The Wedding Meme

Have I fetishized weddings? This is my second post on the subject manner. I ask the reader to keep that in mind while reading the following post. ~

The Headmaster's Wager

There's something about historical fiction that draws me in like no other type of literature.

Reading The Headmaster's Wager (by Canadian author Vincent Lam) made me feel as though I was plunging into a different world, a story world, yet one that seemed utterly plausible, especially given my Chinese heritage. ~ Although the protagonist spoke Cantonese, and the story was set for the most part in Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City), the themes of family, duty and sacrifice spoke deeply to me. The usual fiction I read puts me in the position of a male, Caucasian young adult braving challenges both self-inflicted and externally imposed. ~ Reading from Percival Chen's perspective was different. Although male and middle-aged throughout most part of the novel, the hou jeung possessed such an intricately Chinese kernel that I could not help but identify with him. ~ Reading from his perspective made me realize how disconnected I actually was from the majority of protagonists whose stories I have cherished in the past. ~ I remember tearing through books, imagining myself in the main character's shoes. ~ But when reading The Headmaster's Wager I was never deluded into becoming the protagonist - only listening to his story with the respect I would owe to a real person telling me their life's tale. ~

The tragedy of the story, the plot twists, and the beautiful language of the text cannot be overlooked. But most importantly to me, the novel felt uniquely like an adult novel, in the sense that although events that occurred to Percival during his childhood were integral to his actions, thoughts and world view as an adult, the happenings of his adult life were just as momentous, just as passionate, just as significant. ~ I remember all the children's and young adult novels I used to read - how they seemed to suggest with their exciting plots and fated-to-be romances that everything exciting that would ever happen to you would happen before you became an adult, that you would meet the one on a quest and fall in love over the course of some trying adventure that you shared. ~ I remember worrying - and sometimes I still do - that once I became an adult (and I guess I am one now), I would have lived all of my life already, and the rest of my years would be spent perusing a series of fond but nostalgic recollections of the glory days of the past. ~ The Headmaster's Wager made me reconsider this belief. Adults lead meaningful lives. Adults are not tied down by their children, who supposedly go on and have the adventures that will replace their parents'. Adults feel, experience, cry, and above all, feel love, shame, fear, guilt, just as vividly as children and teenagers do. ~ Lives change, keep changing. ~ I've been naive, perhaps, living in my fictional world, still dreaming for that one adventure to happen that will change everything - that one letter from Hogwarts, that one visit from Mister Monday, that one discovery of a closet that opens to a whole other world. ~ Here's to another step in the journey of growing up. ~

P.S.: I've also read Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures, by the same author. Although it was a great read, with characters whose lives I became invested in and were eerily similar to my own, I didn't find the ending quite as satisfying as this one. Granted, that was a series of short stories connected by the characters. ~ However, the way that Lam tied up everything so neatly, yet so heartbreakingly, in Headmaster vaults this book miles ahead on my list of must-reads. A definite two thumbs up and rec on my part. ~

P.P.S.: While reading, I discussed the rules of mahjong with my dad and realized that I've played a game very similar to it in the past, in card form. Just another connection with my Chinese self, lost in the miles I've traveled in my childhood.

The Great Pudding Fiasco of 2014

You are reading the words of a survivor of the Great Pudding Fiasco of 2014. ~

First things first. Let me give you a bit of background regarding my culinary abilities: I have none. I cook - almost never. I microwave, I open cans, I peel bananas. ~ I once used half and half instead of whipping cream when making egg tarts for a club bake sale. The result? Inedible tarts that had to be tossed out. ~

So what drove me to make lemon pudding tonight? ~ Well, I've been working in a lab as a summer student for the past two summers and I've noticed that doing cell culture work is a lot like what I imagine cooking to be. ~ Both use ingredients (so what if one uses cells and the other sugar?), tools (pipettes vs. spoons? No worries!), and recipes. ~ I can follow instructions - what would be so hard about trying out the Food Network's Lemon Pudding Recipe? ~

How naive I was just a mere two hours ago. ~ Let me now tell you the story of the Great Pudding Fiasco of 2014. ~

I began by heating up the pan - you usually heat up cell culture media ahead of time, so I figured this would be the same. I cranked the heat up to medium. Since I had no measuring cups (my family is Asian and never bakes), I used a drinking cup and a spoon to estimate volumes. Using my trusty chopsticks (ain't nobody got a whisk lying around), I mixed the cornstarch and sugar haphazardly, then got bored and poured in the milk. At this point I realized that while I had a whole lemon, I did not have a grater or a lemon squeezer, and that my concoction of sugar, cornstarch and milk was already beginning to heat up. I ran to the counter and began slicing the peel off of the lemon and dicing it into what I hoped was zest-sized pieces. Halfway through this process I remembered my boiling pan and ran back to stir with chopsticks, only to discover in dismay that the sugar had started burning under all the milk, sticking to the bottom of the pan. I scraped as hard as I could and lifted out my chopsticks to find globs of burnt sugar stuck on the ends. My pure white mixture was becoming littered with little brown flakes. Panicked, I scraped away as much burnt sugar as I could, stirring madly all the while. ~ Realizing not much time was left, I ran back to the counter to chop more zest. Giving up, I ran back and dumped the large flakes of "zest" into the pot. Realizing now that I also needed egg yolks, I ran to the fridge and grabbed 3 large eggs. I cracked them and accidentally mixed yolk with whites - no matter! Dumped the mixture into the pot, stirred, made more zest and dumped that in, added the salt (a bit too much maybe...), made more zest....

At this point I realized my mixture wasn't congealing. Foolishly thinking that the cornstarch must have also burnt and stuck to the bottom of the pan, I added around another 1/4 cup into my mixture. It clumped up instantly despite my vigorous stirring. I took a break to squeeze the lemon for its juices, then realized that I might infuse more flavour into my pudding if I added pieces of the entire lemon into my mixture. I dumped that into the pot and realized stirring was now greatly impeded. More sugar had started to burn, so I conducted my second burnt-sugar-ectomy.

After another 10 minutes of stirring I realized nothing was going to help. I dumped in the lemon juice, added a bit of vegetable oil (because we have no butter at home) turned off the heat and looked around for a strainer. I had this idealistic image in mind of straining the pudding into these cute little mason jars I had, and began that process with bravado. I soon realized I had way too much pudding and that the small strainer I was using with my mason jars wasn't going to cut it. I pulled out my giant red mug, a larger strainer and got to work making pudding in a mug.

This straining process was arduous, especially as I was holding a hot, pudding-filled pan in one hand and ladling pudding into a strainer with the other. I briefly set down the pan on the divider between my two kitchen sinks to take a break. When I lifted it back up, I saw a dent where the pan had been. I freaked and thought that the heat from the pan had melted the sink. I grabbed a glass coaster (which was what I should have done initially) and set the pan down while I examined the sink.

My mom walked into the kitchen at this point (likely drawn in by my under-the-breath swearing) and oggled at the sight. There was pudding over half the kitchen, burnt sugar lumps strewn around my "measuring cups", and one 20-year old girl leaning over a sink in dismay. She came over and I sheepishly explained what I was attempting to do. She just sighed and told me that there had always been a dent in the kitchen sink divider, and that my mason jars were overflowing. Abandoning the sink, I ran back to salvage what I could of my pudding.

My mom attempted to help, then gave up and left me to finish and clean up. I was running out of hope when I licked my fingers during the straining process and realizing that the pudding tasted quite decent - even rather yummy. Encouraged, I continued straining and licking my fingers and the spoon.

Finally, I covered up my mason jars and giant red mug with plastic wrap (much like I would carefully wrap a 96-well plate with parafilm) and left it in the fridge to chill. ~ Only time will tell what happens next.

Prep time 17 mins? Try an hour, with half an hour clean-up time on top of that. ~
Yield of 4 servings? Try two tiny mason jars and one large, red mug. ~

Crime and Punishment

I've never written a book review for my blog before, but after trudging through Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment I feel compelled to lay down some thoughts before they consume me. Warning: I very much want you to read this book, but I will not hold back on spoiling the plot if I want to talk about something.

First off, let me admit that this book took me several months to read - four, to be precise. Given my (typical) university student's schedule (classes, extracurriculars, studying and Netflix), this length of time might have been pardonable, taking into account that the paperback edition of the novel is 480 pages long. However, to be completely honest, the real reason it took me a third of a year to read C&P was that somewhere in between when Raskolnikov commits his crime and when Svidrigailov returns to the picture, I became bored with the incessant pages of philosophical dialogue and psychological musings Dostoyevsky weaved into his narrative. Please don't think me insensitive when I admit that I enjoyed, although with a dark kind of fascination, reading about Marmeladov and later Katerina Ivanova's deaths. Indeed, this book put me to sleep at times.

