Enlighten Me, Muse

I’ve been feeling rather insipid as of late; I’m convinced it’s a side-effect of being on summer vacation after having such an assiduous year. Strangely, though, I’ve been quite busy these past few days, but these outings are just too… formal -- Reunions with family friends, rendezvous with business partners, etc. when, in truth, I simply want to go swim with the duckies living in the pond behind my house. Ah, to be a duckie, what a glorious life it would be!

Lately, I’ve been trying to re-hone my creative character -- I seem to have lost that ingenuity due to my narrow-minded goal for academic perfection, something that I have now concluded to be futile and a waste of my youth. You only live once. After receiving an 89 in Organic Chemistry Lab instead of the desired 90, I realized how trivial these numbers are to my life. My personality and desire to contribute in an industry should mean more to the ADEA than a series of arbitrary digits. Even if they reject my applications, I have back-up plans anyway. Presently, not becoming a lifeless zombie like so many of my other friends is of utmost importance to me. I want my childhood back!… So I started on an array of new projects recently.

Instead of spending hundreds of dollars on a birthday present that I don’t even know if my friends will like, I decided to make them something. Eight pairs of earrings were made to be distributed -- Dangling origami stars made of gift-wrapping ribbons attached to a silver hook. Blood was shed for these earrings because joining the star and the hook together is quite tricky and the instruments used were of primitive origin.

Back in the good ole’ days when my dad was still studying for his PhD, my family couldn’t afford the luxuries we take for granted today. I would always make my Valentine’s Day gifts instead of buying them like my classmates. In 4th grade, I made chocolate roses out of Hershey’s kisses for my peers. The chocolate was obtained from trick-or-treating on Halloween; the stems made from grocery store twist ties I had previously grabbed a handful of whilst my mom was shopping; the green tape borrowed from our apartment neighbor; the red, plastic wrap from Saran wrapped cookies I had received from my friends; the leaves from my mother’s fake ornamental plants she had lying around our apartment; and the boxes for these roses folded myself from white cardboard paper I received free from my 3rd grade teacher. Since Father’s Day is coming up, I figured I’d make him 2 dozen of these chocolate roses. I’ve only managed to finish 6 thus far, albeit, at least I have appropriate materials to use this time.

My mother’s birthday is coming up in late June -- She’s turning a lovely age of 52. I’m making her a wind chime made out of origami and family pictures. I’ll upload a picture once I’ve managed to complete the project.

Yesterday, I mustered enough courage to take out my collection of Prismacolor® colored pencils, which I haven’t touched in much too long a time. I was slightly nervous that I had lost my artistic abilities, but I think the self-portrait turned out moderately well. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll muster enough courage to take out my acrylics; I haven’t painted in well over 2 years. Or maybe finish that pottery painting I left incomplete 6 years ago…

But until then -- More shopping to be done tomorrow morning.

Au revoir my little munchkins’!

Take the Blue Pill or the Red?

I went out for lunch with my mom today, and I don't recall what triggered the subject but, absent-mindedly, I mentioned that I had donated blood again, before coming home. What proceeded can be described as a whirlwind of lecturing. Supposedly, 1. If I keep donating blood, it will become an addiction 2. I'm not healthy enough to keep doing this 3. Donating blood leads to weight gain. In defense, I refuted 1. I'm not addicted to donating blood; I just want to save lives 2. Not only did I not faint, unlike 2 of my other friends who came with me, I had strenuous exercises immediately afterwards each time, e.g. rowing practice, running 5 miles, etc. 3. You only gain weight if you gorge yourself with food in order to compensate for the pint of blood you've lost.

She subsequently stated that I can't save lives if I end up dying, that it's best I kept myself perfectly healthy now, get a well-paying job, and, then, become a philanthropist with my money. Why yes, mother, money can surely magically metamorphose into blood for cancer victims, severely injured patients, hemophiliacs, etc. I understand and respect her argument; however, the way I see it -- I don't have the adequate resources in terms of money currently to help anyone, hence, the best I can do is give others something of which I have a stockpile. People are suffering now; waiting until I am financially stable could take years.

