Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Another project in the works: writing and sending letters to those who have inspired me. I imagine that all of them must question the impact and worth of their work at times. If nothing else, I can tell them how they've touched me, and changed the way I see the world, for the better.
I spent one afternoon reading the first half of Maureen Dowd's "Are Men Necessary?" at the Barnes & Noble in Chelsea. I found much of it annoying, some of it simple-minded and cliche, some of it provocative, some of it inspiring, and some of it actually substantiated by my own experiences. I'm not very impressed with her writing style, which showcased far too many cutesy puns for my taste. Thisis the only female op-ed New York Times writer? Egads. Granted, to give her a fair shake, I'll need to read more of her columns before judging her.
So, her book is essentially about the ever-changing relations between the sexes, the disappointing aftermath of the feminist movement, and how "feminism was defeated by narcissism." She contrasts the forward-thinking feminist ideology of the 1960's and 70's with the more retro, almost 1950's mindset today, evidenced by the currently popular retro secretary fashions, excessive concern for appearance and sexual prowess, educated women choosing to stay at home rather than to pursue careers, etc. I'm apparently much more old-school feminist than many of my female peers (or those whom Dowd interviewed). I absolutely believe in equal rights, and want to fight the good fight of becoming a female innovator, thinker, leader. I have no desire to stay at home and waste my talents and education there. I respect that other women weigh their options and decide that they would be happiest and most fulfilled by becoming a Stay at Home Mom, but that's just not me. I would regret not putting my skills to use, and not contributing more to society. I would become one of those suffocated, emprisoned housewives in Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique, obsessed with my wasted potential. Maybe other girls want an easier, more pampered life, but that was never what I sought. I didn't even think happiness mattered that much until recently, since I equated pain and misery with growth. Although I now realize that happiness is rather important, I still won't sacrifice my quest to live a meaningful and productive life to it. I'm not even convinced that the pampered, easy, oblivious happiness is all that great anyway. I'd rather have happiness that was earned through discipline and labor, which is interlaced with knowledge of deep suffering and pain and terror and beauty. I also insist on paying my half of the check. I am offended personally by the insinuation that just because I have a pair of ovaries, I need to be "taken care of" financially. I don't give a crap what advice gurus say about men needing to foot the bill in order to prove that they are not cheap. Please. If one can't find other ways to detect excessive frugality, then she needs to educate herself better about understanding human behavior and psychology. Similarly, I feel almost physically ill when a guy offers his seat to me on the bus. Unless I'm pregnant or wearing high heels, how can it not be offensive to indicate that because I'm female, I'm weaker and thus less capable of standing upright than a man is? I know, I know, guys are schooled by their mamas, or by society, to make such offers for the sake of politesse. But the gestures come from a sexist ideology, and if I were to accept them, I'd be inadvertently be reinforcing those assumptions. Hell no.
Unlike Dowd, I'm not as concerned with whether other people like me. And I'm not one of those girls who whine about men being intimidated by my education or my intelligence. If the guy is that insecure, then I'm glad to get rid of him. Maybe it's naive of me, but I figure that there are guys out there who will value my thoughts and opinions and knowledge. And that our association will be stronger because of his respect for my mental capabilities. I have many male friends who obviously enjoy talking with me and trading ideas with me; I never got the sense that they were repulsed by my brain. With regards to romantic relationships, I never felt like my education was a deterrent either; unfortunately, however, I've tended to connect with men more mentally than physically, or more physically than mentally. I've yet to be in a relationship where the connection was strong in both areas, but I'm still optimistic that it will happen eventually. Perhaps if I reach Dowd's age and am still single, I'll relate more to her frustrations regarding men's supposed preference for subordinates rather than equals.
I do completely agree with her distaste for narcissism and consumerism in contemporary society, particularly with regards to plastic surgery. I hate that there is now considered only one beauty ideal, and how it's okay to rip women apart for not achieving it. I'm astonished at times at how catty women can be when critiquing their own appearances and other women's appearances. This is one of the reasons why I didn't have female friends until very recently. I never focused very much on my appearance; I was always much more interested in developing my mind, my philosophy, my understanding of the world. Girls didn't want to talk about this stuff. Girls wanted to talk about how bad they were for eating too much, how fat they were and how ugly their noses were, how horrible it was not to have a boyfriend. Spending time around these girls made me feel awful about myself, so I avoided them. I'm pretty sure this is how I escaped having an eating disorder.
I love looking at people, learning about people. One common thread between medicine and art for me is learning about people, both physically and through their stories. One of my favorite past-times is people-watching, particularly in a museum, on the subway, in a park. Especially in New York City, there are so many different shapes, colors, configurations of features. Some are considered more conventionally attractive than others, but so what? Sometimes those with the most conventionally attractive features are the most bland, lifeless, or repugnant, while those with less conventionally attractive features are vibrant, lively, and captivating. Why should this spectrum be erased so that we all look like pod people, like plastic dolls, all with the same artificially enhanced features? With beauty comes power, which is why so many people are slavishly devoted to changing their appearances to better fit what's considered ideal. But as they gain power, they undoubtedly lose something valuable--a connection to their ancestors, a realization that there is so much more to a person's worth than physical beauty, individuality, maybe even humanity. I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art the other day, and walked through the section of Impressionist and post-Impressionist paintings. There were a number of female nudes. According to contemporary standards, they are ugly--too fat, too hideous, not toned enough, with facial features not small and delicate enough. But the artists who depicted them were clearly enamoured. Why can't we still be pleased with those body types?
I don't want a man to complete me. In fact, I recently realized that I was more easily seduced by men who had traits I longed to have for myself, after reading Robert Greene's "The Art of Seduction." I didn't read this book to become a great seductress. Given my excessive concern for self-protection, I read it so that I would not be vulnerable to the tricks of seducers. Since this realization, I've worked on acquiring these traits, such as adventure-seeking, risk-taking, artistry/creativity. I realized how much I was held back by anxiety and fear and insecurity (traits deemed "anti-seductive" by Greene), so I've worked on decreasing their influence on me. I'm working to become the kind of person who wins my admiration and respect, the kind of person to whom I'm drawn. So that all I want is a man who is willing to come along for the ride, without getting in the way of my dreams and my adventures.
Friday, December 09, 2005
It's been strange to return to New York City. I see more and more what a gentrified nightmare it's become. Several of my old haunts have disappeared, replaced by more of the same. Individual neighborhoods are losing their character as small mom-and-pop businesses are replaced by more corporate outposts. It's become almost disorienting to walk up an avenue, and to see the same stores alternating over and over again. Even though I love Pret a Manger and Cosi and Payless Shoes, and tolerate Starbucks and Barnes & Noble, does there need to be an outpost of theirs every 5 blocks? Then again, I suppose they're able to pay the skyrocketing rent, while the mom-and-pop stores can't.