You might be wondering where I'm going with this. Reading C&P was not an enjoyable process. There is something distinctly morose about Russian suffering, so that it draws you in with an unadorned and unapologetic "Come on in." Perhaps the sole lighthearted scene in the novel was the one describing Razumihin falling head over heels in a bashful and drunken, but utterly pure, way for Dounia. Yet even Razumihin's love for Dounia was a source of pain to me, as his love for Rodion's sister only further reveals his utter devotion to and love for Raskolnikov. Indeed, his marriage to Dounia is a sad one, Razumihin being so determined to make a living and a life for his new family so that they might all be reunited in the future. Reading about Raskolnikov's cold and harsh behaviour towards his family and his friend even up to the very end of the novel (never even personally writing to them when in prison), I could not restrain my feelings of anger but also admiration, all permeated with a vein of cynicism.

More memorable still are the deeply disturbing scenes of forced or hysterical joviality. The consumptive Katerina Ivanova forces her fatherless children to dress up and perform in the streets. They are crying, and she beats them. Her pride, much like Raskolnikov's, drives her to cruelty, despite the fact that she deeply cares for her children. Her delusional ravings and constructed memories reveal how poverty and alcoholism tore apart one family, and reflect how fragile the psyche can be in light of uncompromising personal characteristics.

Equally disturbing is how deeply Dostoyevsky dives into Raskolnikov's mind. While the long passages describing the protagonist's inner turmoil, repressed guilt and sullen belief in the righteousness of his own world view were arduous to read, I think that Dostoyevsky was right in drawing out the descriptions of Raskolnikov's mental and physical disturbances. Objectively, we can summarize Rodion's nervous breakdown, fever, nightmares and silent observations of the aftermath of his crime from his cramped bed, but how much more vivid (if torturous) for the reader to have to explore every crevasse of Raskolnikov's mind with him! What with the dramatic irony and Porfiry's seemingly transparent (but terribly clever) mind games, I was taken in for quite the ride. Really, reading the novel felt more like following a stream of consciousness than anything.

The most captivating part of that long middle section during which Raskolnikov's guilt marinates is the scene where Rodion's article is first mentioned. His theory of Napoleonic men being able to do as they please is a grandiose, nihilistic and self-absorbed one, arguably the product of his impoverished environment but likely something deeper than that. Oddly enough, I can understand, if not empathize, with him. When the circumstances you and those around you live in are so inexplicably horrible, it's easy to want to find some way out. Some people dream of better days to come or that have past, like Razumihin and Katerina Ivanova. Some drink, like Marmeladov. And some imagine themselves outside of the system, of deserving better and having the right to fight for it. In a way, Raskonikov's theory is a coping mechanism sprung out of a life too absent of hope and too full of cynical hatred.

And of course, the epilogue. Much controversy exists regarding this short but revealing section of the novel. Personally, I'm glad that Dostoyevsky included it, in the same way that I'm glad J. K. Rowling tied up the ends to the Harry Potter series. Certainly the fact that Raskolnikov confessed at the end of Section VI, especially given the fact that he was aware of Svidrigailov's death and that Sonya was the ultimate reason he followed through with the confession, may make the epilogue seem redundant. However, the plot really picked up for me again after Katerina Ivanova's death, and at that point I wanted to keep reading. Additionally, I appreciated that Dostoyevsky added a layer of complexity by showing Raskolnikov's first year in prison, when he had not yet truly "repented" despite having already confessed. I add quotations marks around the word "repented" because I don't see Raskolnikov's emotionally-charged last scene with Sonya as necessarily Christian. That's certainly one interpretation, but in my mind it comes down to love, which is more general than religion. Had any other novel employed this type of ending, I would have gagged and made some snide remark about how "Disney" everything turned out (hey, I love Disney as much as the next 90s kid, but that doesn't mean I can't think about the messages they convey in a critical fashion). But again, the Russianness of it all absolves the ending of its lovey-doveyness. Raskolnikov's realization that he loves Sonya opens his eyes to the destructiveness of his unforgiving and deeply egotistical theory. Pride really is the worst sin of all, because it is the one that requires the greatest upheaval of the soul to overcome.

How very freeing it has been to chronicle my thoughts here, without needing to organize them into a cohesive text. Perhaps I shall do this again once I read Lolita. ~

Differentiation

I'm revisiting this post after a very long hiatus. ~ The ideas presented here have been stewing in my mind since last summer, but tonight is when they will finally stream out of my fingertips and onto this digital page. ~

The scientific community has long been obsessed with the potential of stem cells (pun-intended). ~ Bone marrow transplants are currently the most widely accepted and implemented type of therapy involving stem cells, but the possibilities of their potential seems endless. ~ The thought of growing whole organs excites me as much as the next science geek out there, but that's not what the focus of this post will be. ~

Instead, the inspiration for this post originally sprung up sometime around August, while I was on a camping trip with two of my closest friends, AC and CZ. ~ Both of these gals are studying  business at prestigious American universities, and this summer trip was our first reunion after the end of our respective first years. ~ We'd been extremely close in high school, taking the same full IB courseload, with CZ and I sharing French immersion classes on top of that. ~ Although we had our own separate activities (I was in band and choir, CZ in orchestra, and AC in horseback riding), we still shared many of the same extracurriculars, such as Junior Achievement, debate, and science competitions. ~ All in all, I saw ourselves as pluripotent stem cells: not as innocent and undecided as we had been in elementary or junior high as totipotent cells, but still full of the potential of our lives stretching way ahead of us. ~

But during breakfast at a restaurant in Banff, as CZ and AC started chatting about business-related topics, such as rushing for a frat or interning at various companies, I reflected back on my own summer of studying for the MCAT and conducting research in a scientific laboratory and couldn't help feeling a bit depressed. ~ It seemed as though we were headed in a beeline for unipotency. ~ Everyone was specializing - even me, despite the fact that I had always thought of myself as a generalist. ~ Like stem cells receiving extracellular signals, we were undergoing a process of differentiation. ~

When this realization hit me, how I longed to remain a totipotent cell! All that potential stored within my genes, only to be thwarted by transcriptional, post-transcriptional, translational and post-translational modifications. (Yes, I've been taking a genetics class this past semester.)  ~ It seems a shame that eventually all that potential must be lost. ~ Maybe that's why I've taken some more unconventional routes, like doing an English minor along with my Bachelor of Health Sciences Biomedical Sciences major. ~ All my science friends scoff at me in disbelief - that someone would willingly subject themselves to the torture of English, imagine! - but I shrug and grin, continuing to puzzle over literary theory and Zizekian thought. ~ The thing is, I hate the thought of society shaping us so that we are each compartmentalized into our own little sector, with the cardiac cells pumping together as a unit, the neutrophils spreading their NETs and macrophages phagocytosing bacteria, the muscle cells contracting and relaxing in time... ~ Admittedly, this might paint a pretty picture of a cohesive organism functioning in a unified manner, but it also posits us as mere subjects serving an ideology (Althusser's structural Marxism, anyone?). ~

The way that I manage to console myself when I start spiraling into these dark thoughts is by referring back to what a wise teacher, Mr. A, recently told me: there are some things that you just have to accept will never become your career, but that can still remain part of your life in the form of hobbies. ~ You don't have to excel at everything you do, as long as it brings you joy. ~ A feeling of accomplishment need not be solely measured based on success in the traditional sense, but can also present itself in a feeling of fulfillment, of doing something new, of doing something different. ~ I can publish bad drawings on Deviantart and browse everyone else's gorgeous pictures without having to feel shame; I can try to sing Christmas carols hoarsely and accompany myself on piano, albeit out of time; I can try to bake cookies but accidentally use whipping cream instead of half-and-half and laugh it off. ~ We might be differentiating, but at the end of the day we are all still cells (even you, unnucleated RBC's!). We can't help focusing on something - indeed, that's the only way we'll ever get anything substantial done - but our attention spans may well be limited for a reason. ~ Instead of being despondent about the slow reduction in our potential, we should seek avenues to maintain it, to continue making ourselves plastic to change, while recognizing that we need not ever fully develop those new pathways. ~ They are simply our connecting points - our neuromuscular junctions - with the rest of the world. ~ It's what allows me to fall back in familiar stride with AC and CZ months after we haven't seen each other. ~ It's what takes away the boring edge from life, and makes our heartbeats quicken, whether in anticipation, fear or excitement. ~ Differentiating isn't reaching the end of the road - it's finally falling into your groove, doing what you're best at, and continuing to occasionally venture out there and take a jab at other things. ~ Our connections to other activities, people and ways of life don't just die; they serve as little dendrites that can help us continue to understand more of the world around us, and should be maintained and pruned, while helping to reinforce the strength of our axonal signals. ~ As this neuron metaphor stretches out of hand, I end my post with a question: where's the fun in classifying yourself as one type of person anyway? ~