As we were walking to the grocery store, I mentioned how wonderful the weather in Houston has been since I've been here and jokingly stated that God must love me (since Houston's known to have 104+ Fahrenheit temperatures during the summer). Mom muttered back, "Everyone loves you. If you keep doing things to hurt me, though (in reference to blood donations), I won't like you anymore."

I laughed because I found the situation to be quite ironic. My parents have considerably different personalities and perspectives.

I love both my parents dearly, mind you; however, observations of their actions and personalities throughout these past 20 years of my life made me realize how much I would loathe myself if my character became a silhouette of that of my dad. He's a loving father, but he's rather inept at keeping his temperament at a stable level -- Many a time, my mother and I would find him having verbal fights with strangers due to a minor disagreement. At other times, we would lose our appetite at a restaurant because he can't stop complaining about how poor the service is or the lack of sufficient shrimp in his platter. I honestly don't know how my mom has managed to deal with my dad's detestable disposition, but I unequivocally commend her for it.

That being said, I thought my mother would understand why I regularly donate blood. Perhaps her motherly instincts surpass her normally altruistic nature. I have yet to decide whether I should disobey her and proceed to continue my donations and not inform her of the matter, or actually listen. Afterall, Mothers don't always know best.

Rigmarole

Drama, drama, drama. Do you love drama? Everybody else does -- Except me. It appears that gossip seems to be the incandescent light bulb that attracts all insects (and I don't mean that condescendingly, mind you). So, you like drama? Well then, here you are: rigmarole for your entertainment.

Recall that I missed my pop quiz in Medical and Scientific Terminology? I got a chance to speak to my professor Friday morning about it, and he allowed me to redress it -- I received an 86. After that little adventure, I walked back to my dorm only to be affronted by my roommate (she attends the same class). The conversation went similar to as follows:

Roommate: Where'd you go?
Myself: To talk to the professor to see if I can make up my quiz.
Roommate: What'd he say?
Myself: He let me take it.
Roommate: You suck! (Then proceeds to turn the other way and ignores me.)

The professor is the sweetest little man (literally, he's shorter than I am) with the most adorable British accent and he let me retake the quiz that I missed because he takes remorse in over-worked students, which is quite rare at UT, whereas the person that I've shared a room with for the past 6 months and bolstered through all of her issues would rather see me fail than succeed in a class? Throughout the entire course, I've consecutively made grades > 90 on the exams whereas she's obtained < 68's. My apologies if she's slightly not up to par as far as academia goes, but hoping someone else does badly in no way brings up her grade; instead, it makes her appear selfish and Machiavellian. Friends wish for good outcomes among one another, not ill kismet. Needless to say, I was quite offended, especially after all the energy I've devoted catering to her desiderata.

On the topic of her desiderata -- The love interest that she has been pursuing for the past 6 months is finally one no more. To explain the entire story would require far too much time and typing, hence, the general perspective is as such:

Girl likes boy. Boy leads girl on. Girl fails to see but soon becomes obsessed with boy. Roommate of girl warns girl not to get close and to half-heartedly move on. Girl refuses. Boy does stupid stuff and girl gets hurt. Boy apologizes and girl forgives. Girl becomes more obsessed with boy. Roommate, again, suggests she forget about the boy and move on. Girl ignores roommate. Girl becomes so absorbed into boy that she fails exams, cries when boy hangs out with female friends, and constantly calls boy. Boy tells girl's male friend that he thinks she is clingy -- Girl is surprised, roommate is not. Girl gets hopes up too high after boy kisses girl and roommate tries to bring her back down to earth and fails to do so. Girl begins spending weekends at boy's apartment. Girl decides to transfer to boy's university despite everyone's disapproval. Mutual friend of girl and boy tells girl that boy doesn't want a relationship with her, instead, finds her crazy in character and is interested in another girl. Again, girl is surprised, roommate is not. Girl professes interest in boy no more, but roommate remains skeptical.

