it's the season of eyes meeting over the noise

My biochem problem set is boring me greatly, and nothing's going on at work except for running into an old Calculus buddy, so I'm going to discuss something that's been on my mind lately. Actually, an alternate title for this post is "Slippery Thoughts."

*
Sometime in the last month I was making my cautious way along the south 700 North sidewalk. It was snowy and the sun was shining, making it really quite treacherous. On my way I espied a young man who was also making his cautious way along the sidewalk. When we passed, we met each other's eyes for a brief second, and I knew: He was as determined not to fall and make a fool of himself as I was. We both knew that we would be the height of kindness (perhaps only laughing a little) if one of us fell, but why not save ourselves the humiliation and stay upright?

We both managed it. I did spend a moment pondering what a good "meet-cute" that would be, especially if we both fell. But I was more amused by our shared determination not to fall at all.

*
That first day it was warming up was dreadful for walking. Other days have been dreadful for walking as well (today may just be one of them), but it was of such a degree that I announced as I blew into my apartment in a rush, "The parking lot is ice-skatable today!" How fun. I had to go around the front so I could get to the places I needed to be on time without having to slide my feet carefully along the terrible sidewalk.

I kind of wish I'd had time to take advantage of it. I am rather poor at ice-skating.

*
My roommate Allison always falls instead of me. It's kind of nice for me, but kind of awful for her. Last week there was this huge puddle where we usually walk through. Not only that, but the ice surrounding the puddle was abnormally icy. It would have been terrible to fall into the 2-ft deep puddle (I exaggerate not). I know this because Allison did fall in it, and it was awful.

*
Basically I just wish that it wasn't ever slippery. Or that we had puddles that make it hard for those that don't wear high heels (luckily yesterday I was) to traverse. Ice and snow are okay, though. Moderately.

"Atheist Christmas Carol" ~ Vienna Teng

I can see what I've begun

Hello. I am cultivating a grey hair. Over Christmas break it was almost bang-length, and I took great pleasure in teasing it out to hang conspicuously over my hair to make my family comment, but they never said anything, so I forgot about it.

Until a couple weeks ago, when I found that it was very short. It must have broken, brittle as it is. So I'm trying to grow it out again.

Hooray.

Why, you may ask, do I not just pull it out and preserve the illusion of youth?

Because I like being old. I feel my years, and my grey hair proves it! Hahahah!

"My Medea" ~ Vienna Teng
[that was tricky. i wonder if there's a better song for this.]

one by one the neighbors' lights come on

How would you like to see my essay? Very little of the content is really "news" to anyone that's read any other entries in this blog, but it is something I wrote. Some of it is actually okay. It is entitled "Details."

The stars were bright as I walked to school one Wednesday morning in fall, but I barely glanced up long enough to find Orion, one of two constellations I can identify. I’d done plenty of stargazing the past few days: my new habit was coming to school at six in the morning.

Most people are smart enough, when they’re taking sixteen credits that mostly contain advanced biology courses (with a smattering of Creative Writing on the side), to carefully arrange their work schedules to give them as much free time as possible to do my homework, or social things. Clearly I no longer belong in this category. It showed some remarkable lack of foresight to dismiss my schoolwork with a wave of the hand, scoffing, “Oh, pshaw. Who needs school, anyway?” With this idea in mind, I blissfully signed up for about thirty hours of work a week. Not on purpose, really. But the advanced ballet classes needed a talented, experienced pianist with good knowledge of the combinations; the voice teacher needed an accompanist who could sight read the pieces her students sang; and the Ecology teacher needed someone to take a load of grading off her single-mother shoulders and conduct review sessions about climate patterns. Who was I to deny them the assistance that I could best provide?

Then I started attending my classes. Knowing that I had a full work schedule, I went from class to class with an increasingly desperate expression on my face. Did they all think it was the only class I was enrolled in? That I had nothing better to do with my life than work on their class? My academic inclination, buried all summer, came roaring back to life and threw my glib dismissal of homework into shambles. I needed, according to my calculations, thirty-hour days, some of those hours for extra sleep. As far as I know that hasn’t been accomplished by any time-twisting feat to date, so I wondered if I needed to begin making arrangements for my funeral.