"Cups" Cover: "I'm Gonna Miss You"

This is my version of the "Cups" song performed by Anna Kendrick on "Pitch Perfect", originally by Lulu and the Lampshades. ~ I played with the lyrics a bit to tailor this for my friend CZ, who's leaving Calgary (again) to go back to Berkeley. ~ Thanks for teaching me the cup thing yesterday! Please try to get past my incompetent singing. ~

Memory, Revisited

Because one post just wasn't enough. ~

The importance of memory in society today has been greatly diminished. ~

Educational systems have begun scorning rote memorization, arguing instead for more inquisitive-based learning. ~ Shakespeare speeches are no longer committed to memory and recited flawlessly. ~ Formula sheets are given and detail such equations as F= ma or even a² + b² = c². ~ Information is literally just a click away - on that shiny new Android device or that sleek new Ultrabook. ~ (Some self-criticism here - I own a Samsung Galaxy S II phone and an ASUS ZENBOOK Pro Ultrabook.) ~

It seems that with as technology advances in leaps and bounds, our minds shrink back to accommodate the very devices that are intended to accommodate us. ~ We rely so much on writing and digitization of data that perhaps we're losing the sharp edge and descending into laziness when it comes to thinking about the daily parts of life. ~

In my own life, I've realized how terrible my memory has become in relation to my new university schedule. ~ I recently registered for all my classes, spending a good few hours slaving over the timing, professor ratings and available option courses. ~ Just a week later, when a classmate asked me what classes I was taking next semester, I found myself unable to name more than three of the five courses each semester, much less the professors teaching each course. ~

That's why I'm skeptical to the typical advice of "just write it down!" to remember "it." ~ Day planners, agendas, online calenders... Admittedly, they're great tools, especially for busy university students/workers; however, I cringe when I see people scheduling in things such as "walk the dog" or "practice piano." ~ If we have to write down every single thing in order to remember it, activities beginning losing their meaningfulness, especially because I believe that looking forward to a special event contributes to half of its appeal. ~

Yet in today's society, we don't need to memorize something, so we don't. ~ Things are more accessible, cheaper, routine. ~ We have the nice, warm safety blanket of the notebook in case our memory  falls through. ~ I'm not trying to undermine the achievements of modern society - far from it. I'm as avid of an agenda/calendar-user as the next perfectionist, and I take notes that are so detailed, they may as well be a regurgitation of each lecture I attend. ~ Rather, I'm trying to draw attention to the inevitable flaws that accompany our very Western thinking - forward-driven and always improving our tools to facilitate our lives. ~ There is no legitimacy placed on the human memory anymore, because the goods delivered by consumerism provide an easier, more appealing means of remembering things. ~

So what are we losing? ~ A valuable skill, for one. ~ Indeed, the feats of memorization of our ancestors become truly remarkable when compared to the fact that best friends can no longer remember each other's phone numbers or birthdays without checking their contact list or Facebook. ~ See, back in the day, the epic poet Homer delivered oratories for hours on end, when a writing system hadn't been concretized as it is today. Yet somehow I can barely remember how I worded the starting sentence to this blog post (do you?). ~ In the past, memory was not just a convenience, it was necessary to pass on culture and traditions. ~ Sure, memory is fallible, which explains how myths have been blown out of proportion, but memory also helps each individual mold a story in their own mind and add a personal touch that just isn't the same as linking someone to a subreddit or online news article. ~ Indeed, there's something about memorization that's profoundly intimate. ~ When you memorize a text, you don't just study it - you absorb it, play with it, modify it to your own needs and tastes. A memorized piece of work no longer solely belongs to the author anymore - it belongs to you just as much as to the creator. It's personalized. ~

A devil's advocate might argue that memory is the exact opposite of personalized - it's rigid. ~ For instance, let's go back to rote learning. For anyone who's ever struggled in a class and miraculously discovered that simply memorizing the formula or idea could mean a pass on the exam, it's evident that memory can sometimes help us bypass the very important process of learning itself. ~ Yet in reality, memory should be treated as a much more fluid process than simple repetition. ~ It's becoming familiar with something - so much so that instead of simply knowing a fact or an idea, you begin developing synaesthetic connections to it - such as making up a mnemonic for the Linnaean classification system (Katy Perry Came Over For Great Sex, anyone?), or remembering a person based on their scent, or visualizing a scene from a novel when caressing the words of the story on your lips. ~

Memory can also denote some interesting aspects of a person. What we choose to remember (because I think memory is often a choice) reflects what type of person we are. "Forgive and forget." We often erase or modify the worst memories we have to soften their blows, and that's a healthy thing to do. However, over long periods of time, memory can indeed end up distorting the truth, which can be harmful to the overarching, lifetime process of self-discovery. ~ That's where writing down things comes into play. ~ Reading back on my old blogs is not only a trip down memory lane, it also shows me how my writing style has changed, and how deep down I'm still very much the same person. ~ As always, there is a fine balance between pure memorization and total digitization/documentation of our knowledge and memories. ~ But it sure wouldn't hurt once in awhile to reinforce those neuronal pathways and spend some time getting to know pieces of information by heart. ~

Why I Stay Up Late

Sleep has always been my Achilles' heel. I might be a food aficionado, and enjoy listening to all sorts of different music, but the real thing that I cannot go without is sleep. ~

The problem has gotten much, much worse this past year. ~ Since university allows greater freedom with schedules, I've started waking up at 12 pm to make it to 1 pm classes (note that I live 45 minutes away from the university), despite vowing to make it to the library at 9 am to study. ~ On weekends, I sleep in to 2 pm, 3 pm, 4 pm... It gets so bad that when my mom tries to shake me awake in the morning, I firmly yell, "No! No! No!" and turn over disgruntedly, despite not consciously being aware of my own actions. ~ Six hours later, I angrily call her, demanding why she let me sleep in. When she tells me the story, I am aghast. ~

My friends have attempted to help rectify this problem. ~ Several have been on alarm duty, calling me to wake me up. ~ I am ashamed to say that I often take their call, agree to get up, and then promptly fall back into bed, out cold. ~ Someone tried to get me using an app called "Sleep if U Can", whereby you dutifully take a picture in another room the previous night and have to get up in the morning to take the same picture in order to turn off your alarm. ~ Gleefully, I tried it, making all sorts of hopeful promises to myself about getting back on track. ~ The next morning, I sleep through three hours of my alarm going off. ~

I've missed many outings with friends because instead of waking up at 6 am, I find myself blinking away sleep at 3 in the afternoon. ~ One day, I missed the first bit of my 1 pm class because not only my ten alarms, but also my carbon monoxide detector going off, failed to wake me from my dreams. ~

My new house has only aggravated the issue. ~ My family now lives in an extremely quiet neighbourhood, where barely a car drives by all day. ~ My room faces the north, so that no sunlight streams through my shutters in the morning (not that that would help wake sleeping me much). ~ After my parents leave the house in the mornings, I might as well be the last person alive, unknowingly sleeping through the beginnings of a zombie apocalypse. ~

I can fall asleep absolutely anywhere. ~ As many of my summer camp friends can testify, neither heat nor cold nor loud noises can prevent me from catching a few Z's or a billion. ~ Whether it's sprawled across my desk, leaning against a wall, cuddled up in a library chair, or cramped atop a lab bench, sleep settles over me like a gentle blanket, engulfing me in darkness. ~

By this point, you're probably wondering: "If she loves sleep so much, then why not sleep more?" A simple question, posed to a complicated person. ~ You see, the reason sleep has become such an issue for me is that I'm wide awake at the worst times possible. ~ 1 am? Time to start a new TV series! 2 am? Let's launch into a full-length MCAT practice exam (which lasts for 4 hours straight)! ~ 6 am? Time to start banging away on the piano, rousing the entire house. ~ I'm a classic night owl. ~

