened my emotional foray with earth’s simplistic beauty.
Now don’t get me wrong, I do think that some parts of life benefit from a soundtrack. But there are others that are beautiful enough on their own to warrant your brain's full attention.
Are there any parts of your life that can play soundtrack-free?

superfluous possessive's

I do not claim to be a grammatical master. Nor do I think that I am the mac-daddy at placing punctuation marks in their proper context. However, I do know a little about the use of apostrophe's and I am bothered by their misuse. I recently found out (thank you d.a.d.) that the use of apostrophe's does not, for the most part, follow a consensus rule across time, geography, or demographic's. But regardless of what the world as a whole thinks, I am here today to convince you that possessive's and contraction's should use apostrophe's while plural's should not.
Sometimes I read. I read to enjoy. I read to understand. And I understand thanks to the guide of symbol's – quotation's, comma's, apostrophe's, etc – that the author employ's to tell his/her story. Through this code, I am able to come as close as possible to the true meaning of the written work. When a writer misuse's a symbol – for instance, an apostrophe – I find myself stumbling over the true meaning of what is being stated.
Let me give you some examples of good and bad uses of apostrophe's:
I am currently reading a book by Tim O’Brien; this author uses apostrophe's like a rock star. On page 10 of ‘The Things They Carried’, he writes: “…and crawl in headfirst with a flashlight and Lieutenant Cross’s .45 caliber pistol.” Obviously, the .45 belongs to Cross. And I know this because of the possessive use of an apostrophe.
Now, let’s look at the photo above. The cookie-packaging editor's correctly made Nana’s possessive. But what about No’s? Does something belong to No? Is No’s short for ‘No is’? I am confused!!! My only reasoning for the superfluous apostrophe is that the editor's at Nanas were on a sugar high from all the non-refined sugars they consumed and became seriously apostrophe-happy. Maybe they thought that their consumer's would think they were eating nitrous oxide (nos) if they left an apostrophe out. Or that they forgot the e in nose. Who know's?
I do realize I am going out on a limb here…because maybe this apostrophe should be there for some unknown reason that I can’t find through a google search. But even if it is, its misuse has confused the hell out of me. So please, practice modesty with your apostrophe use. And in doing so, you won't have to read anal blog posts such as this.

tire to slab slam

As I enjoyed an asiago cheese bagel outside an outdoor strip mall café over the weekend, I observed as drivers maneuvered into and out of their parking spaces. In this newly paved parking lot adjacent to the pavilioned tables at which I dined, I noticed, somewhat disturbingly, that for many people, pulling into a parking space is quite the spastic, jolting, and exhilarating experience. For one man in particular (left photo, above), parking his black expanse of a car culminates in a very jolting crash landing. As I bit into my bagel and startlingly into my lower lip, I witnessed this gray haired driver whip his car into his chosen parking spot at a 45 degree angle. He slammed into the concrete slab at the head of the spot clocking 10, possibly 15 mph on his speedometer. Wow! I said to my dining companion. That’s all I could say at that moment. Wow.
I reasoned that this man was old and couldn’t remember where to find his brake pedal. Or maybe he considers the concrete slabs as a way to conserve his brake pads? Either way, it turns out that many other people practice the same stopping ritual. Out of 17 cars in the parking lot, at least 5 had one wheel or both smothering the concrete (right photo, above). That’s 30% of drivers, boys and girls.
Now, this probably doesn’t seem like a big deal to most people. But what if one of these concrete slabs was stolen one day (by aliens, teenagers, or small elves, for example)? Customers that were used to having the luxury of a concrete brake pad would assume that it was still there when they went to park. We can all see how this could be bad. Goodbye café diners. Goodbye storefront. Goodbye tables and chairs.
So, please think twice next time you accelerate into a parking space. …I just wouldn’t want anyone to die before they got a chance to finish their asiago cheese bagel.

planning ahead

eating fish at a certain burmese restaurant in dc’s chinatown is not something that can be done on a whim. in fact, as the menu explicitly spells out, you must order fish a full day before you plan on dining there. is the restaurant serious? do you or does anyone know what they are going to want to eat the day before they dine? i certainly don’t. i barely even know what i am craving at the moment i am about to put a forkful of food in my mouth.