Since it's been so freaking cold, and with snow and gray gunk and puddles on the ground, I've resorted to taking the bus after work since the closest subway stop is a bit of a trek. And while gazing out the window, I see ubiquitous cherubic Caucasian children with blue eyes and rosey cheeks, pushed in strollers or carried by women of Asian or African descent. It provokes an uncomfortable jolt in my gut, and I'm not even sure of the entire reason why. Likely (well, hopefully) the children's parents are busy and hard-working. After all the time and money I've put into my education, I sure as hell plan on working through my childrearing years. I'm not one of those girls who is investing in an education in order to find an educated guy, marry him, quit the workforce, and raise babies. When (or if) I marry and have children, I won't be able to stay with them during the day, and will need help--either from family or a nanny. So I can't really judge the parents of these children, right? And with all the crap jobs out there, I imagine nannying isn't too bad for someone who needs work. So it's not like these nannies are being exploited or treated unfairly--at least, from my vantagepoint as an outsider sitting on a bus.
But still...when you see that all the children are Caucasian, and all the nannies are not, something just feels a bit wrong. Kind of like when I was in the OR, and all the surgeons would be white, while all the janitors and room-changers would be black. I don't think that the white children, their parents, or those surgeons are to blame, necessarily. But this segregation of economic status and profession seems emblematic of persistent racism, or perhaps race-associated poverty. The divide is just so striking. I wonder about those nannies. Do they have children? Who takes care of them? How much education have they gotten? If they are educated, why are they nannies instead? Why can't they also be doing the kind of work that their employers do, which prevents them from having time to care for their own kids?
I know that my cultural background is likely different, so it's difficult for me to judge the (mostly) Caucasian parents. My Korean grandmother watched my brother and me when we were kids, backed up by numerous Korean aunts. As far as I can tell, the average white couple doesn't have that kind of family support, and has to be self-reliant when it comes to child-rearing--which means a parent has to stay home, or the kids have to be put in daycare, or a nanny has to be hired. Perhaps a nanny is the cheapest option. I don't know. I have no idea if my mother and I will be on speaking terms when I have kids, and I have no idea if I will leave near her. Perhaps I'll consider hiring a nanny too. Unless I end up with a stay-at-home husband. *grin* Then again, it will be (hopefully) at least 5 or 6 years before I have to deal with any of this crap. I have way too much living to do before being saddled down with all this responsibility.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Monday, August 08, 2005
I had an advisory meeting today with some department guy I've never met before, and at one point he said, "You have a noticeably strong character." A bit stunned, I asked, "Really?" He then said, "Well, you're obviously no shrinking violet." I'm not sure he meant it as such a compliment, but it made me grin all day long. Progress!
Sunday, July 31, 2005
I lost a patient the day before my birthday. He was the patient whose wife I have written about in past posts. He was doing really well, and we had planned to send him home in the next day or two. Then, unexpectedly, he crashed during the night I was on call. I fought so hard to get everything done for him--ABG's, ECHO, CT, and so on. I wasn't ready to let him go. But when I looked at him in the early afternoon the next day, I just knew that it was too late, that he had already edged over the line between life and death. People on the verge of death have a certain look, a certain manner about them, which I now recognize after seeing it multiple times during the last month. Before I left, I embraced his wife and whispered in her ear, "I'm so glad I met you and all your family. I just wish the circumstances could be better." And she held me tight as she replied, in that thick raspy Southern drawl, "Ah know, honey, ah know." I was devastated. After I went home, I promptly ate a pint of Ben & Jerry's while watching Sex and the City episodes. (Such a cliche!) Yet another Northern Exposure reference: the episode A Hunting We Will Go, when Dr. Joel Fleishmann falls into depression after failing to save a grouse he shot while on a hunting expedition. (You have to watch the whole episode to really get it.) There's a scene at the end where he's crying in front of the TV with multiple open cartons of ice cream. Yup. That was me a couple of weeks ago.
Despite our differences in politics, I had grown very close to his family. A few days before he passed, his wife said to me, "Elizabeth, you have a good soul, and you're going to be a wonderful doctor some day. I can just tell how much you care by the way you smile, the way you listen, the way you are with us. And I can also tell that you don't realize how good-hearted you really are. Embrace it, and treasure it." Of course I began to cry. I haven't lost my emotions yet, although I'm sure desensitization will come with time and experience.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
I discovered the news while in a patient's room this morning. His wife was shaking her head at the TV, which was playing CNN's report of the event. She's a warm Southern lady with a smoker's raspy voice adding a gritty texture to her honeyed, elongated vowels. When I previously asked her if her husband had any allergies to meds, her response was, "Well, now, there's that Demerol...it makes him all itchy and flushed and red and miserable. I always remember that one, because it makes me think of Democrats!" Boy did I have to bite my tongue there. Anyway, this morning she was saying, "It's so sad over there. They have all those bad people who hate us, and who are teaching their kids to hate us. We've got to teach them that life can be much better. America is a great country, with a great way of life, and they should have that too. I want everyone to have that." It's not my place to argue with patients and their families about politics, but this made me sad. Do many Americans truly think that Middle Easterners don't know anything about love or goodness, and we need to export decency and morals, like we export MacDonald's and Britney Spears CD's, to those poor heathens who don't know any better? How are we going to convince them that we're good, and that they should follow our way of life, when we've killed so many of them, often without good reason? Of course they hate us! The invasion has just added gasoline to the fire.
I was on call a few nights ago, and accompanied the intern as we approached the bed of a patient who was bleeding to death. His skin was ghostly paper-white, presenting a stark contrast with the thick, scarlet stream of blood gushing from his mouth, down his chin and onto his hospital gown. The room stank of iron, like the smell of the toilet paper used to wipe my bloody genitals when I'm having my period. As just a student, I was helpless, standing there as a team of doctors suctioned blood out of his mouth so he wouldn't choke, and pumped pain medications into him so he could be as "comfortable" as possible while waiting to die. His eyes were huge, round, and focused on me. I couldn't meet his gaze. I didn't know what his mental status was, I didn't know if he had thoughts, if he understood what was going on. I didn't know how long it would take for him to die, and I couldn't stare at him, or have him staring at me, while it happened. It was a truly horrific sight, to see someone suffering like that, to see someone dying in such an ugly, messy way. I have seen death before, but it had always been quiet, composed, a whisper of a breath and then none. I couldn't take it anymore, and left the room. At that point, I wondered what I was getting myself into, and whether I could do this job.
Outside the room was the man's wife. She was quietly trembling, with a few tears sliding down her cheeks. We stood outside of her husband's room, silent, listening to the sounds of suctioning, beeping, shouting of the doctors. She knew that she was moments away from losing her husband, someone she obviously loved, someone with whom she had shared a life for many years. She was moments away from being alone. I ached for her, and failed to imagine what kind of grief she must be experiencing. After several excruciating minutes, I asked her about their kids. She seemed to welcome the distraction, and told me their names, and what they were doing with their lives. She exuded a mother's pride as she spoke about them. She even smiled a few times. The intern then reappeared, and after the wife said there was nothing more we could do to help, we left her waiting outside her husband's room. I went home soon afterwards. Her husband died while I lay in bed at my apartment, unable to sleep as I was haunted by images of him staring at me--so pale, so weak, so lost.