What set me on this horrible routine? ~ Well, it's progressively gotten worse over the years. ~ It began when I snatched a few extra minutes past 10 to finish a project, then after 11 to read another page of my novel, then over midnight to finish up a report, then 1 to squeeze in another episode of Friends... It just seems that when no one else at home is awake, I'm most productive and alert. ~ Also, late night conversations are often the most meaningful and the most interesting. ~ Staying up just that much later gives me the chance to either spend some quality time catching up with a friend who's in the US, or getting in some last minute studying. ~
There's also an odd sense of excitement to be the last one awake. ~ It feels like the entire world has stopped for you, and everything you do will seem like you've warped time to people who wake up the next morning. ~ The adrenaline probably has something to do with this as well - you're forcing your body to extremes, so it responds duly and gives you that rush, that extra burst of concentration, so that you can achieve so much more. ~

This second life has begun to take its toll on me, however. ~ I'm often sluggish during the day, having to rely on coffee or tea in order to function properly. ~ I'm also a horribly cranky person in the morning, giving my mother sullen looks for having woken me and dozing in the car on the way to work (not behind the wheel, of course). ~ I'm always amazed by people who can wake up at 5 to spruce themselves up for the day, showing up at school or work like they've just been airbrushed into being. ~
So tonight, I'll be heading home, telling myself I'll go to bed "early" and wake up feeling refreshed and happy tomorrow morning, while knowing full well that I'll end up having some sort of epiphany at 11 pm and decide to stay up for the next few hours developing the idea. ~

Sweet dreams, everyone. ~

China Chronicles: Assault on the Olfactory and Gustatory Senses

Possibly the most memorable part of my past two China trips has been the delicious meals/snacks I've had the chance of savouring. ~ Although I maintain that taste and smell are two very distinct senses, my attempts to write separate posts for these two in my Assault on the Senses series has only led to repetition and redundancy. Therefore, I present a combined senses post. ~ Writing this late at night made me crave authentic Chinese food all the more - hopefully I've managed to convey a sense of that through the upcoming ramblings. ~ Also: I have so many pictures of the foods described here that I felt it necessary to break my one-picture-per-post tradition. Perhaps it's cheating to use visuals to complement a post on the olfactory and gustatory senses, but the inner foodie in me just can't resist. ~

Smells in China are very... strong. ~ There are two extremes - my nose either crinkles in disgust and I feel an uncomfortable roiling in my stomach that indicates I have enjoyed a meal much to rich for my usual tastes, and must now suffer in face of the abominable smells pelted at me - or my mouth waters at the delectable aromas that are so enticing, I can nearly feel the texture of the odours tickle my taste buds. ~

Below the apartment where my grandparents live (and where I spent most of my days in China this past summer), there's this little food market/street vendor alley that's always teeming with cars, people, bicycles, and smells. ~ In the mornings, I stroll down to grab breakfast. Delicious local Tianjin dishes are cooking everywhere: 煎饼果子 (Chinese pancakes), 锅巴菜 (sliced pancakes in broth), 豆腐脑 (tofu pudding)... It is perhaps a testament to how wonderful these smells and tastes are that I cannot help but worry over how I will find enough room in my stomach to satisfy my gluttony, or enough meals to even begin curbing my cravings. ~ I dart from booth to booth, placing orders, catching glimpses of the dishes made on the spot, gingerly accepting the little plastic sacs containing the steaming foods and paying the vendors. ~ It's lots of fun, and everything is so cheap and convenient that no one bothers to make their own breakfast at home. ~ The sizzle of frying 油条 (Chinese donuts) cooking next to the pure white soy milk make a perfect combo. ~ Freshly diced pineapples stand guard in a row, while newly picked strawberries line a wooden crate in perfect, soldierly formation. ~ Yet underneath all of the cooking smells, I also detect the ever-present hint of garbage that soils my mood somewhat. ~ The vendors don't bother with real garbage cans, throwing cracked-open egg shells and pouring dirty dish water right onto the streets and into the gutters. It saddens me that such a merry, fresh place should be dirtied repeatedly everyday. ~ The smell of rot reaches my nose and I wrinkle it in disgust. The source? A putrefied peach that's been lying on the sidewalk for the past two weeks now. Mold and all sorts of nasty bacteria have rendered it nearly unrecognizable, and its smell has morphed from a sweet perfume to a revolting stench. ~

In the evening, the scene transforms. ~ Spices fill the air, mixed in with the heady smell of coal smoke. ~ The breakfast vendors have been replaced by the night vendors - an assortment of cold veggie dishes, fried noodle concoctions, stinky tofu, and, of course, the kebabs. ~ In China, people will put anything and everything on a stick and grill it: eggplants, some sort of red meat that passes for lamb, squids, bok choy, fish balls, curly bits of spiced noodle, asparagus... The list is endless, and the customers many. ~ Every time I pass by the nightly motley (which is nearly every night, since it's much cooler out after nightfall, and I'm a night owl by nature), the smells draw me in, while my poor stomach screams "no!" at the recollection of the cramps and unfortunate visits to the loo that have inevitably followed my splurging in these hygienically-questionable foods. ~ Nevertheless, I stop for something every time. ~ My new favourite this year was a dish called 哈尔滨烤冷面, which roughly translates to "baked Harbin-style cold noodles" - interesting name, I agree. ~ Having watched the entire cooking process, I can confidently assert that it's a sheet of noodles cooked with rice mixed in with many different spices that constitute the vendor's secret recipe. Add in a dash of parsley, and the mini-meal is complete. ~  I dig in, savouring the sweet-n'-salty overtones mixed in with the strong cumin and fresh parsley. ~ 

While my favourite dishes are all under 10 RMB, the cost of food in China can skyrocket if you choose to visit a high-class restaurant. ~ A few hundred for a family of four is a regular occurrence at a middle-class restaurant. ~ Take Pizza Hut. ~ It's considered high-end cuisine because anything occidental carries a foreign - and thus luxurious - taste and appearance with it in China. ~ Sweet caviar shrimp balls, savoury escargots in oil, deliciously cold drinks... No wonder the decor inside the restaurant is so fancy. ~ Up it another scale, and you get places where there are napkin rings (napkin rings, of all things!), valet service, chandeliers, personal bathroom suites that smell like mint... ~ Although there is a certain delight to be had from acting all poised and grown-up in such settings, I must admit that the food is always average at best. ~ Then again, the Chinese always were known to place great emphasis on saving face and pride, though I much prefer satisfied tummy. ~


Yet another interesting meal was for my grandpa's birthday. ~ Our family booked a table at 海底捞火锅 (which translates very roughly to Deep Sea Fishing Hot Pot) - one of a chain of restaurants of the same name, known for their exceptional customer service, especially for a Chinese restaurant. (If you're a regular frequenter of dim sum restaurants or noodle houses, you should know what I mean - service tends to be rude and rushed compared to what's found in other culinary establishments.) ~ 海底捞 was a completely different experience. ~ Taking into account that some of us wore glasses, the waitress brought in soft cloths so that us bespectacled guests might wipe off any of the fog that so annoyingly accumulates when we tried to slurp up some fresh-out-of-the-pot noodles or tofu. ~ Seeing that we had a toddler and child with us, the waitress brought over two bowls of soft steamed egg so that they might eat something suitable for their teeth - or lack thereof. ~ When my uncle unveiled the ornately decorated birthday cake (which tasted just as fluffy as it looked), the waitress brought a lighter and lead us in a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday" amidst the smell of burning wax. ~ A skilled young cook came over with a dollop of dough and put on quite a show by weaving is around and around in the air until the unsightly lump had become one long, continuous strand of 长寿面 (longevity noodle) - a traditional dish for the celebration of birthdays, with the length of the noodle supposedly reflecting the lifespan of its consumer. ~ Finally, the waitress brought over a spiked massage tool, wishing good health and good wealth upon my grandpa. ~ All in all, we were treated courteously, thoughtfully and warmly. ~ And he cherry on the cake was the lack of questionable odours in the bathroom. ~ Smells are such an integral part of the dining experience that they often linger in my memory long after the taste of the dishes have evaporated. ~

Indeed, even past their immediate effects, the flavours and scents of China left an incredibly complex and strong impact on me. ~ Much as I enjoyed the food, I could not help noticing the less appealing sides of Chinese society that were so openly reflected by the putrefying smells. ~ If there was ever a more poignant physical reflection of the apathy that results from living in an overcrowded space and being just another number among the millions, it's the sorry smells wafting off of some of the streets in China. ~ Much as I love my home country, I wasn't able to fully quell the desire to organize a huge city-wide clean-up every time I rode down the 23 floors from my grandparents' to the street vendor quarter below. ~ And perhaps that's what's contributed to the fact that I approached my second trip to China not as an adventure, as I had done the first time around, but rather as a critique. ~ I began noticing that the reason no one picked up the rotting peach was that no one paid it any attention anymore. ~ I fervently hope that the zombie-like, blank stare of Chinese people walking obliviously down the street isn't a future reflection of what all populations in a crowded country will look like. ~ Nor do I wish the smell of clean air and freshly mown grass to be tarnished by the forgotten rotting peaches of disregard. ~