That more-or-less paraphrases the past 6 months of their relationship (or lack thereof) rollercoaster. Every minute of her life was filled with Blake, Blake, Blake -- She had fallen for this jerk and she had fallen hard. I've recently come to believe that men are simply not worth this sort of agony. Although most of my friends say that I am most likely the first to marry out of all of them, my morale on male decency is cynical beyond repair. Maybe Mr.Right doesn't exist, or I'm simply not looking in the most opportune locales. I refuse, though, to ever step foot in a bar to look for a partner -- That's just... not my character.

Moving on to the next topic -- Summer housing.
Ehh, it is getting late and I have an 8am class. 'Till next time, my little munchkins.

Monday Night Vigil

Although blogs pertaining to the Virginia Tech. incident are ubiquitous, it never hurts to add one more voice to the crowd, especially if the incident is as devastating as this.

By now, everyone has probably heard of the mass-shooting in Blacksburg, Virginia, unless (of course) you live under a rock. Like Rose, the author of another blogsite, I found myself crying after reading the story on the news section of my homepage. I became rather absorbed in the story, surfing the internet trying to find the most recent update on the murderer, the victims, the survivors. One particular story struck the proverbial cord:

Liviu Librescu was born in 1930 to a Jewish family in the city of Ploiesti, Romania. After Romania allied with Nazi Germany in World War II, his father, Isidore Librescu, was deported by the Nazis. Liviu as a boy was interned at a labor camp in Transnistria and later, along with his family and thousands of other Jews, was deported to a ghetto in the city of Focsani. Liviu Librescu survived the Holocaust and was repatriated to communist Romania where he became an accomplished scientist.

At age 76, Librescu was among the thirty-two people who were murdered in the Virginia Tech massacre on April 16, 2007. During April 2007, Librescu taught a solid mechanics class in Room 204 in the Norris Hall Engineering Building. On April 16, Seung-Hui Cho entered Norris Hall and opened fire on classrooms. Librescu held the door of his classroom shut while Cho was attempting to enter it; although he was shot through the door, he was able to prevent the gunman from entering the classroom until most of his students had escaped through the windows. He was struck by five bullets. Of the 23 registered students, one, Minal Panchal, died.

A number of Librescu's students have called him a hero because of his actions. One student, Asael Arad, said that all the professor's students "lived because of him." Another student, Caroline Merrey, said she and about 20 other students scrambled through the windows as Librescu shouted for them to hurry; she said she felt sure his actions helped save lives. Librescu's son, Joe, said he had received e-mails from several students who said he had saved their lives and regarded him as a hero whilst many newspapers also reported him as the hero of the massacre.

Stories such as this force you to think -- If I were in that particular situation, would I have helped those around me? Would I have sacrificed my life in order to save that of strangers I barely knew? Or would I have abandoned them in order to survive? Would I have had the courage to stand up against a mentally ill individual brandished with multiple weapons? Had I died, what would people remember me by? Have I accomplished enough in my lifetime to my satisfaction? Whatever the answer, I felt compelled to attend the candlelight vigil that my university held earlier tonight. Although Virginia Tech is some 1,300 miles away, such an occurrence can hardly be regarded as otherwhere; instead, it induces a feeling of communion, of empathy.

Prior to the ceremony, I was accosted by a reporter from FOX News who barraged me with a plethora of questions: Do you think this vigil will help the healing process of the alumni who are here tonight? Do you think what happened at Virginia Tech is similar to what happened at this university 41 years ago? Has the incident affected you personally in any way? Etc. I answered the questions to the best of my ability, although I'm not sure if I offended anyone by saying "misery loves company or, in this case, grief loves company" infront of a camera that is broadcast through all of Austin. The university bell tower tolled 33 consecutive knells. Speeches were made. Candles were lit and alma maters were sung. An estimatd 2000 UT students attended the memorial.
It was a beautiful and touching hour I will forever remember.