By far the most time-consuming class that semester–beating out even Plant Cell Biology and Plant Breeding & Biotechnology—was Mentored Lab Techniques. The premise appears fairly simple: complete lab protocols before a certain due date. This provides students an introduction to the way things work at the Genetics Laboratory and gives them an additional appreciation for being a lab slave: They will, by the end of the semester, have successfully completed a real-life experiment comparing the genomes of Arabidopsis (the genetics model plant) and aspen.

It’s not that simple.

At the end of the first week, I had unwittingly completely destroyed my experiment twice and made an enemy of my handsome Nepalese TA, Prabin. All of my classmates had completed their assignment, and I was left alone in the lab (except for the graduate students, who are actually supposed to be there) to glare balefully at the pipettes I was supposed to be using for my PCR reaction.

PCR (polymerase chain reaction) is supposed to be an easy reaction to accomplish. It’s a method of amplifying DNA so that there’s enough to work with in subsequent experiments, and all you need to do is take some reagents, pipet them into a microcentrifuge tube, and mix it all up. Then you pop it into a thermal cycler and it magically multiplies. You wouldn’t think that could be messed up. Believe me, it can.

I did have other classes, not to mention a bit of employment, and I soon struggled finding time to spend an hour or two in the lab every day trying to get my gel to run. Thus the brilliant 6 a.m. idea was born. What could be smarter than coming in before any other living soul (besides the Army on their morning run and the custodians) and trying to find the E. coli in the vast array of fridges and freezers in the laboratory? I thought I was ingenious; my roommates thought I was crazy.

That particular Wednesday morning was chilly. More than that, it was downright frosty. The stars glittered coldly above as I took my scarf and wrapped it around my head like a babushka’s headscarf. I was grateful that there was no one else around, because I was fairly sure I looked like an idiot. Or a Russian Jewish girl straight out of Fiddler on the Roof.

“Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match,” I caroled. I was alone in the lab, and if I sang it helped soften the harsh truth that was coming clear to me as I stared numbly at the newest failed gel image: I simply could not pay attention to the details. Little things like wearing latex gloves, getting ice for my reagents, and mixing my reaction carefully were rationalized away in my subconscious before I even noticed that I had neglected something that could prove to be important later. And I wondered why I was failing the class?

The irony was not lost on me. I’d always gotten good grades, and past experience has shown that I can succeed at anything with a bit of work. But succeeding at lab work continued to elude me—and lab work is the only job I’ll be fit for after I graduate. Some foresight would’ve been wise, because I knew from the start that a lab technician wasn’t my dream job (is it anyone’s?) but still I neglected to major in anything that lead to a dream job—possibly because I haven’t figured out just what a “dream job” would be. Definitely not anything to do with PCR.

When I went to ballet that day, I was reminded again of how much detail orientation is required for just about everything in this life: ballerinas must be completely in tune with their bodies at all times, keep good posture while executing difficult moves, and even remember to point their toes and keep their fingers straight. It’s probably not something I’d excel at. It’s a pity, because ballet is pretty (and who doesn’t want to be pretty?). Instead I make my paltry contribution by trying to choose the best music to enhance their dancing experience.

By the time I made it to Voiceworks Studio that afternoon, I was feeling my extended run of early mornings, but I was alert enough to plunk the ivory. In the months I’ve worked there I’ve discovered that I’m practically getting free voice lessons as I listen in, waiting for my chance to play. But the details combine to defeat whatever singing aspirations I might have (which certainly don’t extend far past the empty genetics laboratory): there are so many essential habits that must all be employed at once. Debra (the voice teacher) must give the same speech about posture and breathing about fifty times a day, not to mention resonance and belting. I’m content enough to play louder when they’re supposed to sing louder.

The stars were shining brightly and the moon was rising by the time I got out of voice lessons. I gave them a cursory salute, not even looking up to find the constellations. As I got into my car I tried my hand at belting the song I’d played for most recently; nope, no good. What could I do that didn’t require details? I could drive. Pretty well, actually, except when sunsets or moonrises distracted me from the road. There was some multitasking there, but after playing piano for years it was hardly a struggle for me.

