At work when no one's looking...

I tool around on websites for scientific discoveries, like the two-mile carpet of sea-life deep, deep in the ocean where new species like this cuddly fellow were discovered. Not that I sit around fanticizing about being a deep sea diver or anything. I mean hi:

But sometimes I daydream about having a job where I get to sit around reading cool stuff all day and, like, learning. Oh, wait, I am a student. I forgot. But I’m a grown-up student. The kind who still has to go make money and stuff on top of all the studying.

I usually check out the NASA photo of the day, which is often something like this wicked beauty:

But lately, with all the space shuttle blah-blah, has been more like this:

And now, I'll go do some actual work. To which I say PHHHHHT.

POET TAKES EXTRA 5 MINUTES TO VAGUE UP POEM

from The Onion

ANN ARBOR, MI—After completing a poem originally titled "Last Dawnbreak," local poet Keith Taylor spent five additional minutes removing verbs and punctuation in order to give the piece a level of vagueness more suitable for publication.
"Harshness your light fallen—Sporadic. Droppings." reads the now-untitled poem's opening line. "Juniper glass, my world of 19—. Orion! Orion!"
Though he has already replaced the names of his friends with largely unknown African deities, Taylor said the poem would not be totally ready for publication until his 5-year-old nephew completes work on the third stanza.

Brains.

I’m trying to write a poem about Anna Akmatova. She’s a dead Russian poet who was censored by Bolsheviks. She stopped writing for a while, then wrote and burned everything, then kept writing and invited her friends over to memorize her poems, then she burned them.

As I understand it, the catalyst for writing again was another mother who, standing in the cold hoping for news of her children in the prison—these mothers went to the prison every day and stood in the freezing cold for hours hoping for news of their sons—recognized Anna and said to her, “Please, describe this.”

I want my poem to honor her in several ways—and because I’m going with a scientific angle for this project, my idea is to approach from the perspective of neurology:

What is true is that no matter what we learn about the brain, mind, cells, of neurological thunderstorms that fire between neurons to create thoughts and feelings, we can’t locate the soul. There’s nothing that anyone could probe in Anna’s brain, or mine or yours, to retrieve these poems. A neurologist can point a pin to the part of the brain that makes an arm move, say, but they cannot locate the part of the poem that desires the arm to move.

Anna’s poems were safe—and what a solution to censorship, to memorize them and to put them in the minds of others. What a demonstration of the power that creative writing has. It’s threatened an entire government, destabilized countries, healed masses, told the stories that may have otherwise gone untold. Further, Anna couldn’t stop writing for long. And she wouldn’t stop writing, which speaks both to the power of the urge a writer has to write, and to the determination of this amazing artist. After all, she was risking her life. Many more people have been killed for far less offenses.

Consider the brain, though: Not to get all mystical, but it truly is a mystery. And in Anna’s experience, functioned as a sort of locked chest that all at once holds the treasure, but would appear empty if broken into. Well, that’s just kind of beautiful. It is a hiding of art—like human beings are hidden in secret rooms behind book cases during wars. Authorities might’ve heard the echo of the footsteps, but wouldn’t have every found the source.

The Lion

Okay, okay already. I’m back. It’s just summer, you know? And I’m working full time and writing a thesis. And swimming in the lake by my house a lot. And S and I are on our third family visit in the past month. Woah, Nellie.

My 31st birthday is on Monday. You know how some people don’t really do birthdays—maybe go out for dinner or something, or just exchange a simple gift or two. Others loathe birthdays and feel grumpy about getting old and freak out about how the haven’t done what they’ve wanted or generally get depressed about how long its been since they’ve been carded for a drink (or how long it’s been since they’ve been out for a drink)? Yeah, that’s not me. That’s a bunch of crap.

I love birthdays. Maybe it’s the Leo in me. Maybe it’s that fact that I have a low tolerance for misery, and therefore have the drive (and fortune) to have lived a life that’s included lots that I’ve wanted out of it. Maybe it’s the parties, or the fact that turning a year older only means I’m in a better position than ever to make what I want out of my life happen. As for the other stuff - crow's feet? - pish! Who cares!?

Leos are stereotypically known for enjoying attention, having fabulous hair and enjoying parties thrown in their honor. Yes, that’s all fine with me. Every person deserves these honors, I think, and I’ll gladly shove any friend into the spotlight to celebrate their birth, existence, their lovely lives.

I usually drag my celebrations out for a week at least. There’s the Actual Day fun stuff:
There shall be no working on the birthday. No, no indeed. Birthdays are for sleeping in, sex, cupcakes for breakfast, the spa, soap operas, swimming, toenail painting, wine with lunch, a phone call to my momma (she’s the one who did the hard work, after all) and dressing up fancy for a night at a cool restaurant that costs too much and has really fantastic Triple Chocolate Desserts of Death.

Then there’s the “weekend evening near the actual day” where one gathers one’s friends for a big social event of some kind. There shall be no stressful planning for this on the birthday-girl’s part—just the giving of the guest list and the showing up looking cute.

And then there are the ongoing random events for friends who couldn’t make it to either of those events—for example, I’m going to dinner and drinks with my friend Liza at some point because she can’t come to the party.

If that sounds a little self-indulgent, that’s because it is. It’s supposed to be. Everybody gets one. If they don’t use it, well, that’s just foolish. Why people don’t take advantage of the natural excuse for a day like this—a birthday—is beyond me.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my tiara’s in a box around here somewhere…