Not the most optimistic ending to this post series, but certainly an accurate reflection of my current views and fears on the future of civilization, as pompous as that sounds. ~

China Chronicles: Assault on the Tactile Senses

Been nearly a year since I last blogged. University jumped on me and I got caught up in the novelties, as well as a few good TV shows, much to the detriment of this blog. But here I am, back from yet another China trip - so what better time to take up the "China Chronicles: Assault on the Senses" posts again? Check out my auditory and visual senses posts from last year if you haven't yet, then see what's changed of my perception of China this second time around. ~

The dirty wind crawls over my skin, weaves between my clothes, catches in my hair. ~ Sweat trickles down my back, adhering my shirt to my skin. ~ My shoes kick up the dust in the construction zone I am walking through, overlaying the rocks around me like a fine layer of powdered sugar. ~ One word pops repeatedly into my mind: shower. ~
Later, I walk through a dimly-lit, crowded shopping centre. I run one hand over cheap fabric, plastic toys and stacks of stationary, while protectively keeping the other over my shoulder bag. ~ "How much?" I ask a store owner, pointing at one of her items. "35." We haggle over the price. I eventually flip through the dog-eared, rough bills to hand her a five and a ten. The packaging of the product is dusty from having been on display for so long. ~ My fingers feel grimy. ~ Shower, whispers my brain. ~ I ask for a bag and am handed a tiny, red one. ~ Swinging it up and down, I walk away, the new owner of an iPhone 5 case for my friend. (It is only later, much to my chagrin, that I learn he owns an iPhone 4. The matte case seems grossly wrong in my hands as I play around with it, twirling it to and fro in a vain attempt to hide my embarrassment.) ~
I head back out. I pull out my cap and don it. ~ It fits snugly over my ears, with bits of hair sticking out at the sides like stray straw. ~ I tuck the strands behind my ears and pull the cap forward. ~ It's a vital need under the bright Tianjin sun, and quirky as well - camouflage-green, with a red star painted in the centre. ~ A lady at the grocery market asks me if I'm joining the army. I hide my snort under an embarrassed smile. ~ She then lights a cigarette right next to her own booth, releasing fumes of smoke in to the air that seem to find purchase all over my clothes. ~ Shower, grumbles my head. ~
Clammy hands. ~ Shower, presses my mental voice. ~ I clutch my cousin's little hand in mine as my head swings left and right, carefully judging the distance and speed of the dozen incoming cars. ~ His hand is limp in mine, his backpack bobbing up and down in rhythm to his footsteps. ~ We cross the wide street and I let go, releasing him to bound ahead. ~ The typical after-school scene. ~ Mondays, he wears his white school uniform - sweater and sweatpants, despite the cloying heat - in honour of the weekly flag raising. Today, he's wearing a yellow pinny indicating he's to act as hall monitor for the week. ~ I smile, then run to catch up. ~
At night, the city cools slightly. My shoes barely graze the ground as I race my cousin around the yard, at times chasing him, and at others being chased by him. ~ We come back huffing and puffing, falling into the chairs in the living room and kicking off our shoes. ~ Shower, my brain tuts disapprovingly. ~ The air conditioning washes over my arms and I rub them as sudden goosebumps pop up. ~ We share some ice cream, then sit down to watch an episode of Friends on my uncle's iPad. ~ The screen is smooth under my fingertips as I select the video, its clean surface smudging as I trace outlines. ~ We settle back against the couch; the bamboo covering digs into my back, but is better than the sticky sofa I'd be sitting on if it wasn't there. ~
I see my other cousin - the tiny infant I have named. ~ Candace. ~ Her skin is unbelievably soft and smooth as I hold her in my arms, marveling at how chubby she is. ~ She stares at me with huge, solemn eyes, then suddenly grins and claps her hands, gurgling happily. ~ A trail of saliva dribbles down her chin and lands on me, pooling. ~ I laugh and hand her to my aunt, running to grab a Kleenex. ~ Shower? asks my inner self hopefully. ~
I head back to my grandparents' in the dark. ~ Entering our apartment, I take a sudden turn away from the elevators and endeavour to take the stairs - all 23 flights of them. ~ By floor 8, I'm huffing and puffing, my hands pushing against the roughly-painted walls and my knees bent under the weight that has suddenly become so much harder to bear. ~ By floor 18, my leaden feet are pulling down on me, the strap of my shoulder bag is strangling me, and the uneven stairs nearly trip me. ~ But I push through, and emerge victorious on the 23^rd floor, leaning into my grandparents' doorbell and nearly getting flattened by the heavy door as it swings outwards. ~
Shower. ~ The chant has reached a crescendo by this point. ~ I rush to grab towel and pajamas. ~ In the bathroom, I gratefully step under the hot water and sigh in relief. ~ I'm not even bothered anymore by the fact that most showers in China aren't partitioned off - that is, they open up onto the entire bathroom, so that the whole room is sprayed with water every time I shower. ~ I take my sweet time, knowing that tomorrow, this whole cycle of tactile squalidness will just start all over again. ~ But for now, my neurons have stopped pestering me and the word shower plays through my mind as softly as a refreshing summer Calgary breeze. ~

China Chronicles: Assault on the Visual Sense

This post is the second in the "China Chronicles: Assault on the Senses" series (see my previous post on the auditory sense assault). ~ Be prepared for something different this time around. Think camera flashes - quick, memorable, vivid, and now preserved. ~ Collage created using Photovisi and pictures from the broken camera featured in my karma post, and my uncle's cell phone. ~

Buildings everywhere. None of that familiar Calgarian flatness - no, rather, thirty-story apartments, gigantic shopping centres fashioned in all kinds of shapes, train stations with tall clock towers proud as sentinels parading on the battlements of a strongly-defended fort... ~

Seas and seas of people. Umbrellas floating over each head like a tiny beacon - blue, purple, pink. ~ Faces rushing by. Clothes that look different, yet the same - swirling skirts, collared shirts, impossibly high heels, rainbow-hued sun visors, a Dr. Seuss quote (“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”) on a white top. Bows, bangles, jade pendants, silver bracelets (one of which I am now a proud owner of). ~

Countless temples, statues, postcard-worthy scenes. ~ Click, flash, picture taken, move on. ~ Smile - your face is right next to Mao Ze Dong's! ~ Move your face a bit closer to that lion - now it looks like you're kissing its nose. ~

Flashing low battery sign. ~ Secret relief. ~ Putting down the camera, turning actual eyes onto century-old artifacts. Drinking in the sights gluttonously. ~ Tiny blue cranes fashioned on a queen's crown. ~ Lances, crossbows, arrowheads. ~ A meticulous reconstruction of an early-settlement village, complete with dozens of pointy trees and even windows in the huts, all facing towards the centre as a sign of man's first sense of community. ~

Darkness. But no - lights. Lights everywhere. ~ Flashing helicopters emitting police-like blue and red flashes as they spiral up and up and up into the sky, then float lightly down to crash gently onto the pavement, just as the eager owner runs up on his short legs and grabs the toy for another run. ~

Smoke. Twinkling strobe lights peeping through the haze, merrily calling out to tired wanderers. ~ Tanned men grilling fresh lamb kebabs, fish kebabs, vegetable kebabs. ~ Rows upon rows of food waiting to be consumed, enjoyed, licked off of greasy fingers. ~ Spices upon spices. ~ Blood red soup, with globs of crimson oil floating on top. ~

Dancing. ~ People swaying to the same beat, clapping their hands, shaking their sweaty bodies, stomping and turning and twisting. ~ Freedom, restrained into one square. ~ A sudden impulse, a rush of boldness - and then running up to join them, twirling like I know what I'm doing, laughing at my inability to keep up, smiling at the knowledge that it doesn't matter if I don't know the steps. ~ Anonymity in numbers. ~ Just another face, black hair, brown eyes, glasses. ~

Beautiful, perfect lighting in ceramic bathrooms, shining rays off of every reflective surface - which, incidentally, is every surface. Dismay at opening the first stall and finding the now-familiar hole in the ground, with the rib-like indents on the sides of the filthy ceramic toilet. ~