Then the lightbulb came on (or was that my headlights?). There are lots of nitpicky details in learning to play the piano, and I’d learned them. Sure, I may not be able to improvise terribly well, and finer points of theory continue to escape me, but I can play—with curved fingers, no less. Life wasn’t hopeless after all! If I wanted to learn to sing and dance, I could. It would just take some work. Of course, learning to sing and dance couldn’t be top of my list that fall: lab work was. I almost smiled (it’d been a long day) and hummed as I set my alarm, new eagerness for my 6 a.m. appointment with pipettes blossoming within me.

I wish (I really wish) I could say that at this point lab work came easily to me, and I passed the class with flying colors. Instead, I learned that details aren’t all that goes into a successful experiment (everything that goes into a successful experiment still elude me, to my distress). But details are an important part of so many aspects of life, and learning to pay attention to them is a skill that can be applied to other places—like the sound of sentences I write. It’s just a matter of choosing to see, feel, and hear.

"Antebellum" ~ Vienna Teng

gotta see, gotta be

Two poems I wrote this semester:

Roommate

She is brushing her hair in the dark
the light from my bedroom makes shadows
I watch her from my desk. Does she know
how beautiful she is, the mirror
we can barely see reflecting her
only slightly? It’s hard to see her
but I realize she’s smiling at me
while I stare and wonder, reflecting
on her reflection. I smile back, and
our mirror interaction holds us,
for merely a second, together
then she leaves. Her hair is smooth and sleek
and I return to my work once more.

Sunday Afternoon
The leaves are crunching underneath her feet,
they hiss and rattle with each step;
she’s ankle-deep, and weeping as she walks,
her face a tragic portrait. Tears go dripping down
to fall on dress, on shoes, on ground—
her heart is broken. Those who pass her on the path
know not to reach a hand or look away
so gaze at leaves, their bright and vivid colors
the purpose for the expedition on this day.
A pity she who cries can’t see them.
Her eyes are blurred too much with tears.


Yep. Now I'm going to keep working on my story.

"Hope on Fire" ~ Vienna Teng

dead of night how bright you glow

The moon and I had a chat the other night. I've always felt a special little affinity for the moon; she's a lot like me (and not just because of the name). Thursday night I was driving home from work and she had just risen over the mountains, about halfway up the sky. Wreathed in clouds and illuminating them so that half the sky was bright, she was full. (Awkward sentence much?) Her light was persistent, distracting me from the road and urging me to look at her, look at all the cool things she can do in the sky with those clouds.

I could hardly look away. I tend to be a dangerous driver just because nature is so lovely (when my essay is finished, I'll post it here and you can have another example of that). I even stopped at the store even though I didn't buy anything, just so I could look at the moon for a couple more minutes.

After work I went back to school. I had assignments to complete and the buildings don't open until six in the morning, so an evening job I went to. It didn't work out (my lab protocols rarely work out) and I was a little disheartened as I left campus.

The moon was high in the sky, shining down like a little spotlight. "Don't be sad," she seemed to be saying. "Look at me!"

I did. But you can't walk very far with your neck craned all the way up, so I didn't watch for long. It was so much smaller than it had been earlier. The clouds had all disappeared, and the stars were dull compared to the brilliance of the moon.

The next morning I walked to school just before sunrise. The moon was in the west, large and luminous as before, but in a background of blue rather than black and gray. "Hello," I said. I stole glances at her as often as I could, this new incarnation somehow more beautiful than any of the others. "Remember when I was a spotlight?" the moon still said to me. "I was really bright!"

later on that morning I couldn't help it; I looked for the moon again. once found, though, i had to recoil. This was not my shining companion of the night. She was pale, listless, fading. "I don't want to talk to you," I whispered.

She shrugged, apathetic in this new incarnation. "I'll be bright later on, if you will wait for me."

All I heard from the moon that night was a subtle glow at the rims of the mountains. "i can't wait for you to rise all the way," I said. "I am cold and tired and hungry, and you were so different this morning I don't know if I can face you."

"Maybe later."

"Feather Moon" ~ Vienna Teng

everybody looks so luminous and strangely young

I tried an experiment this week. In Marriage Prep sometime last week we brought up the sad fact that girls have to wear makeup and guys don't. (I talk a lot about marriage prep. It's a good class.) We discussed why that is. I decided to rebel against society and not wear makeup.