The intern told me the next day that after he died, there was a new medicine/psychiatry resident on call who was excited to practice his counseling skills on a recently bereaved family. The intern shared this information with a bit of disgust, which I shared. Sure, we're students who are using patients to learn, but hopefully we don't forget we're dealing with people, right? Not just learning tools. During my own health crisis, my medical student friends viewed my situation as another learning opportunity, as they printed me papers and rattled statistics. I kind of hated them for it; those relationships still haven't fully recovered, and probably never will. I'm not saying that I'm above such tendencies. I have some patients right now with very rare and complicated diagnoses, and while I empathize with their suffering, there is still a part of me that is fascinated by their diseases, and is excited to learn about them. I think to do this kind of work, you have to be genuinely interested in the information, and get some kind of satisfaction from it, or else you'll burn out. I keep that part tucked away whenever I speak to patients, though. I don't think it's appropriate to act excited about someone else's health crisis in his or her presence.
Most doctors, or would-be doctors, have a weird fascination with power. I remember when a former friend, now a bona fide doctor, told me about an experience on the wards, during either our first or second year of medical school (we were just babes then). He was given the task of informing a patient that she had a new diagnosis of cancer. As he described the experience, I felt an uncomfortable twinge in my belly, because he didn't seem to be at all sensitive about the terror and pain and loss the patient must have experienced at the time. Instead, he was caught up in the incredible power he had at that moment, as the bearer of such life-changing news. He kept talking about how great and amazing it was. The hell? I don't know whether he's changed, but since he's chosen a field which doesn't require much patient contact anyway, perhaps it's moot to even consider.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
I've been fond of Laura Linney ever since I saw the PBS miniseries of Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City in high school. She played the seemingly-goody-two-shoes character Mary Ann, who becomes seduced by the crazy world of San Francisco during the 1970's. That series began my fascination with San Francisco, and with gay culture. I didn't make my actual first gay friend until I was 16, a couple of years later. He's still one of my closest friends.
I'd occasionally taken interest in Laura Linney's career since then. She was passable in The Truman Show (which pretty much revolved around Jim Carrey, anyway), but I still thought of her as Mary Ann until I saw a film called You Can Count on Me. Laura beautifully rendered every thought and emotion of that character; she was so human, so vulnerable, so lost. She should have won an Oscar, but it was taken by Julia Roberts or Helen Hunt or some other blandly cheerful, opaque actress. Since viewing Laura's performance in that movie, I became a huge fan. (I also fell for Mark Ruffalo after his charismatic turn here.)
As someone who constantly seeks information regarding "smaller" or "independent" films (as they are charitably called), I had heard good things about her performance in a film called P.S. released last year, which received little media attention. So, while perusing through the selection at my trusty artsy local video rental store, I picked up the DVD to rent. Short summary: A Columbia University admissions officer named Louise (Laura Linney) meets a young student named F. Scott (Topher Grace) who bears an uncanny resemblance to an old flame, and they begin an affair. There have been a lot of movies lately with this sort of male May/female December bent, eh? That controversial movie Birth with Nicole Kidman also revolved around the possible reincarnation of a loved one, although in that case, it was a young child (ew). I can't bring myself to watch that one.
So, back to P.S. I dare say that Laura Linney is becoming typecast. While her work here is very touching and human and vulnerable, as always, I feel like I've seen this sort of character from her many times already. The lonely single woman who feels alienated and isolated from her surroundings. She has trouble reaching out and allowing herself to be loved. She has a troubled past and new secrets which threaten to take over her life. She has family issues--a critical mother, and again, issues with a brother (see also: You Can Count on Me, Love Actually). I appreciated the discussion about art, of course--because any talk of art will always move me, unless it's exceedingly pretentious or simplistic--but I wasn't particularly moved by her character, or what her character was experiencing. Compounding the problem was Topher Grace's performance. He's been praised a lot recently for his movie performances, but I found him inscrutable and wooden. His character didn't feel real to me. But then again, maybe he wasn't supposed to be very real--he served mostly as a fantasy figure for Laura Linney's character, anyway.
I think that the editing did a disservice to the film. When I saw the deleted scenes, I felt like I understood the characters much better, and their behavior made a lot more sense. Among those deleted scenes, there were some beautiful exchanges between the two main characters which I found far more affecting and emotional and electric than almost all the scenes that made the cut. I didn't "get" why the two characters were so into each other while watching the movie, but I "got" it, somewhat, after the cafe scene, and the basement scene (both deleted). The DVD includes the director Dylan Kidd's commentary for the deleted scenes, and he explains why they were deleted (mostly for story consistency purposes, since certain facts were changed from the script after shooting). But in the end, I think the film suffered from their deletion.
Some things to point out about this film: often when a main character in a movie is a praised artist, that character's art sucks. Some examples are Titanic and Big Eden. The writers and directors of this film seem to be quite knowledgable about art, and thankfully, F. Scott's paintings are genuinely beautiful. They're not particularly clever or groundbreaking...they have soft, slightly unfocused lighting actually remind me of Seurat's paintings and gorgeous charcoal sketches of opera singers and boys sitting on a riverbed, but with contemporary imagery. But they are beautiful enough to give me chills, and to awaken a deep ache, a deep hunger, to paint. I've not felt overcome by this sort of mad desire for months and months. But at that moment, I feverishly wanted to create something beautiful as well, to use color and shape to recreate life on paper, and to devote the rest of my life to this task. I had no paints, the moment passed, and so I'm typing about it instead.
Another thing that struck me about this movie was the objectification of the hot young thing, in this case male. Films, the vast majority of which are directed by men, usually objectify the young pretty female thing, showcasing her body and her charms for aesthetic effect. The tighter, sheerer, or more scant the clothing the better. Other than a bit of pale cleavage, not much was shown of Laura Linney's body. Instead, the director took her character's point of view to objectify Topher Grace's form. His body was much more thoroughly revealed and exalted, with lingering shots of his naked, well-muscled chest, back, and perhaps ass as well (that detail manages to escape my memory). Marcia Gay Harden's character at one point salivates over his "creamy skin." I think this may account for some of the woodenness of Topher Grace's acting...he's basically just a pretty boy mannequin for these older women to use for their fantasies. It's nice to see the guy objectified for a change. Let's see some more male full frontal nudity too! C'mon, Hollywood.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
My mother helped me move in, and as usual, doused my room with holy water, even though it was not facing the dreaded direction of north. My previous residence in this city had a doorway which faced north, and she was convinced that all kinds of terrible things happened to me because of this. Mold, fevers of unknown origin, bad grades, traumatic hospital experiences...all a result of my northward doorway, which prevented evil spirits from escaping the room. I suppose she was taking no chances with my new residence, because she tossed holy water around the room not once, but three times. She got a few splashes on me, but it didn't burn. So perhaps I'm not as evil as I thought I was.
I also picked up on a few of her curious phrases which I had either not noticed before, or forgotten. She kept saying "neighbor" instead of "neighborhood"...as in, "I like this neighbor, it's very peaceful." I was momentarily confused, because we had not met any of my neighbors. Also, when I complained about her making noise in the early morning, she said, "My noise is nothing compared to the other noises I heard all night long. Those noises were tiger, this noise is mouse." For some reason, she uses mice and tigers to describe degrees of strength.