A whole spread of lotus leaves and flowers, bobbing gently as the motor boat sends soft ripples across the surface of the lake. ~ Strolling in a park, scabs on my knees, dirt under my fingernails, skin slowly browning. ~

An aunt, belly swollen with pregnancy. ~ An alarmingly pink newborn, tiny fingernails perfectly formed and little button nose, eyes not yet open, with the world waiting for her firsts. ~ Figuring out how to prepare infant formula, stirring as the yellowish-white powder dissolves into the hot water. ~ Some blood. ~

Chickens. Chicken poop. Sows. Barns. Hay. Ramshackle doors. ~ Makeshift locks, CO2-spewing motorbikes racing and bumping up and down hilly roads. ~ Staring up at thousands of twinkling stars and getting lost in their endless meaning, yet cold indifference. ~

Hills. Mountains. Valleys. Lakes as smooth as mirrors, deep with shades and hues of green, blue and indigo. ~ Water falling, trickling, streaming, so clear in places that each rock, fish and aquatic plant seems to have an even more distinctive outline than in the air. ~

One cousin's shy smile, another's grinning bunny imitation, complete with arms tucked close to the torso and hands bent at the wrists, just begging for a carrot to be clenched between those curved fingers. ~ A grandfather shouldering a pink backpack halfway throughout the day, looking like a pre-schooler, revisited. ~

The sky. Clouds. Above clouds. LAX, with its beautiful, interminable ocean and its thin strip of beach. ~ Landing, landing... impact. ~

Blue, red, white, yellow, orange, green. Up, side, down. A bright smile as the colours match and the Rubik's cube is solved, once again. ~

Then, suddenly - emptiness. ~ No lines to the bathroom. ~ No one pushing and crowding to be able to see the baggage carousel and claim their luggage. ~ Empty roads, open stretches of highway. ~ Home. ~ Comfort, loneliness, and familiarity. ~ What now? ~

Time to make a collage. ~

China Chronicles: Assault on the Auditory Sense

Remember the Six Senses post series I drafted up two years ago? (Wow, has it really been that long?) ~ Well, in China, I noticed some alterations/differences to my usual sensual experience. ~ Thus, here's a retake on my impression of the senses, China edition. ~ Let's do them in the same order as last time, shall we? ~

Audition. ~ This truly hit me whilst I was in Tianjin, though Beijing certainly had its fair share of noise pollution. ~ Even at around midnight, the commercial streets were a bustle of activity and people. ~ Peddlers selling their wares, children screaming in delight or anger, girls giggling over their phones, men loudly proclaiming their acts of valour or business profits of the day... It made no difference as to who I saw. ~ Then, there's sleeping - or rather, trying to fall asleep. Even on the sixth floor of an apartment building, you hear all sorts of noise traversing the polluted air to snake its way into your tender ears. ~ Most notably, of course, are the honks. ~ While I understand that honking is actually considered a kind, "polite" act in China (after all, it's a warning that will prevent you from being run over!), I still think it's excessive to blare your horn at every intersection, turn or even pause in the flow of traffic. And there must be something wrong when cars are so decrepit that they have doors that won't close properly, windows that won't roll down, and non-existent seat belts, but horns that sound as healthy as cows in their prime, demanding to be milked. ~

There's also the infamous "欢迎光临" that greets you no matter what store you step - or don't step, and merely pass by - into. This loosely translates into "welcome, customer" and sounds uncannily alike no matter who is saying it to you. ~ And the store keepers following barely half a step behind you don't take away from the Big Brother experience either. In fact, sometimes I felt myself resisting the urge to pull my phone out of my pocket to check the time merely because I was afraid of being tackled and accused of thievery if I did. ~

With all this going on, you might be wondering - how is one ever heard above this miasmic chaos of sound? ~ Not to worry - the tour guide leaders have mini speakers to travel over/add to the din. With their flawlessly memorized and delivered speeches at each tourist attraction, these people seem unfazed by anything, nearly robotic in their perfection. ~

As an aside regarding speakers here: One of my fellow Beijing adventurers bought a set of speakers that attach to any surface and transmit vibrations from a sound device, thereby amplifying the sound. ~ We had much fun testing out the amplifying power of different surfaces, and one of my most memorable experiences was strolling down the street at one in the morning, holding up a large piece of discarded Styrofoam attached to the speakers and an iPhone, blasting "Don't Stop Believing" into the pitch-black night. ~

Onto a different topic: Something else that surprised me was the sheer homogeneity of the language. ~ While I was not naive enough to expect that I would be regularly hearing English or any other foreign language on the streets of China, I had somehow developed the impression that I would feel at ease being surrounded by exclusive Chinese speakers, despite the fact that I only converse in the language with my parents. ~ Not so. In fact, after the week spent with English-speaking friends in Beijing, I discovered that I could not slip back into the Mandarin pool like the red fish I'd thought myself to be. ~ Instead, I found myself seeking any English lifeline I could. Sometimes, that included secretly shadowing tourists if I was lucky enough to hear the familiar English or French words rattle off their unsuspecting tongues. Other times, it meant delving into a bookstore and booking it (pun-intended) for the Foreign Languages section, losing myself in the works of George Orwell or F. Scott Fitzgerald. ~

Finally, there were also the numerous accents to consider. ~ I started off fairly easily - Beijing speaks Mandarin, after all. ~ Tianjin wasn't much harder to comprehend, though I was still mildly amused when I heard a middle-aged lady loudly talking in a strong accent into her phone, as mindful of the bus-full of people around her as us Calgarians are of a hailstorm in the middle of summer. ~ That's why Chengdu hit my eardrum and ear bones with such strong force. ~ The people's lilting, song-like accent seemed just beyond my grasp to understand. ~ I remember tilting my head to the side with a confused, plastered smile on my face when a waiter offered to take my offer in a restaurant. ~ Things got even worse in Gansu, where I spent two weeks with my relatives on my dad's side. ~ I became really good at holding my tongue - mainly because the only word I could contribute to any conversation seemed to be, "what?". My cousins did attempt to teach me the accent, which simply resulted in many gales of laughter and instances of mirth, albeit at my expense. ~ I didn't mind, though - after all, I can proudly say that I survived China and fit in well enough that people even came up to me to ask for directions on the streets of Tianjin and Chengdu... as long as I kept my mouth shut. ~

China Chronicles: Karma

This post is labelled as having been published on the 26th of July, despite today's actual date being the 19th of August. The reason being that the silly Chinese Internet seems to regard my blog as a profanity, choosing to block it from the general public's screen. ~ While dismayed that I couldn't post this on the proper date of its conception, I deliver to you "China Chronicles: Karma" with as much legitimacy as I can provide. ~

I haven’t really been a great proponent of the karma doctrine until recently. ~ The universe operates with a certain balance – that’s evident in the basic laws of physics, which seem to apply conservation laws to just about anything, from energy-matter to momentum. ~ Yet humans are beings with a will of their own, so shouldn’t that disrupt the natural harmonious flow of the universe? We’ve messed enough with our planet that it should be apparent we don’t always obey the natural laws to a T. ~

This last year has made me rethink karma, though. ~ A few simple things came along that suddenly shed a new light on the smallest details; yet, these are the ones that make all the difference. ~ It all started when my friend complained about too much high school drama, lamenting that everything seemed to happen to her. ~ I remarked with a quirky smile that she would regret saying that later in the year, when she would surely be bored of the lack of drama in her life. ~ Teasingly, she poked me and quipped that it was only because I had not suffered through any drama myself. ~

Those words doomed me, I am certain. ~ Right before spring break, just as I was least expecting any sort of upheaval of events in my life, karma deemed it necessary to dump a bucket of drama right on my brain. ~ I can see it crystal clear in my mind: I had just finished delivering my English IB Oral Commentary and was finally breathing a sigh of relief, looking forward to a week of being able to relax at last. ~ Then, that very evening, it all began. Like bullet shots, little doses of drama were administered here and there, until I felt myself cracking like a smashed window pane. ~ Talking to my friend again some time later, she reminded me of our previous conversation together, and I could only smile wryly and fight the urge to facepalm. ~

Karma has hit those around me, as well. ~ My dad recently bought a beautiful new Canon camera that became his pride and joy. He studied the instructions manual like it was the Bible, and he played with it with a quiet pleasure that was evident through the care and precision of his picture-taking. ~ Over and over again, he warned me to be careful when I used it, and to take care that I always had the protective wristband on so that I wouldn’t drop it. ~ Annoyed by his endless pestering, I shrugged off his advice, knowing that no harm would come to the camera in my hands. ~