Air

The air was different today. Coolness with a touch of moisture and dark, high clouds that cover the sun. It reminds me of damp summer rain and dives in the pool, juicy watermelon that runs down your chin, of summer school PE and tackle rugby, playing tennis and soccer at dusk, my friends, of waiting with Meems in the rain, a single blooming tree cornering the back entrance, of Gelato at Piccomolo and ice cream at Coldstone, the strike of that first chord at Carnegie, of late night rendezvous at Starbucks, the soft creek of a childs swing (one that i've outgrown only in weight), the gentle rumble of my mom pulling in from work, T.S. Eliot and the Wasteland, "What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish?" Steinbeck and the Grapes of Wrath, Faulkner and The Sound and the Fury. I wonder how they felt. I wonder how you are... all of you from before and from after. I wonder about distance and forever.

It's Raining Mansions

(Article originally from Associated Press)

HONOLULU - Dorie-Ann Kahale and her five daughters moved from a homeless shelter to a mansion Thursday, courtesy of a Japanese real estate mogul who is handing over eight of his multimillion-dollar homes to low-income Native Hawaiian families.
Tears spilled down Kahale's cheeks as she accepted from Genshiro Kawamoto the key to a white, columned house with a circular driveway, a stone staircase and a deep porcelain bathtub. Her family will live there rent-free, but must pay utility bills.

"What we need to do is appreciate," Kahale said. "As fast as we got it, it could disappear."

Kawamoto, whose own eyes started welling up as Kahale cried, handed over two other homes Thursday to homeless or low-income families.
Kawamoto, one of Japan's richest men, said he plans to open eight of his 22 Kahala homes to needy Hawaiian families. They will be able to stay in the homes for up to 10 years, he said.
Native Hawaiians are disproportionately represented among the state's homeless and working poor.
Giving away mansions shows more dedication to helping Hawaii's homeless than just handing out wads of cash, he said. Asked whether he was concerned about losing money on the effort, he laughed and said: "This is pocket money for me."
Kahale's new house is worth nearly $5 million, an average price for the mansion-like dwellings on Kahala Avenue. It is one of the more modest homes in the neighborhood, many of which feature ornate iron gates, meandering driveways and sculptured gardens.
Kahale became homeless two years ago when her landlord raised her rent from $800 to $1,200, putting the apartment beyond reach of her salary as customer service representative for Pacific LightNet, a telecommunications company. She first stayed with family, then moved to a shelter in September.

Beauty of a Heart of Gold

(Excerpt from a friend's blog)

well, i've been in austin for over a year now. and i would say i've changed more in the past year than i had in the previous 5 years, which is saying a lot. there have been some really high-highs and some really...really low-lows. but at least at this moment in time (even if not sometimes previously) i can look at it in a positive light and say that life is still beautiful in its own insane, elusive little way. if not miserable at times. (i'm not emo! damnit!)alas. i've come to some interesting conclusions (?) as of late that have given me a little fruit to the soul searching i've been doing for the past ten years. conclusions that, looking back, i probably should have come to a long time ago. but maybe it wasn't the right time then. conclusions that make me a bit more comfortable with who i am, as well as a little less confused. it makes me laugh a little now in retrospect. to put things into a little perspective...there's a man who lives outside my apartment...sometimes here, sometimes there. his refrigerators are the trash/dog shit cans along the sidewalk. he often sits on the bench out my window, i've heard him yelling incomprehensible exclamations to no one. or perhaps himself.

one time i walked past him and quietly said hi in passing, and he looked up, suprised, and mumbled something like a caveman who hasn't spoken to another soul in years. sometimes i want to go over and give him a hug. or a steak. when i walk around the corner of 5th and west, he's often sleeping on a staircase of the apartments across from mine. i feel like slipping him a twenty in his pocket, but i wonder how he'd react to a stranger up in his grill if he were to wake up. i used to be a little afraid of him. but now i feel like i'd kick some ass if anyone messed with him. i see other homeless people around downtown, but for some reason, i feel a strange affinity with this one. maybe it's his blue knee socks. or the way he plods along, his head and body bobbing side to side as he takes each step. maybe it's because he's so visibly alone in this world. something that tangibly expresses the feelings i've so often had even when surrounded by friends. i don't know...i wish i could give to him. but i feel as though whatever little i could give to him would be nearly meaningless, when what i really wish is to see him with abundant food, enough clothes to keep him warm, a home, a family, a smile.