Monday was okay. I was dressed in pastels and my hair was down, so it was overall a light effect and I thought, "This isn't so bad. I can do this." Tuesday wasn't as good because my hair fought a little bit with me and I couldn't hide it behind a little bit of makeup (not that I put makeup on my hair, but a prettier face can distract from sloppier hair sometimes), so the overall effect was a little slovenly. Wednesday and Thursday got progressively worse, and Friday I stopped caring and just wore a sweatshirt, completing the "I don't care how I look" appearance.

I was scared for Saturday because I went home for my dad's concert (he's in Craig Jessop's new choir [he used to conduct the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, for those who don't immediately pick up on the name] and they sang Mozart's Requiem, which is a really awesome piece) and my mom's not afraid to tell me that I look ... like I could be improved with the application of some makeup. but she didn't say anything.

That's about the point that I thought that this might all be in my head. Nobody made a comment all week long, and maybe it was just my insecurities that made me feel a lot less attractive than usual. Sunday morning (today) I was excited, but also a little apprehensive. I asked my roommates if they thought I looked respectful enough for the Sabbath, and they didn't even think about the fact I wasn't wearing makeup. They just laughed at my nun clothes. (The word was actually "harvard choir girl" but isn't that about the same thing?)

So now that I know that people don't say anything when I don't wear makeup, what's next?

I'm going to go back to wearing makeup. I didn't feel comfortable talking to people (this includes boys, girls, professors, employers, etc.) because I felt like they were judging me for not enhancing my natural beauty (actually especially girls, because they WERE wearing makeup). I'm a lot more insecure about myself without knowing that I've made at least some effort to look pretty. On one occasion or more I saw someone cute (oh shut up) and they were looking back at me, then I ran away because I didn't want them to see me not at my best. And except for Friday I did try to look at least presentable in my dress.

So that was an interesting experiment. You all should try it sometime. That is, if you're a female that conforms to society mores, which most females at BYU do. I think once I get married and move out of the bubble I will feel more secure about my face without enhancements, but right now it's...not that way.

(I did think my friend Andrew was a lot more handsome that time he came to school with foundation and eyeliner still leftover from the roadshow the night before. Why shouldn't guys wear makeup?)

The end.

"Nothing Without You" ~ Vienna Teng

they're handing out doughnuts and pizza pies

In Preparation for Marriage we do this thing where you sign up for a Friday to bring something that symbolizes what you "bring to the table" in your relationship. Food is preferred, because it's 8 in the morning and people need the extra energy.

So I signed up for a day and started thinking about what I wanted to bring. I had it narrowed down to ham'n'cheese puffs and rolls. I asked my mom and my sister and they both said that our famous rolls would be the best shot. I had some homemade raspberry jam in the fridge, too, that wasn't get used at all because I don't eat bread. So, great, rolls and jam.

But we were supposed to talk about how that showed what we brought to the table in a relationship. People so far had been saying, "We like making these cookies at my house." I wanted to be different. I thought at length about it.

It was about 5 in the morning when I started making the rolls for class that day. I didn't have a whole lot of hope that they would turn out, because I have this weird curse of things I make never looking/tasting the way they should. "That's something I can bring to the relationship," I thought when it didn't look like the rolls were rising. "Failures despite effort."

When it came time to taste the rolls, they seemed to be okay. Actually, they were pretty good. By that time I decided that the real thing I was bringing to the table was raspberry jam, to make me look domestic. The rolls were just to eat the jam with. Of course, I didn't make the jam. But I could've!

(That's what I bring to the table, I thought. Credit-stealing.)

I wanted the rolls to still be warm when I got to class. It was 7:30 and time to leave. I wrapped them in foil and then in two plastic bags to insulate them. Then, to insure that they didn't succumb to the brisk morning air, I stuck the package inside my jacket and wore it to school. I was holding it from the bottom, which looked sort of silly, especially when it started falling out.

"That's it," I decided, head held high against the weird looks I was getting. "I bring to the table a lack of caring what I look like as long as the function is improved. These rolls are not going to be in the best shape ever after their travail against my stomach, but they'll still taste good. And they'll be warm."