My cousin took me out for an early birthday dinner, and one of her gifts was among the most hilarious things I've ever received. It's a stuffed hamster doll dressed as a doctor with a white coat and stethoscope. When you press its foot, it emits a blast of guitar rock and roll music, before it sings, "Whoooooooa, Doctor, doctor, gimme the news, I got a bad case of lovin' you. No pill's gonna cure my ill, I got a bad case of lovin' you." That's Robert Palmer, in case you didn't know. I don't remember the last time I laughed so hard because of something so silly.
It actually is kind of nice to be back. I don't know if I'll be singing the same tune once I return to the wards on Monday, but for now, it's nice. I still keep a wary eye out for exes, though. I admire those who are able to stay friendly and civil with exes, but I don't think I'm emotionally mature enough for that. I tend to freeze, quickly fumble for sunglasses to shield my eyes, take out my ponytail holder to shake my hair over my face, and turn my head away as I walk quickly for cover. In short, I treat exes like celebrities would treat paparazzi.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Most people feel a need to simplify everything around them, in order to make complex things more accessible, more understandable. They like clearly distinct labels and strict dichotomies. I often succumb to this tendency as well, although at times I try to fight it.
For whatever reason, we've decided that it's important to identify ourselves by racial category. This self-identification is reinforced every time we take a standardized test, apply for college, or fill out an application for a driver's license. In medicine, we're also taught to take the race of our patients into account, since studies have shown that different races as a whole have different risks for diseases, and different responses to treatment.
What happens when you don't cleanly fit into a single category? Others try to reduce you to one. Or they want you to talk about how you suffer from not having the luxury of belonging to a single category. Or they talk about how cool it must be to straddle several categories. They assume that it has a large part in shaping your identity.
When I interviewed for medical school, every interviewer (except the one for the school which I chose) asked about my "experience as a biracial person, and how it shaped who [I am] today." It wasn't necessarily insensitive or malicious; I could see that it was a misguided attempt to be politically correct. But being a biracial person (or at least, a Eurasian person who looks exactly like me) is not like being a person of distinct ethnicity. I was largely treated as a person without an ethnicity, since others were uncertain about what it was. Simply by looking at me, they could not easily categorize me. And I did nothing to advertise what my official category was. So, in a way, my experience was that of a person without race. I have never heard a racial epithet or a racial slur. The biggest annoyance is the "What are you?" question which people inevitably ask just seconds after learning my name. But I'm not about to spin a woe-is-me tale from that annoyance alone.
But apparently, people want to hear a dramatic story about how I never fit in with the Asian kids, and never fit in with the white kids, and suffered a tremendous internal struggle regarding my identity. I refuse to tell this story, because it's not true. Once I learned that I was not just white, but in fact biracial, there was no anguish involved. My mother was Korean, and my father was European-American, so I was half of each. Simple as that. I never felt the need to identify completely with one instead of the other. I was both and neither, and that was fine. I did not feel the need to simplify this complexity. I did have a hard time fitting in with kids, but this was because I was weird and a loner, not because I didn't fit into a single racial category. I never gave much thought to my racial makeup, and it did not affect my identity nearly as much as my sex (female).
However, I recently realized that being biracial has influenced my perspective in a way. I am more comfortable with complexity, with paradoxes, with mystery, than most other people. I'm drawn to artsy movies which are not easily resolved, with multiple meanings and open endings. For the most part, I don't need to divide people into strict, separate categories. I actually prefer for people to surprise my expectations, to show signs of breaking free of my initial impression of them. Several of my stories explore this idea. I strive towards nonjudgmentalness, and loathe stereotypes. I have a passion for freedom, particularly freedom of identity. It may also explain why I'm so fond of Percy Shelley's essay, "The Defense of Poetry." For Shelley, poetry is the yoking together of two disparate concepts or images, to synthesize something completely new and alive.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
We arrived at their utterly adorable house, overlooking a hill which converged with a large grassy meadow. There was a row of trees beyond that, and wild untamed grasslands. In the distance, there was a spectacular view of the Berkshire foothills, slightly hazy in the summer heat. Around the house was a wide variety of flowers and plants, many of them species unknown to me, meticulously cultivated by the couple. They had an area devoted to various breeds of lilac, and another area devoted to ferns. It was almost like being at the North Carolina botanical garden in Chapel Hill again. My eyes were probably bugging out of my head with astonishment...both at the loveliness of the place, and how deeply I desired someplace just like it.
In the past, I prided myself on my total lack of interest in real estate. For some reason, disregard for real estate was linked to youth and freedom in my mind. Whenever my cousin talked about cute craftsy homey Martha Stewart stuff, I mocked her for getting the urge to nest. I actually told her that once I got the urge to nest myself, I'd know that I had finally become old. So I became a bit distressed when so many friends my age recently began to talk about buying apartments or settling down and looking for a house...what? We're way too young for such crazy talk! We're supposed to travel the world, have adventures, be free to move at a moment's notice, not be tied down!
Well, now I've detected a glimmer of interest in real estate. Could the desire to pop out an infant be close behind? And then dentures? I hope not!
I want a house in the country, with meadows and trees and insects and bats and chipmunks. When I have kids, I want them to have trees to climb, flowers to smell, berries to eat, and secret places to explore and hide. I certainly do not want them to suffer from Nature Deficit Disorder. I want a garden with a huge variety of plants and flowers, and to know each of them by name. I want an open sky where I can see the shapes of clouds during the day, the streaks of color at sunset, and the constellations at night. I want to have a porch where I can sit outside, sip tea, and smell my lilacs. I want beautifully crafted wood furniture, and lots of paintings covering my walls. I want a homey, bustling kitchen with pots and pans and old-fashioned dishware. Egads.
Granted, I am in no rush to have any of these things. I still feel rootless, and will continue to be rootless for at least the next couple of years. And I definitely want to be in a big city for residency. But now I have this strong vision of how I eventually want to live. Surprisingly, it's not a cosmopolitan lifestyle in some tiny apartment in the middle of the city, with lots of interesting neighbors with stories to tell, as well as a large variety of restaurants and artistic options nearby. It's out in the country. Ugh...that sounds so dorky! So not edgy. I might as well start wearing flowered Laura Ashley dresses and putting ribbons in my hair and acquiring cats.
However, I wonder what the communities are like in these sorts of towns. Probably mostly white and wealthy. I wouldn't want to be yet another example of white flight, to escape to the idyllic, removed countryside so that I don't have to confront the poverty and ugliness which plague so many other people in this country. Part of the appeal of cities is the forced confrontation with people of so many different backgrounds--not only socioeconomic or ethnic, but also political, vocational, and so on. And if I do have kids, I'd want them to get to know kids from all sorts of backgrounds, not only the mostly white and privileged ones. I'd feel guilty about soaking up the sensory pleasures of living in the country, and easily forgetting the suffering experienced by the poor and the homeless. At what point should your own happiness supersede awareness of others' misery and injustice?