Here is where the "China Chronicles" portion of this post really comes into play. ~ I visited Beijing for an entire week in July. ~ Before leaving, my dad entrusted me with his camera, holding it lovingly and advising me once again to not drop it. ~ I sighed in exasperation and promised that I would bring it back to him in one piece. ~

As predicted, the camera was still fine by the time I had traveled to Tianjin and my dad’s airplane had landed. ~ Tired of taking pictures (because in truth, I much prefer seeing things with my own eyes than through a camera lens), I gladly relinquished the prized possession to my dad. ~ This is where the karma really kicked in. ~ The day after my dad had arrived, it was burning hot outside. ~ In China, no one sane travels without a water bottle or some spare change to purchase some refreshing drink in the sweltering heat. ~ Thus it was that barely a day after the joyful camera-to-man reunion, my dad raised the camera while attempting to hold a water bottle, all in one hand. ~ I watched, ready to have my picture taken, as in seemingly slow motion, my dad’s hand slipped and the camera plummeted to the ground in one direction, while the water bottle fell in the other. ~ For an insane moment, I felt myself lunging for the water bottle first, not wishing to believe that any harm could have come to the camera – not now. ~ My dad had no such qualms. With a look of dread, he bent down to retrieve his love, heart evidently in his throat. ~ He tried opening it, but discovered with horror that the screen had cracked and the camera was speckled with little dents here and there. ~ His sadness and anger were palpable. ~ 

Despite my genuine regret and sympathy for my dad’s unfortunate turn of events, some little, mean corner deep inside of me could not help reveling in the justness of karma’s delivery. ~ Later on, when the wound no longer stung so bitterly, but had rather subsided to a dull ache, my dad admitted in a rueful tone that this seemed to be karma’s work. ~ For the rest of the trip, we made do with lower-quality cameras and cell phones, so that every blurry picture taken seemed to be some more salt sprinkled on my dad’s injury. ~ Oddly enough, knowing that karma played a role in our camera’s demise lightened the loss for me, in part because my dad seemed to feel bad enough for the both of us, but also because I reserved myself the right to whisper “I informed you thusly” to myself every once in awhile. ~

In the end, karma makes you realize that no one is infallible, and that everyone tries to hide away their weaker and darker side in order to impress. That in itself is a sign of innate vulnerability. ~ Karma evens out the suffering, but also the joy in the world, if only by that little bit. ~ No, I’m not naïve enough to believe there is equality anywhere. But karma can at least soothe our fierce burning welts with a little aloe and help make the pain of injustice a tiny bit more bearable, if only in our minds. ~

On Writing

I realize I've drafted many a post concerning this subject, but that just goes to show it's one of my favourite. ~ The source of inspiration this time was from a day spent concocting, spilling out and sealing off a long letter of reminiscence, celebration and farewell to my dear friend, CZ, who reaches adulthood much the same time as myself. As well, it's yearbook signing season, which naturally prompts one such as myself to reflect on why we have the tradition at all - namely, writing down things at the end of life stages and events. ~ For instance, when I attended Shad Valley (a lovely summer program), we had a monthbook. ~ People keep journals all the time, and our society nowadays has a puzzling need to document every single moment of its mundane life (Facebook statuses and Tweets, anyone?). ~ And naturally, what last day of high school would be complete without groups of students gathered around in circles in various areas of the school, congregating around a pile of books and pens? ~
So. Why do we write? ~ Some answers are obvious and come to mind right away. ~ To remember. That's why we take notes in class, draft grocery lists, and use day planners or Blackberries. ~ We rely less and less on our true memories. After all, the human mind is fallible, isn't it? Why bother when it's so much easier to have it remembered for us? ~
A more sentimental reason, as well. ~ We seek to leave behind a piece of ourselves - an imprint on a person, on society, on the world. ~ We all want to remember, but we also want to be remembered. ~ One thing that drives most of us to do something great with our lives is the fear of dying without having changed our little - or big, for some - corner of the world. ~ I recall a dream - nightmare, really - where I was truly certain I was going to die. The pain didn't scare me. What truly made me break out in sweat and wake up feeling sick was the fact that I realized my life still holds so much potential. ~ So much to do, so much undone as of yet. ~ Writing can help assuage some of that fear. It leaves behind something that's tangible. ~ Really, us humans are creatures of touch and sight, deep down. In a way, writing down our memories, dreams and goals is a way of being productive. There's an end result to our labours - evidence that we had these thoughts, formed them into words, and transformed them into an art form, into a different medium. ~ That's what I'm doing right now, isn't it? ~ It's partly why I blog in general. More to come on that once I finally roll around to updating the "About Me" page. ~
On emotional sentimentality... I've realized that we can write what we'd never say, or wouldn't ever be likely to say. ~ Talking is face-to-face: scary in today's society. But writing: that's different. There's a barrier, ofttimes a welcome one, that separates the giver from the receiver and allows words to come pouring forth that were previously stopped by the dam of self-consciousness. ~
Yet in another sense, writing takes bravery. ~ That precise immortalization we seek also locks our writing in, makes it last as our legacy. ~ That can be scary. ~ Though the written word can be destroyed, that's becoming harder and harder today with today's technology. ~ What we write, then, becomes what we'll be seen as in the future. We put more thought and effort into it than we do to our speech, because it's so easy to scrutinize, especially by the masses. ~
In the end, we are able to convey these last memories and thoughts in writing, despite any such fear, because finality pushes people to extremes. ~ Tying it back to yearbook signing, I'll say that I signed many a page focusing on the better moments, perhaps at the detriment of the full truth. ~ That's where the bravery comes in, I suppose. ~ Writing unembellished, frank words is so difficult when a light dusting of sugarcoating is almost effortless to apply. ~ We've have BS-ing skills pounded into us. ~ Maybe yearbook-signing time should be a chance to peel away the varnish and lay out the wood beneath, rotten as it may be. ~ It's all up to where you take your pen. ~
After this lengthy and somewhat rambling post, let me end off by saying that I've published this only because it's the last day - last hour, really - before I step truly and fully into adulthood, and that as with all good beginning and endings, I feel that familiar urge to write tugging once again at my fingertips. ~ For all the reasons I've mentioned and half dissected above, and to put a closure on affairs, I click the button. ~ Writing it down may not make it true, but seeing it on the screen or on paper is so much more real than when it's just in the mind. ~ Goodbye, childhood and teenage me. It was a good time we spent together. I know you'll be with me in this blog and in all else I've written since I first picked up that crayon to spell out my name. ~


Thanks to MT for the thoughts, comments and inspiration. ~ It's lovely to have such sharp-minded, well-spoken and smiling friends. ~

Why Physics Intimidates Me

A cute little post I found lying around in my saved posts, dating from early February. ~ The post being shown here in its mostly unedited state - just a stream of conscience that flowed from my itching fingertips - I must apologize for the poor quality of writing. ~
Admittedly, my views have changed somewhat after surviving my first-ever semester of "legit" (excuse the slang) physics, though not all too greatly, surprisingly. ~ I admit that the opinions expressed in this post are skewed somewhat by the fact that my previous physics knowledge can be condensed into one week in Science 10 pre-IB and two months in Chemistry 20 IB, under teachers who were most comfortable in the science of chemistry (obviously), yet even after having taken physics under what I consider to be an excellent teacher, for Physics 30, I can readily reassert the fact that physics should still be left to mathematical minds than my own. ~

All of the smartest people - those who are geniuses and are recognized to have off-the-chart IQs - are physicists. ~ Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton, Galileo Galilei, even the fictional Dr. Sheldon Cooper. ~ These are men society has long regarded as being the smartest of them all, so to speak. ~ The "best and brightest" of mankind. ~

Physics is also closely interrelated to mathematics - another area that intimidates me. ~ Not the basic 1+1, mind you - no; I'm talking about the abstract, "imaginative" mathematics. ~ Think of what men such as Leonhard Euler, Rene Descartes Carl Friedrich Gauss, and Gottfried Liebnitz have thought up, tested and proven - feats that I hadn't even considered, let alone would have been able to approach. ~ Also, reflect on the fact that many high school and university students have much trouble just learning these concepts - not even deducing or developing then, but merely understanding them. ~ This hints at the magnitude of these men's intelligence, creativity and imaginativeness. ~

This is evidently a biased opinion, but I believe that it takes much less intelligence to write proficiently than to develop algorithms or dream up new theories. ~ That's not saying that anyone can produce brilliant pieces of writing - that would be completely undermining the works of such men as William Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe, to mention just two - but I do believe that writing is a tool in everyone's box of skills that is at least present, if not sharpened. On the contrary, one does not always find the math drill or the physics saw so conveniently handy as the writing screwdriver often is. ~ In fact, these physicists and mathematicians all eventually need to draft and publish papers on their findings, and that implies having at least a solid enough knowledge of the literary arts to be able to clearly communicate their ideas. ~

(Here, I went off and had a discussion with GL, who is a whiz at physics and math, which prompted the little post-blurb found below. ~ Ah, the joys of argumentation and debating.)