So I got to class, displayed the rolls proudly in their foil-and-grocery-bag decor, and was a huge hit.

But the teacher didn't give me the opportunity to say why they represent what I bring to a relationship. I was disappointed, and decided that all that rumination called for a blog post. So there you go. :)

"City Hall" ~ Vienna Teng

so far, so good, but you can't go on much longer like this you know

I disappeared off the face of the earth!

Still don't have time to make the posts I want to (for reference, they are a eulogy for my old phone and what I Brought to the Table for Marriage Prep a couple weeks ago), but I wanted to not be emo.

I even changed my blog title so I look more defiant than scarred.

Well, got to run! Love both of you lotsa and lotsa.

"Shasta (Carrie's Song)" ~ Vienna Teng

she is a dress wearing a face

The weirdest thing happened to me a little while ago. I started singing "Polaris" by Jimmy Eat World, then I stopped for a second because there was a peculiar sound coming from my pocket.

My phone was singing "Polaris" with me. I have no idea how that happened.

Oh yeah. I got a new phone. My much loved Motorola LG was confiscated by my mother, because "it's so ugly". So I have a Nokia camera/music phone. Fun, but I still miss my phone. *sigh*

Also just a little while ago, I was down in the ballet studio dropping off my music, and Isaac was there. (I'm pretty sure I know his last name, but I want to preserve some of his privacy.) He was ward choir director freshman year, so I smiled brightly at him as I left.

And he totally just ... looked away quickly. He was talking to Jeff at the time, but I wonder about that. This brings me to something I've been thinking about lately, and that is the acquaintances I've had in my wards.

I pretty much remember everyone's name and face. Not everyone, but I recognize most people and where I know them from. I'm also good at pretending not to see them, so if they want to say hi to me, they have to start. Most of the time they just glance away quickly as well.

Unless I happen to be in a class with them. Then they're all chummy "We were in the same ward two/three years ago!" and I wonder what changed. I don't really care if you talk to me or not.

And I wonder why I'm not good at keeping friends? Ha!

My computer took half an hour for me to be able to use it just now. Silvey is getting old.

This is one of my more random posts. >.< Sorry about that.

"Whatever You Want" ~ Vienna Teng

feather moon, starlit sky, dead of night, my blinded eye

My roommates commented the other night that various things about my blog seem emo -- namely, my title and subject lines. I'm not an emo person. I promise. I'm a generally happy person.

Just not today.

Yesterday when I walked to school, the stars were still out. Nice and bright. I picked out Orion and the Big Dipper (the only constellations I can actually identify). When I walked home from school last night, the stars were out.

The reason for this? My Mentored Lab Techniques class. I've never hated a class so much.

Basically, what I do is try and follow lab protocol and get the right results. Have I ever managed to get the right results? Never. But I always keep trying. I spend hours and hours in the lab, doing and redoing all the various steps.

All in vain, of course.

But that's not the worst of it. I sort of realized last night/this morning that this class will probably ruin my life more fundamentally than a failing grade and a possible non-graduation.

See, I spend a lot of time around ethidium bromide. EtBr for short, this molecule intercalates between the bases of DNA (which makes it a great gel stainer). If you touch it, it can intercalate between the bases of your DNA. It causes mutations. Since I'm just a tiny bit reckless (I do try to be careful, but I do silly things like wear my gloves to not get it on my skin, then use my gloves on my computer, then later on take off my gloves and still use my computer) I'm certain I've been very exposed to EtBr.

I'm going to get cancer.

Worst of all, I think, is if it goes and gets in my oocytes and mutates them. That means that I will have mutated children.

Dang it, I'm crying again. I've been crying all day.

I also have carpal tunnel. At least, I think I do. My wrists hurt a lot, at any rate. The lab work requires a lot of little intense turning things -- changing the pipets, opening the autoclave, and ... other things. today my wrists are so stiff I can hardly type -- I'm going to have to mark at voice lessons, and that makes me feel bad for the singers. I can't keep doing this.

What would make a good name for this disease I have where I cry for no reason? Lachrymosia? Lachrymosis? Ooh, I like that one.

I want to have beautiful, healthy, normal children. I want to play piano. I don't want to work in a lab all my life.

title from "Feather Moon" - Vienna Teng