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
I was once obsessed with a television show called My So-called Life. There was one episode where Angela (Claire Danes) decided she was not ready to lose her virginity to Jordan Catalano (Jared Leto), leading to their breakup. In the last scene of the episode, we see Angela riding a bike, tentatively letting go of the handlebars until she's able to pedal with her arms stretched out horizontally. Her voiceover: "People always say be yourself. Like your 'self' is this definite thing, like a toaster. Like you can know what it is, even. But every so often, I'll have like a moment, when just being myself in my life, right where I am, is like, enough." I had one of those moments yesterday. I did something which was totally, unapologetically me, even though I knew the other person would likely not get it, or appreciate it. But I'm still glad I had the courage to do it. I don't need this other Person to validate it, or validate me. And it's, like, enough.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
I am in love with the British import sandwich chain Pret a Manger. Their chicken avocado sandwich makes my belly very, very happy. Can they please open a branch in Durham?
The most accomplished and experienced Iraqi doctors are fleeing the country. Good lord, it's total chaos, utter lawlessness. With violent threats, mounting casualties, rampant malnutrition, intermittent electricity, outdated equipment, and lack of access to medications, I can't even imagine what the doctors there are going through. Can you imagine needing a gun to practice medicine, for fear of being ambushed, or being the target of angry extremists or relatives of a patient you couldn't save? I can't. Does Bush not see that this is indicative of a poorly-run occupation? That we haven't even come close to curbing the violence over there? How are things going to get better if he doesn't even acknowledge the gravity of the situation in Iraq?
Hmm, I've been accused of having a pathological lack of trust...maybe I need a kick of oxytocin?
Although I'm a bit ambivalent about the ethics involved in his work, I think it's adorable that Woo Suk Hwang feels it's important to talk to the incubating embryos. He said, "I could communicate to cows eye to eye...I want my laboratory to communicate with cells heart to heart...If there are no humans beside the incubators, they may feel very lonely. So I discussed with my members. We decided that someone has to be beside the incubators and talking to the cells." Talk about a work ethic...7 days a week, 365 days a year? Damn, that gene definitely did not end up in my chromosomes. That cursed polar body stole it from me.
This Salon article about the President's Emergency Plan for AIDS relief made me almost cry with tears of frustration. Abstinence-only sex education is so clearly not effective, and will do nothing to abate the AIDS crisis. When legitimately helpful programs are already underfunded, and millions are dying without access to drugs or proper education about how to protect themselves, it's criminal to pour money down the drain like this. And now he's resisting the proposed $25 billion increase of funding in support for Africa. Ugh.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Then again, maybe it's karma. Yes, I did once end a relationship (well, I don't know if I'd call it that...perhaps a 3-4 month "association" is more accurate) by saying that I'd call...actually, promising that I'd call, giving my word, the whole shebang...but I never called. Then again, that was when I was in the throes of crisis, and knew that I could not handle his emotional immaturity. A self-protection thing. What these guys are doing is condescending, and makes me doubt the integrity of their word. If you don't want to talk to me again, don't pretend that you do. I'm perceptive enough to see it anyway. I don't need these silly little rituals. Oh wait, you perform them to make yourself feel better. Well, it's more unpleasant for the person being rejected, so stop it. Granted, I never thought you were hot shit anyway...with my "unreasonably high standards" and all.
In passing: A pale, pasty white guy with a high pitched voice was saying, "So there was this black girl, with very very dark dark skin"...yeah, I think we get the point. The extra "very" and "dark" are not necessary, dude.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
It's amazing how easily annoyed I've become after living here. I've been muttering the phrase "stupid bint" under my breath constantly, whenever someone gets in my way as I'm trying to reach my destination in a timely fashion. I don't know how I'll deal with my imminent return to the South.
So, as always, I've been vacillating between medicine and not-medicine. I had pretty much decided on medicine until I went to an MFA reading at Columbia, to hear my father's college friend who recently finished her poetry degree there. And...it was just like the open-mike events I held, except that there was an abundance of people who actually wanted to be there. And the readers were such a diverse group who opened themselves up completely, whether to share bits of their poignant-but-somewhat-cliche memoirs, pedestrian fiction, charmingly simple poetry, or fantastic mind-games and artful literary constructions. There was one guy, a more classically handsome Jeff Tweedy-type with overgrown wayward tendrils of just-got-out-of-bed hair, well-worn jeans, lazy crackling-fire voice, and sleepy eyes...he read the most amazing anti-fairy tale about a parent who loathed his afflicted, limbless children and concocted all sorts of schemes to get rid of them. Although it was quite dark and nasty, it was also inventive and funny and beautiful and unexpected. I got warm prickles down my spine, and just felt ridiculously happy while hearing it. Of course, at this point, I immediately wanted to do an MFA in writing instead of returning to medicine. Not only because I love creative writing and want to improve my skills, and actually complete something of which I can be proud, but also to meet and hang out with people like him. Like a dork, I did end up writing him an excruciatingly self-conscious e-mail, telling him that I liked his story. He wrote back, but in typical me-fashion, I have yet to work up the nerve to read it.
But then today I finished Jonathan Kozol's Amazing Grace, and once again I feel like escaping into the world of art or academia would be very intellectually stimulating, and would certainly tap into my passions, but would also be utterly selfish. There's so much work to be done in order to improve the everyday conditions of people's lives, and medicine is a much more practical way to do this. I wish I were more interested in family practice, because of course that's the most logical way to reach the poor and underserved, but I got very little enjoyment out of my family medicine rotation...largely because it was too general, and most of the work was too unchallenging. Perhaps I should consider infectious diseases more strongly. While I disagree with my college PI take on oncology, which he called "the disease of the rich," it does not seem to be as immediately helpful for the health crisis of the poor...it would only involve a select few, rather than impact the bulk of the poor population. However, oncology also offers an opportunity to ostensibly heal people, or at least help them come to terms with death, and die with as many choices possible, in the most humane way possible. Weirdly enough, part of the job is like being a midwife to death. And for some reason, that kinda appeals to me. Maybe because it helps me come to terms with my own turbulent, complicated feelings about death.
Next book on my list is Baghdad Burning: Girl Blog in Iraq.
More interesting things I've seen and experienced around the city:
1) A guy jogging by himself in Central Park, wearing a tank top that said "Group Leader" in orange on the back. Maybe he used to be a group leader, but no longer is? Or maybe he is currently a group leader after all, but a really bad one? Or maybe he has a sense of humor about what he wears, and wanted to make the irony known?
2) A lost beaded bracelet on 5th avenue, forlorn without the wrist it used to encircle.
3) A group of Eastern European immigrants on the elevator, all dressed in head-to-toe black. The man had a massive white beard and a black hat, and the women wore dresses and black fabric over their hair. They were bickering loudly, and were so stereotypical that I wondered if they were actors.