for a very long time, i considered myself a planner. i knew what i would be doing the next day, two weeks later, and even three years in the future. it was great. i was in control of my life. everything was set in place.
unfortunately though, i realized about a year ago that planning far in advance only works when there are no other people and/or variables associated with the plans. i also discovered at that moment that planning for the future took me away from the present day; my brain’s frontal lobe kidnapped me from 'the now' and hid me in 'the later'.

eager to be freed from the constraints of future dreams, i employed a shiny, pointy sewing pin, and on a warm and august morning, i punctured right through my frontal lobe. a deluge of plans gushed from the white matter of my brain and with it, flowed my ability to control impulsivity.

since then, i have been living blissfully in the moment. i have no idea what i will be doing in an hour, or what i will be doing this weekend, or even what i will be doing when i graduate. i feel free! i feel unrestrained! i feel...

shit! truthfully, i feel lost. i don't know where i am going. i don't know what i want to do when i finish school. i don't know anything.

does this mean that i will never go anywhere? that i will stay in a stagnant pool with breeding mosquitos?


dwight d. eisenhower once said: plans are nothing; planning is everything.

...in my loose interpretation of his quote, i suppose he is saying that planning is great...but you can't be disappointed when the plans don't work out. so, with that being said, i will make plans tomorrow to have fish on friday. and i will make plans on friday to ______ when i graduate.

find a penny. pick it up. all day long...

…you’ll have good luck. right?!?

i’ve actually repeated this process many times in my life. and to tell you the truth, i’ve been incredibly disappointed each and every time as i wait for my day’s luck to come. it never does. even though i wait and wait and wait.

my idea of luck is to have something extraordinary happen to me. something wonderful, unexpected. for instance, i would be incredibly satisfied if at some point during the day that i found a penny, i stumbled into a huge ice cream truck overflowing with soft, smooth, and slightly sinfully sweet cream. and while i slurped up every spoonful of silky sensuousness, a comedian would whisper side splitting epigrams in my left ear. that would be a lucky day.

unfortunately, it seems to me that the days i pick up pennies are no different than any other day.

so, at first, i came to the unsupported conclusion that i was not picking up the right kind of pennies. i.e., they were made in an unlucky year, they were tails up, or they had tarnished to the point that the lucky juices could not penetrate from within the heart of the penny and into my bloodstream.

now and recently, i have convinced myself that luck is relative…and surprisingly but quite rationally, not determined by a chance penny sighting. i no longer rely on pennies for luck. in fact, i no longer rely on luck at all. instead i am taking a rational approach to life. boring, but it has worked for the last 20 hours.

i do realize and respect, however, that some people are still very excited when they find a penny…especially if it’s heads up. for these people, i hope that their fantasies do not include dairy dessert truck alliterations, or witty comedians…because, rationally, lets face it…this combo does not exist. i'd bet one hundred and three pennies on this, for that is how many failed luck attempts i have had in the last year.

oh, and i left the last penny i found on a brick pillar next to reservoir road (see far right photo). 2002 was a good year... so if you find it, pick it up, and all day long you'll have good luck. if you're into that kind of thing.

clusterfuck

ICK uck daddy long
can you count the many legs?
so many ick UCK

sole mates

shoe choice. your selection is determined by when, where, and how intensely you search. it's also abstractly based on more subjective criteria…such as your initial attraction to the pair of shoes, how they compliment your personality, their level of comfort, and finally, their sustainability.

everyone has sole mates out there. but WHERE? are they at your local Wal-mart, at Modell’s, at Neiman Marcus? are they delivered to your doorstep? --where you look for shoes will definitely affect which ones you pick to add to your wardrobe.

another factor that contributes to finding shoe companionship is WHEN you search for a new pair. do you shop when you feel sad? do you go to the store with confidence and determination? how about when there is a sale, or when the new designs are released? both mood and the ever-changing availability of shoes affects what you come home with at the end of the day.

and the INTENSITY of your search definitely affects the quality of the shoe you finally find yourself with. going shopping with a strong intensity, that includes exhaustive and comprehensive searching, might end in a different choice than approaching the search with weak intensity. in fact, one or both levels of intensity might result in no new shoes at all.

at first glance, it seems like there are an infinite number of shoes to pick from in the world -- and many that you might find yourself compatible with on one level or another. however, once you narrow down the selection to those that you encounter in your lifetime, the pool becomes much smaller. when it comes down to it, it seems that one has to pick the pair of shoes that fits the most snugly at any given time and then, as and if they begin to hurt, apply band aids and/or remove them for brief intervals.