Presumption: almost all of the topics worth dealing with have been addressed deeply and extensively by literature already. ~ The millions of books written on practically any and all subjects imaginable provide proof to this claim. ~ Of course, there exists future topics that will spring up depending on evolution of the earth and of the human species. Yet even these can be tied back to aspects that have already been examined. ~ Take the example of environmental concern - a subject that may seem novel to our era. ~ However, First Nations have always sensed a deep connection to nature that to them is inviolable. Does protecting the environment, with its shiny new gloss of modernism applied on, seem so new after all? ~ The point that I'm trying to get at with all of this is that writing can hardly be called novel or original anymore - at least not fully. ~ Yet mathematics and physics still continue to expand and grow into m-theory, dark matter and entropy. All this makes me feel as though literature is much more dusty and old in comparison. ~

And there you have it. Perhaps at a later date I shall write up a new and improved version of this post, or merely continue the self-debate. ~ Just a writer's whim, perhaps? ~

Bonus (or just an amusing factoid, for those who care): My physics teacher wrote up little blurbs on each of us students and showed them to us on the last day of classes. Imagine my amusement when he popped down to me:

Answer: Biology.

Question: What was [Resa's] favourite part of physics class?

Yes, just a little bias.~

Qualities

After this nearly three-month long hiatus, I've finally picked up blogging again! It feels delightful to pound out my stream of thoughts through my keyboard and onto the computer screen, listening to music and enjoying a post-exam de-stressing session. ~ But my post today is quite filled with tirades and an usually critical tone - perhaps these past few weeks of essay-writing have made me a bit too emphatic? Regardless, please read this with a fresh eye and an open spirit. ~

For some reason or another, I've had to ask people to write compliments about me quite frequently in the recent months, whether it was for reference letters, or for a simple activity. Through this unofficial surveying of ideas, I've begun to notice a trend - a saddening and bizarre trend, in fact. ~
Essentially, what other people think of as qualities, often have associated negative connotations in my mind. I've drafted up a quick list below to explain what I mean, each followed by a friendly suggested improvement. ~

Hardworking
This is a classic. A typically positive word, it can be associated to dedication, determination and detail. Yet while the latter three words paint the picture of a devoted individual, "hardworking" has always just screamed mulish, slow-witted and even a little bit daft to me. I suppose it's because I've always thought those who are smart enough, end up finding shortcuts. And yes, I know that there are no shortcuts to anywhere worth going in life. But if there's an easier option, why force yourself to follow a fruitless path of misery? No, indeed. Hardworking is just a bit too boring for me - after all, half of it is comprised of the word "working."
Instead, use disciplined. While this might seem like an even more boring word to some, in my mind, it evokes the great images of kung fu masters, who have enough self-control not to be distracted by pain or tiredness.

Smart
Ah, the ever-clever term. Should be a good thing, no? After all, we know that the pen is mightier than the sword. (Notice how I used a cliché there? That's a subtle jab at how cliché the use of the word "smart" as a compliment has become.) Who wouldn't want an employee with the brains to solve problems, or the intelligence needed to keep up with a higher-level discussion on politics?
Yet, this word is so very terribly generic, and perhaps worse, unspecific. What type of smart? Book-smart, street-smart, EQ-smart? Because all of these are very distinct things, and each with a very different connotation. Book-smart screams nerd, whereas street-smart or EQ-smart draws up a portrait of a bad-boy wearing shades and cruising down the street in his shiny red car, smiling a cocky smile and nodding with condescension at the book-smart boy with the glasses and the untucked shirt clutching his books and staring in undisguised awe at the passing image of glory. Far-fetched? Perhaps, but not as much as I'd like to think.
Instead, use bright or witty. The first has a touch of precocity within it, whereas the second hints at a subtle, perhaps sarcastic, humour. And we all do love that sarcasm.

Interesting
This one is perhaps the worst of the bunch. "Interesting." It's the default word - the word we fall back on when nothing else will fit. In essence, it's an untailored, ill-fitting garment thrown upon a person; it'll do, but not well. Besides, how many times have we ourselves said, "that's very... interesting," with a slight touch of uptalk at the end of the phrase, when grasping for a nice compliment when some poor friend tells a lame story or makes an ill-suited remark?
Instead, use fascinating. It shows that you're more than interested - in fact, you're captivated; your attention has been grasped. In addition, just saying the word itself is delicious - it forces you to open your mouth in an "ah" shape, whereas you can get by with mumbling an "interesting" if need be.

I hope you're beginning to understand at least a bit the point that I'm trying to get across. Naturally, I don't expect you to suddenly associate these terms with negativity - indeed, you shouldn't, because most of society doesn't, and I'm an exception. But the next time you give a compliment or help someone out with their resume, take a step back and question yourself - just how much do we rely on these tired, washed-up old words of "quality"? ~

The Wars, Part Twelve

Last part! ~ Start at Part One to "get the full experience." ~

So, this... is the end. ~ A very optimistic and hope-filled ending, no? ~ "Unwritten." Introduced to most of us through that delightful Pantene commercial ages ago, this song by the lovely Natasha Bedingfield has always enchanted me with its upbeat tempo and joy-filled sounds. ~ Here, I've used it to bring light back into the playlist, and instill in the listener and reader a sense of a better future out there, if only one will persevere. ~ Hopefully, this won't take away from the rest of the content, and that rather, the contrast here highlights the fact that despite all of war's toils and troubles, there can still be light at the end of the tunnel, even though the trip through that tunnel might be painfully twisted and hazardous. ~

To break this influence and to rebuild a connection with society, individuals must find a new purpose to replace that of fighting in a war in order to diminish the focus on war within their mind.

Unwritten, by Natasha Bedingfield:

[Verse 1]
I am unwritten,
Can't read my mind
I'm undefined
I'm just beginning
The pen's in my hand
Ending unplanned

[Chorus 1]
Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions

[Chorus 2]
Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten, yeah

Oh, oh

[Verse 3]
I break tradition
Sometimes my tries
Are outside the lines, oh yeah yeah
We've been conditioned
To not make mistakes
But I can't live that way oh, oh

[Chorus 1]

[Chorus 2, repeat]

[Chorus 1, gospel style]

[Chorus 2, repeat]

The rest is still unwritten (repeat)

Lyrical Content

In Unwritten, several months have passed since the individual has returned home from the war. He has continually attempted to readapt to civilian life, combating alienation and the pull of violence, and has finally begun to come to terms with the suffering he has endured in the war by immersing himself in a newfound passion: writing. He describes himself as an “unwritten” book, using this metaphor to convey the sense that he is attempting to start his life anew. This echoes the lyrics “Time still turns the pages of the book it’s burned,” from the song “So Far Away,” during which the individual suffered from emotional pain due to facing the many deaths caused by the war. Now, the individual attempts to use “the pen […] in his hand” to write out his experiences on the “blank page before [him],” in order to “release [his] inhibitions” – namely, the pent-up anger, depression and sadness caused by his war experience. He admits that sometimes “[he] break[s] tradition” and that “[his] tries / Are outside the lines,” yet because of his grueling experiences, he “can’t live” without “mak[ing] mistakes,” for it is only ignoring society’s conventions and putting words to his pain-filled memories of war that he can make peace with himself. Because the individual became “undefined” as he lost his identity in the war, he now desires to open himself up to the light and “let the sun illuminate the words / That [he can] not find,” thereby stepping out of the darkness that the war has imposed upon him.

Auditory Elements

The melody has an optimistic quality to it that reflects the lyrics’ hopeful nature. The pop style evokes a lighter mood and joyful, celebratory tone that contrasts with the previous songs chosen.

In Chorus 2, more voices join the singer, conveying the sense that the individual is no longer alone, and that he is receiving support from society at last thanks to his new-found passion of writing about his experiences. Throughout Chorus 2, the individual gains the sense that he should appreciate being alive and “live [his] life with arms wide open,” because peace was worth fighting for only if those who remain take advantage of it.

The last rendition of Chorus 1 is sung in gospel-like style, furthering the idea that a large group is supporting and even encouraging the individual’s attempts at writing in order to express his emotions and thereby release them, leading him to find joy in the world once more.