4) The guy who outlandishly claimed I was a "supermodel" (yeah, okay, on what planet?). When I went to John Cameron Mitchell's birthday party, I put together an outfit which I hoped evoked a punk ballerina (sparkly lavender poofy ballerina-esque skirt, mandarin-collar sheer black shirt with metal hook ties, black fishnets, black ankle strap shoes, smokey eyes/pale lips), but ended up more Avril Lavigne. Bleh. Anyway, a homeless guy on the subway said that I looked "like a supermodel." I laughed and pointed out that I was about a foot too short. He then said that he wanted to escort me to wherever I was going. And then I got creeped out, smiled, and said I'd be fine.
5) The Christopher Brosius I Hate Perfume store in Brooklyn. Christopher Brosius founded the great fragrance line Demeter (known for its bizarre, curiously accurate, often humorous fragrances, such as Funeral Home, Sugar Cookie, Dirt, Mojito, and This is Not A Pipe), and also made Alan Cumming's eponymous fragrance. He transformed an old garage in Brooklyn into a perfumerie (called, curiously enough, "I hate perfume"), with loads of different single note scents grouped by category: water, wood, sweet, skin, foody, floral, fruity, etc. Some of the weirder scents included roast beef, skunk, Easter 1967, barber shop, thai curry, rubber cement, ink, and English novel. I spoke at length with the cute bearded Swedish sales assistant who wore flip-flops and well-worn jeans. When I asked him if I could try the daffodil fragrance, he admitted that he didn't know what daffodils were. He asked if they were Easter flowers, and quickly confused them with lilies. I attempted an explanation using the phrase "yellow frilly trumpets." I asked him what he was wearing, and he saucily said that it was Demeter ("Day-may-ter" in his accent) Riding Crop. I ended up purchasing a 15 mL vial of Mediterranean, which immediately brought me back to the rocky (non-sandy) beaches of Nice (oh, how I miss the south of France!), but I think I'll have to go back for Macadamian Coffee, Petal on Water, and Ginger Lily. And possibly Siberian fir and English novel.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
1) A white truck with the words "Dead Baby Services" written in black above the windshield. There was a baby doll in a pink dress strapped to the front grid part. She had black x's over her eyes, and a reddened bandage around her head.
2) A man outside of St.Patrick's cathedral, who wore feathers on his head and made rather authentic chirping bird sounds, freaking out the tourists and passersby.
3) A row of naked child mannequins in the window of Daffy's, presenting their plastic asses and spread-eagled legs.
4) Numerous firm, spandex-clad posteriors of cyclists as I jogged in Central Park
5) Purplish-black tulips, with a brilliant sheen reminiscent of a dark horse's well-brushed coat
6) The Basquiat exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum. The Charlie Parker room was astounding. More about that soon.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Coffee
I grasp a styrofoam cup filled with coffee
Heat seeps into the skin of my fingertips
When I touched the skin on your chest
The heat of your blood seeped into my fingertips
The ghostly steam swirls upwards
Into the frozen air of February
Your ghostly breath swirled outwards as you sighed
Into the frozen air of December
I press my lips against the lips of the cup
Its saliva is bitter and black on my tongue
I pressed my lips against the lips of your mouth
Your saliva was bitter and white on my tongue
The cup grows cold in my hands
I shiver
Your affection grew cold
You slipped away from my hands
I shiver
Monday, May 09, 2005
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Diane Arbus
I decided to go to the Met to check out the current Diane Arbus exhibit, even though I wasn’t a fan. I knew that she had committed suicide. I was curious to learn more about her life.
I really appreciated the inclusion of personal artifacts. There were pages from notebooks, reproduced scribbles and lists, her cameras, postcards, letters, and even a model bookshelf. There were pangs of recognition when I read her thoughts about Plato, and descriptions of her dreams...for a second I thought, yes, I'm like her. An artist. But without a medium, and without discernibly outstanding talent.
The most difficult part of the exhibition was the last group of photographs, those taken from 1970-1971 before her suicide. Most of them depicted middle-aged and elderly adults in an insane asylum. They played on the grass, or walked in groups, clutching each other and laughing maniacally. They wore robes, and some of them wore sinister masks. Most of them had their faces stretched into wide, blank, mindless smiles. Both masked and unmasked, they were amongst the only smiling subjects seen in the entire collection. These images were like the dream projections of a profoundly tortured soul, and were almost unbearable for me to view.
Leaving the museum, and re-entering a world of color, I was struck by how beautiful the world was. A cheesy sentiment, I know, but true. Trees heavy with abundant pink and white blossoms. Graceful arches of green leafed branches overhead. None of this beauty was in Arbus' photographs...I wonder if she could see it, appreciate it? Or if her cloud of depression prevented her from seeing anything but outward reflections of her own misery?
I also wonder about whether Arbus wanted to be treated, or should have been treated...would she have lost her art if she also lost her depression? Would she have been willing to take that risk? Is sacrificing one's own mental health worth producing something extraordinary which will survive, which will seep into the souls of others, after your death? I worried about this when I was a freshman in college...I associated my depression with improved creative ability. And I'm not sure I was wrong...I read some of the stuff I wrote back then, and despite the lack of focus, it's wild and beautiful and crazy, almost brilliant. I can't even imagine creating anything like that right now. Although I ultimately chose my mental health over my creativity and artistry, sometimes I do wonder what I lost in the process.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
The Art Teacher
There I was in uniform
Looking at the art teacher
I was just a girl then;
Never have I loved since then
He was not that much older than I was
He had taken our class to the Metropolitan Museum
He asked us what our favorite work of art was,
But never could I tell it was him
Oh, I wish I could tell him --
Oh, I wish I could have told him
I looked at the Rubens and Rembrandts
I liked the John Singer Sargents
He told me he liked Turner
Never have I turned since then
No, never have I turned to any other man
All this having been said,
I married an executive company head
All this having been done, a Turner - I own one
Here I am in this uniformish, pant-suit sort of thing,
Thinking of the art teacher
I was just a girl then;
Never have I loved since then
No, never have I loved any other man
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Anyway, the drumming circle. I could hear the pounding of the drums outside the apartment, and I felt a flutter of excitement in my belly as we ascended the stairs. The apartment was enormous, and quite beautiful. The walls of the kitchen were completely covered with collages of magazine and art cut-outs, many of pop culture icons and fashion images--plenty of divas and muscular men. I was introduced to a few radical faeries, including a guy who wore an orange cap with a green stem, who called himself "Pumpkin." We moved to the den, where there were enormous, dramatic, mysterious paintings and a multitude of plants. A circle of men were pounding on their drums, some intensely, some merrily, some ecstatically. Joe started to do a sort of stomping tribal dance, and entreated me to join him, but I was too shy. I'm fond of dancing, but I prefer to do it with darkness and lots of other bodies to obscure me. I walked inside the circle to a basket of different musical objects--bells, rain sticks, maracas, and so on. I picked up a bell and began to hit it with a stick, in time with the music. Eventually I built up the courage to take a drum, and tentatively found a rhythm. After a few minutes, I really got into it, and lost myself. My hands began to hurt, but I didn't care...I needed to make noise, I needed to make my rhythm known, I needed to contribute to this community of sound. In a weird way, I felt connected to my drumming Korean ancestors, and I regretted not being a part of the Korean drum group in college. It was lovely. There were men dancing around us, reminiscent of a pagan ritual--some old, some young, some thin, some fat, and many scantily clad (Pumpkin, for example, was shirtless, and his too-loose pants kept drifting down to reveal the top of his asscrack and a bit of pubic hair). An older man performed acrobatic leaps and twirled around poles, and also grinded against a few of the other guys. The guy drumming next to me said, "It's such an amazing, transporting experience, isn't it? As good as drugs." As someone who's never done drugs, I couldn't say...but I did have a bitchin' time.