a very important aspect of choosing shoes that you must steer away from, however, is choosing those that are already on someone’s feet. if you took them, you would only be kicking yourself in the end.

a bum theory on panhandling

over the past few months i have noticed a new and growing trend around georgetown: the street corners are becoming more and more packed with what i refer to as 'white collar panhandlers'. that's right, these people are upper-crust bums, boys and girls. they don't look or smell like the traditional bums we all know and love - park bench smears of monotone brown that radiate BO from all of their 2,435,986 bodily glands. instead, they shower daily, wear (relatively) clean clothes, know how to spell, and have probably never spent a night on a park bench in their lives.

it seems, from the vantage point of a car, that clean clothes and well crafted signs are all these white collar panhandlers have to offer. traditional bums (i.e. smears of brown BO) are often witty and tell jokes or ask you to 'smiiiile darlin', just smiiiile' (anyone who has walked down M street will understand this reference). others play an instrument. or do a tap dance. or... something/anything to justify their pleads. but these new bums offer only a pathetic look of misery and a droopy, slouched gait. and they expect donations?!?! i don't know about you, but i'm not giving my shinny pennies to this loathsome act of despair. or i didn't. until i needed one to speak:

it was a steamy summer evening and i took the long route home from the lab. i caught a red light at the corner of canal and reservoir in my psoriasis-vulgaris-inflicted '95 Volkswagen golf. my favorite bum was working. a girl.
i wanted to liven up a fairly monotonous day, so i rolled down my window and motioned to her with two quick flicks of the wrist...come hither. she came, and i probed. "are you really homeless?" her answer: _______frown_______. i figured she was holding out for money so i put two Vermont state quarters in her cup. she raised one disapproving eyebrow and i doubled my ante. modestly satisfied, she responded, "yes, currently i am homeless" "currently?!?! what is that supposed to mean? do you mean, since 10 o'clock this morning when you rolled out of bed...you've been homeless since then? because i'm a fairly observant gal, and you definitely weren't wearing that same top the last time i saw you on the corner." "i have a backpack of clothes that i keep in the woods where i sleep" she said in defense. "so if you're living in the woods, where do you shower?" i asked. "that's none of your business." "hmmmf" retorts i. "i'll give you twenty dollars if you'll admit to me that you're not really homeless and that you and your friends that frequent this corner are scamming scammers!" hooooooooonk. honk. hoooonk. the motorists behind me were getting antsy because the light had just turned green. "tell me you're not homeless and the twenty is yours." hoooonk. honk. honk. she was reaching for the twenty. you could see the desire in her eyes. but she said nothing. she looked to the ground with her famous look of despair, hunched her back, and dropped her outstretched arm. i sped off.

her words (or lack of them) disagreed with her actions and my question remains unanswered. so now i turn to all of you. if you happen to see any white collar bums around g-town, please roll down your window, offer a twenty...no wait, offer two twenties and ask the question that these 20th century bums fear. i'll reimburse you double your cost...just be sure to ask me for it with a smile...and maybe a tapdance!

headhunting

1012 = ?!

steganography. the art of conveying hidden messages such that only the intended recipient understands the meaning and existence of the message.


i was recently the recipient of such a message. the other night when i uncorked a bottle of wine, i found that the cork conveyed a message - 1012. of course, many of you are probably thinking that this is just a date stamp or a factory code, but that is because you were not the intended recipient of this message (nannynannybooboo). i am absolutely certain that this message was meant for me, and that i am the wine company's link to the outside. i am to convey this message, translated, to the people of the world.

for all you readers out there that have no idea what 1012 means, it is the position in the hepatitis delta virus (HDV) genome that is edited by human ADAR1. the heart of my thesis research beats around this site, 1012! and there is a wine company out there that knows this.

but what message is this wine company trying to convey to me? is there HDV replicating in the wine they produce? is this wine meant to be imbibed only by people that have HDV replicating in their liver - maybe as a therapeutic?
i can't even begin to guess. but i am sure that this message was meant for me, and that this is the first of many messages to come. i will continue to buy wine from this company. i will buy it and i will continue to translate their communications. one soused day soon, i will be privy to the ingenious of this wine company.

and my dear readers, you will be the second to know their musings!

zen in the art of chocolate chip-cashew-coconut cookie eating

I pile two, three, sometimes up to five cookies onto a sparsely patterned white paper towel that drapes delicately atop a corner-set triangular kitchen table. I pour a generous volume of ice-cold milk into a clear glass. Immediately, dewdrops perspire on the periphery of the glass, as warm summer air spills through an open window.

I sit down.

The walls in front of me are blank. The air behind and around me is still. My ears are at rest.

My fingertips are the first to experience the jumble of chocolate, cashew, and coconut in front of me. Titilated by the many textures - soft, rigid, coarse - my hand gladly shuttles a cookie to my mouth. A cashew collides with my bottom lip. Slightly salty. More slightly sweet. I bite, and I chew - slowly. Eyes closed. Mind open.

The homogenous medley of brown sugar, cinnamon, and molasses ricochet off of one another. Reverberated by the crunch of a cashew. Intensified by sweet toasted coconut. Made ethereal by dark velvety chocolate.

I'm at peace.

........................

zen. it is the art of being present. of having the mind focused on what it is actively doing... at peace with what is happening right now! it is not eating cookies while cleaning the stove. it is not eating while painting. and it is not eating cookies while writing a blog. ...shit.

i was in the zen of cookie eating at least once in my life... and i do recommend it!

lauging to myself

a few evenings ago i thought about starting a whole new blog that would feature photos of obscure juxtapositions, bizarre ironies, and mocking hyperboles. i would call this blog, 'laughing to myself', since i often find myself smirking, smiling, or outright snickering when i encounter such situational comedies. the specific incidence that sparked this idea occurred while concomitantly stir frying leftovers and cleaning out my freezer.
i like to freeze to preserve many things. this ensures that, if a time came when i would like to enjoy that thing again, it would merely need to be thawed and boom -it would be back as good as new...hopefully. among the things i like to freeze are chocolate and goldfish. jan, the goldfish in the photo above, was flash frozen about two months ago. he was one of my favorite fish - he swam with enthusiasm, ate the vegetables that i couldnt bear to face, and never ever had a string of dangling poo. so i decided that instead of leaving him to be eaten by the angry cichlids in the tank, i would preserve him for a time when no other fish in his swimming proximity were on the attack.
unfortunately, however, when i took him out of the freezer to defrost and to bounce back to normalcy, he thawed as planned but did not regain the spunk i once admired from him. i shed a tear...and a sob, then put on my recall cap. (thinking back, i should have slowly coaxed his cells into hibernation by feeding him a 10% glycerol solution instead of throwing him straight into the freezer and straight into a state of shock). next time i will plan more carefully.
fortunately for me, but not for jan, i was able to find humor in the situation. call it morbid. call it callous. but i found myself smiling when i positioned my favorite goldfish on a plate next to my stir fry ingredients.
although i have decided not to devote an entire blog to internal laughter, i thought it was warranted to devote at least one entry to the topic. do you ever laugh to yourself? what situations cause your cavernous cackles? hopefully your encounters aren't quite as sinister as the example i just purported.
tactfully, i've decided to thaw the chocolate next time i'm cleaning my freezer.

pickers anonymous

hi. my name is sarah and i dead-end lilies. i've been picking withered flowers for most of my life now. i can't remember when it started...or even the last time i walked by a lily patch without having the urge to pick. the overwhelming impulse has ruined the last couple of weeks of my walks to work. you see, there's this long row of day lilies along the route to work, and every morning i get delayed by picking the dead lilies off their stiff stems. and as i am picking i usually wonder, 'why didn't God arrange to have these past-prime flowers fall as soon as they finished being beautiful?' He could have saved me a lot of trouble if i didn't have to play clean-up every morning.
but in the end, i have to say that i am thankful for the opportunity to feel useful.

actually, this morning i didn't dead-end at all. i guess that means i am celebrating one day of pickers sobriety. i'm gonna have a drink...or two. maybe three.

negative space

if you are a musician, a writer, a painter, or even if you get dressed in the morning, please read this blog.

reason: i am under the strong opinion that negative space is a very very important component of anything and everything that is composed, written, painted, or worn. let me explain.