When we took a break from drumming, we went around the room and said our names. Some guys had nature-inspired names such as Waterfall, Moonbeam, and so on. I was just Elizabeth. An older gentleman commented that I had "wonderful energy" in my drumming, which was a nice compliment. I wish there were more drumming opportunities out there...I remember going to the huge drumming event which takes place every Sunday in the big park in Montreal. There were lots of competing drumming circles, as well as musicians who brought other instruments--trumpets, flutes, saxophones, and so on. It's so inspiring to see spontaneous communities form for the sole purpose of creating art and music.
Saturday: I met with an old friend whom I hadn't seen in almost a year. Although he has been through a lot, with a breakup and all, he was as crude and exuberant as ever. He has a kind of light about him, which I really enjoy. His friend mistook us for siblings. I'm not sure if it's because we look alike, or because we feed off of each other's energy.
Today: I wore a nametag inadvertently placed a little too low on my breast, and an older woman commented to me, "I like what you did with your tag." She was apparently not being sarcastic. The hell? Was she hitting on me? I am clueless when it comes to this sort of thing.
I have a fear of commitment to medicine, like many people have a fear of commitment in a relationship. I struggled so much with the decision to continue because I believed that all other possibilities, all other dreams, would disappear. If nothing else, my last relationship opened my eyes as to what life as an artist is really like, not how I idealized it to be. As far as I can tell, it involves a lot of compromise, a lot of self-doubt, and most likely, working a shitty day job to pay the bills. After working shitty day jobs, I've realized that I can't do this for much longer, and want to do work that I find meaningful again. After "playing the field" work-wise, I'm finally ready to commit to medicine. I think. Although I still intend to write, to draw, and to express myself creatively whenever I can. I'll go insane if I don't.
As for relationships, I still feel very young, and have no desire to be involved seriously with anyone. I feel like a bit of an anomaly, since so many of my friends are in serious relationships, or are looking to settle down. Eventually I wish to meet someone who satisfies me physically, emotionally, and intellectually...the best I've done so far is 2 of 3. But for now, I just want to figure out what to do with myself, create something meaningful, and be free for adventure.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
I've never had any sort of dream which was a premonition, but maybe my father is able to tap into something that I can't. I can only hope this means good things for me.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Dear _____,
However I try to relate to the dull and conformist masses, I have no desire to become one of them, and keep the distinction clear. Despite others’ claims of my elitism and snobbery, I refuse to see trashy Hollywood movies that I know that I’ll despise, to pretend that I’m not a feminist, to use language that simply repeats what others mindlessly express with no hint of individuality or creativity, or to be happy about corporate America as long as I get my Starbucks coffee and Banana Republic khakis. In a review of a movie called “Ghost World,” the writer described one of the main characters as a “maladjusted searcher for authenticity,” and that’s sometimes how I see myself (when I’m feeling especially pretentious). So, in kind of a fucked up way, I try to seek out authenticity in others, to get them to reveal to me what others do not accept: the ugly, the shameful, the disgusting, the misunderstood beauty that is not deemed acceptable by our current social standards. I apologize if I’m repeating myself…this is a song that I sing quite often, and I suspect that I may have already tired your ear with it.
Anyway, at the moment, I feel like the conflict is not so much whether to have bland friends or not, but whether to push my bland friends to talk about what interests me, rather than babble about gossip or about the weather or about celebrities. I tend to be somewhat passive in conversation, especially conversation in large groups…if I were to take more of an initiative, to push people to speak about topics that actually occupy my mind rather than make noise for the sake of forgetting how lonely we are…then maybe I’d find my friendships more fulfilling. Then again, I have tried pushing friends to talk about meaningful topics from time to time, with less than satisfying results. So maybe I’m fooling myself…maybe I would do better to turn to Camus after all…(I’m actually looking to read Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason first, in addition to all the other books that I have to finish, but Camus was an old favorite of mine back when I was taking French classes…his style is the complete opposite of mine, pithy but profound with brilliantly developed images, which both thrills and irritates me because I know that right now I can’t produce anything with such power.)
Your description of your love for travel and your desire to become a “wandering scholar” made me smile, at least partly due to recognition. I spent some of this past summer wandering around the south of
During my last day in
Shit. You really suckerpunched me with your description of your relationship with the girl who had such a predilection for asshole boyfriends. You started off with some bitterly sharp humor which made me laugh despite myself, and then you swerved into such gorgeous poetry that my breath was taken away. I imagine that you’ll continue to vacillate back and forth between the two extremes you described, of needing and exchanging vs. withdrawing and observing, before you settle on one or the other. It seems that when you (or I, or anyone) begin with one extreme, it seems so perfect and lovely and dandy, but then gets tiresome as you start to think more and more about the other extreme, which becomes more and more attractive…and eventually you switch over to the other extreme, and start all over again. Ideally, you could merge these two extremes which right now seem so diametrically opposed, but if there’s a way to do it, I sure as fuck haven’t found it yet. Still, let’s save the cynicism for when we’ve amassed more wrinkles and creaky joints, and continue to search for that elusive balance…or some other alternative that works better and leaves us fulfilled and satisfied. Or maybe this sort of pendulum is necessary for growth, for change, for movement…who would want to be so fulfilled and satisfied that life becomes static? (I remember as a five year old girl lying in my bed at night, unable to sleep, thinking about death, I was horrified at the thought of heaven and eternal life…because there would be no change. Heaven would be always perfect, for all eternity. Every day would be exactly, blissfully, the same, and there would be no end. For whatever reason, this terrified me more than the idea that our lives would end with death and our bodies would rot away). But then again, who cares if life is static, if you’re fulfilled and satisfied? Gah. Experience, as you say, may lead to more answers, or at least more questions which may flesh out the dilemma.
There’s something about Belle and Sebastian that works well with traveling through England…I listened to them constantly when I was wandering around Edinburgh, and their songs perfectly complemented the green rolling hills and densely situated gray Victorian (or so I’ve been told) buildings soaked with rain. My signature song is “Judy and the Dream of Horses” from the “If you’re feeling sinister” album…I constantly sing it out loud in the car, or walking in hospital hallways as I go from patient to patient, pretending that I have a star and a parrot on my shoulders. You may also want to check out the Reindeer Section, which is a hodgepodge band filled with members of Belle and Sebastian, Snow Patrol, and others. I think that “If Everything Fell Quiet” is one of the most beautiful yet simple love songs that I’ve ever heard.