imagine your favorite song. can you hear it playing in your head? my bet is that as long as your favorite composer is neither stravinsky nor britten (jk, dave), the song is pleasing to your ears. and why is the music beautiful? well, i am sure there are many reasons, but one very important aspect is that there are both 'positive' and 'negative' notes, i.e., play times and rest times. if the song were either playing or resting exclusively, then your ears would either tire from the many many notes, or not hear a sound at all. a balance between notes and rests is ideal and my bet is that the most pleasing ratio is 50:50. but i could be wrong. please comment if you think i am wrong.

now, what about getting dressed in the morning? are you one to put on a polka dotted shirt and striped pants with huge hoop earrings, 5 rings on each finger, cowboy boots, and a sailor hat? no, please, no. that would be waaaay too much positive space. maybe what would be best is to employ a little negative space here. pick your favorite of these items, and wear just the cowboy boots, or maybe one of the rings. then, make this item 'pop' by surrounding it with negative space. i.e., a monotone ensemble that compliments or contrasts the item on display.

and finally, please focus your attention on the photo above. can you distinguish the negative from the positive spaces? what is their ratio? would the photo be better if i had included more or less or either?

thats all. rock on and enjoy your negative space.

abstract storyboard

this post is intended for my mentor:
see the green and yellow post-its in the above photo for my HBV meeting abstract. read left to right, top to bottom. the title is, 'sequences within the HDV genotype III editing structure control editing efficiency and structural destiny'. i will come to your office for discussion points.

urushiol rashes. they ain't spreadin'

the itching started on my wrist. so i scratched. two days later, my neck displayed a red rash and i scratched again. a day after that, my chest was on fire. of course, i scratched.

i am fearful that by scratching the original rash on my arm, i caused it to spread (via the transfer of oils) to my neck and chest. but if this was the case, why isn't my entire body covered in itchy rashes - because i am sure that my neck and chest are not the only places that were touched after my intense arm-scratching episodes.
my hunch is that the rashes on the neck and chest were delayed...possibly by a traffic jam in the conduit for IgE cells?!

after a quick wikipedia search, i believe urushiol oil is to blame for the rash. both poison ivy and mango peels contain this oil. both, i have been in contact with in the past week. i am therefore diagnosing myself with a 'urushiol induced contact dermatitis'. and i believe, according to wikipedia, that this kind of rash can appear over a period of time. therefore, it can be concluded that all itchy/rashy areas of my body had simultaneous oil exposure, and it took a while for my immune system to react everywhere needed.

satisfyingly, it seems i can scratch til the cows come home, because this rash ain't spreadin' nowhere.

.nostril symmetry.

i've been thinking a lot about symmetry in the past week. my thoughts started when i listened to an NPR feed about how symmetry defines beauty. the gentleman interviewed on the program claimed that he did a study showing that female peacocks choose their mate based on the symmetry of the male's tail feathers. he implied that this was the sole basis for peacock romance. but i bet there is a little more to wooing a mate than spreading a symmetrical deck of 3-foot blue-green fronds. (and i have a feeling it has to do with the eye do-hickey at the top of the feather).
so, in order to test whether symmetry is the sole definer of beauty, i chose to do a little experiment of my own. in this study, i photographed 4 pairs of nostrils from some very beautiful noses of people i know. and i said to myself, all of these noses are very aesthetically pleasing. they must be symmetrical. but how do i test symmetry without a surfeit of sophisticated software? well, i assumed that outward beauty is recapitulated within and thus a nose that is beautiful from the outside must have beautiful nostrils within. right?! soooo, my hypothesis here is that all four of these beautiful noses will have symmetrical nostrils.
what i find is that they are not all symmetrical! see for yourself! no ruler required.
i guess i have to say that the results of my test are inconclusive because my sample size was way small, i didn't measure totally accurately, and ...yadayadayada. the noses are beautiful yet not symmetrical!!!
what i am getting at here, is that i think (and have partially, sort-of proved) that beauty has way more to it than just symmetry. what about colors or healthy glows?

¿ can bench choice disclose personality traits ?

definitely! whether the choice in bench is subconscious or not, your personality is directly related to which seat you choose. ...just like if you were to choose to buy cabbage and beans from the supermarket, we would know a little about your favorite past times.

the bench on the left seems 'proper' and takes a very serious, no jokes kind of gal to sit in. the bench on the right requires a risk taker. the sitter must be outgoing. she must be animated. she must love the idea that the geometries experienced by onlookers is quite entertaining.

which bench would you sit in?