I hope that you haven’t completely abandoned your admittedly idealistic vision of how architecture may better the world. I imagine that through your studies you’ll continue to develop your philosophy and hone your ideas regarding what you want to accomplish with architecture, and how you can use your skills to improve quality of life (such a popular catchphrase in the medical community, ugh). And how architecture can perhaps truly revolutionize the way we interact with our environment and with each other in the confines of our shared environment. I won’t write too much more about this since you mentioned wanting to take a break from thinking about it, but you’ve certainly impressed upon me the tremendous power that architects have to shape our lives. Although there is the risk of catastrophe you mentioned, I perhaps naively feel like risks need to be taken in order to improve the shitty states of existence here in the States in this day and age, whether in rundown urban wastelands or cookie cutter suburban hell…perhaps some are complacent with their current conditions, but how could they know any better when their souls and their free-thinking minds have been sucked out of them? I am assuming that I know better than the majority of this country’s population, but, well…look at the approval ratings of our current president. And the top five movies at the box office. Alas, my snobbery and elitism make themselves known once again.
--MeMonday, April 04, 2005
Dear ___,
I’m listening to my latest purchase, Neutral Milk Hotel’s “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea,” which strangely seems like an appropriate aural backdrop for this long overdue letter. I’m also all aglow from checking out the Wilco documentary, “I am trying to break your heart,” about the making of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, which I listened to over and over and over and over again this past summer. God, I had forgotten how much music can make me feel, and how much it can heal. Same goes for art…when I was fucking drowning in despair after losing a kid last Wednesday (one that I was caring for during my current Pediatrics rotation…she was only thirteen), I was able to escape from the pain and somehow exist on this alternate plane which was pure light, pure motion, no thought, no body. My existence was narrowed down to a precise point of concentrated power. This is what happens when I draw or paint.
So to begin, I’m going to comment on the e-mail that you wrote months ago describing your thoughts about architecture and what it means. I must guiltily admit that in the past I was of the group who barely paid any attention to the buildings around her, and when I thought consciously thought about architecture, I thought about the Guggenheim or other showy buildings that deviate greatly from more generic-looking ones. Ugh, how awful it is to see that I’m just like rest of the ignorant masses in this regard! I think I’m slowly gaining a greater appreciation for architecture though…I decided to work on a silkscreen project for a friend of mine, and have chosen as my subject some areas in downtown
Okay. So to go back to your e-mail (how quickly I get distracted!) I was struck by how your description of the divide between the phenomenologists and political architects seemed to echo what I was reading earlier today about the divide between the Romantic poets Keats and Shelley; the writer described Keats as a poet who yearned for a life of pure sensation, while Shelley wished to put poetry at the center of politics, to reshape a more just and egalitarian world. I don’t agree wholly with the writer’s supposed opposition between the two poets, but it was fun to wrap my mind around a dichotomy that echoed the one that I explored months ago when reading your words. It seems that the phenomenologists were about simply feeling and experiencing…that the person who is experiencing the architectural object is a partner in its creation. While the political architects seem to be like designers of a pipe system, or of a dairy farm: making sure that the flow of moving things is as untroubled and logical as possible, with much less allowance for the individual experience and more interest in directing large groups of people. While I do have such an affection for the Romantics, I must admit that there is much value in the logical construction of a building or city. There was many a time while lost in the crazy spiderweb of streets in
I had not realized how the personal visions of the architects Le Corbusier and Frank Lloyd Wright led to the unfortunate byproducts of dilapidated urban ghettos and mind-numbingly conformist suburbia. It’s quite disenchanting to see how these lovely ideas meant to make our living situations more humane get completely fucked up in their execution and their unchecked overabundance.
So what do you see as the purpose of architecture? What is your own philosophy about the meaning of what you do? Or do you simply do it, without bogging yourself down with too much philosophy about the purpose of it all? (Somehow I don’t see that from you.) I imagine, from your description of how you work, that you incorporate aspects of both the phenomenologists and the political architects…what other considerations do you make about the effect the building will have on its inhabitants, and how the inhabitants will respond to the building?
As I mentioned earlier, I’ve been having a rough time with the death of one of my patients, especially since I feel partially (although irrationally, as the residents have told me repeatedly) responsible. She had a genetic disorder that made her unable to metabolize protein, and would have episodes of greatly increased blood levels of ammonia, which is toxic to the body (especially the brain). She was admitted because she was suffering the effects of too much ammonia: confusion, dizziness, somnolence, and weakness. She was put on medication to bring her ammonia back down, which worked, but somehow, without warning, she suddenly shut down. Her brain scans revealed that her brain was swollen with fluid, and she was clinically brain dead. Her family is just devastated, of course, and I’m overcome with sadness for them, as well as guilt…I keep thinking that if I had been more thorough, if I had looked carefully enough, I could have seen something that perhaps could have tipped the odds in her favor. I suspect that it comes from trying to combat helplessness and lack of control…by thinking that I could have changed the outcome, I can fool myself into thinking that I had some power, some effect on this kid’s survival. I don’t know. When I spoke with her mom before the event leading to her brain death happened, she had been so hopeful that her daughter would get better. She described her daughter’s flourishing interest in reading and writing, her daughter’s constant fighting with her brother (“although he feels guilty as anything when she ends up in the hospital”…God, what he must be going through right now), her daughter’s pride in her hair which she had grown all the way down to her waist. I’m constantly haunted by images of her comatose body in the Intensive Care Unit, her forehead stained brown for a reason that is unknown to me, her family crowded around her bed, in vigil. Her parents wiping tears from their eyes, their faces immeasurably weighed by grief. Her grandmother’s mouth drawn down and her eyes empty of hope, the way she shook her head when I, in my ignorance of the full extent of what happened, asked if the girl would be OK.
Well, it’s 2:20 a.m., and I still have to write my H&P, and have to wake up to be at the hospital by 6:00 a.m….so unfortunately I’ll wait until the next e-mail to write about chaos and about the art exhibits that I saw in France (which you saw, too…at least in my mind) and my gay ecstatically dancing Jesus in a blue tank top and red clam digger pants and a seventies David Cassidy hairdo. I hope that all is well with you.
--Me
P.s. To just start the bit on my thoughts about Chaos, I was struck by how those who came up with it were able to disregard classically defined limits imposed by conventional physics and mathematics to understand this beautiful concept that had been hidden all this time as scientists disregarded “experimental error.” It reminds me of a quote from a David Mack comic book (paraphrased): “The rational conform to the rules of the world, while the irrational make the world conform to their rules. Therefore, all important breakthroughs are made by irrational people.” Now, I take some issue with his use of the words “rational” and “irrational”; I don’t think the dichotomy is really correct with those words as the opposing poles. But I think that the sense of his statement is still so important. That pioneers of any kind, whether in physics or art or medicine, must break free of the limitations imposed by previous interpretations of their fields in order for new discoveries to be made. This was certainly the case with the Cubist artists, the modernist writers, and those who created the theory of Chaos. And, well, any link that I can draw between science and art makes me happy, especially a virtue of art that I believe in so passionately: destroying perceived limits and expanding the possibilities of thought and experience and understanding, opening our eyes to previously unseen aspects of existence.