post-grad update 2

goal for the summer: become a master guitarist.

one who interpolates slow jamz, pop music, and random goodness to guitar.

Stop.....


now think about it.



First goal, play this song like the guy on the right:

...though I don't like some of the lyrics...

a recurring problem with song choice, whether learning to play, or putting on a mix.

Post-grad update 1

Interesting how every summer I seem to go through the same thing.
-Perhaps it's weather related (these stupid Minnesota summers are always so hot and cold, literally)
-Perhaps it's having a self-created schedule, meaning I'm as busy or free, as organized or disorganized as I want (or don't want, but have a habit of) to be
-And my personal favorite: what happens when I'm free to do whatever I want and I'm faced with myself? Can I handle what is there? What about what isn't there? Things I never saw much of in myself - laziness, apathy, no direction - are all coming up, like monsters hiding under my bed.

Where to even begin?

How about getting a job?

That may take time, but in the meantime I donated to the Ashley Ames fund. That's doing something. It's not getting organized. It's not giving me direction. But it is helping someone who has clear direction and needs - healing.

Loss...

How to deal. Is it to start over, or to push through (or can it be both?)?

Is this a loss? For me?
I don't have answers to so many questions these days.

It is true, though, that for the last four days of my trip back home (from which I returned on Tuesday) I was traveling in and out of emotions like I was a bird flying through the clouds.
Contrary to what some may think (or perhaps nobody but myself does...or did, rather,) I am not an emotionally present person. I am emotional, yes. But when I take a second and I think: How am I feeling right now? I can't really tell. Can I ever? Should I be worried about this?

I was home in Champaign, IL for the past two weeks, returning Monday and Tuesday so I could work Macalester's reunion. This story comes from the last week of my trip:

I was visiting the mall in town, for what I thought would be a successful purchase of some beautiful purple Adidas that were on sale. When I learned they were sold out of my size, I thought I had reached bummer city, but it turned out I had only reached a rest stop on the way. I decided to check Plato's Closet (a resale shop that sometimes has good, and lightly used shoes) on my way home to see if I could turn my frown upside down. I ran into a friend, 'H.', there. I thought she was just on the clock...but she wasn't at all. And here is where things get really hard for me to type, spending minutes sometimes thinking of how to phrase a single sentence or thought.

How can I explain the thoughts that popped up when she said their house, the Bunny Ranch, had burned down that morning? The shame at my lighthearted tone before she told me she wasn't there for work, but for clothes, because she now had nothing but the pajamas she'd been wearing when she ran out of the house? The shock and horror when she said her housemate, 'A.', had been asleep and hadn't made it out of the house, and was in the burn unit in Springfield, 3rd degree burns covering 80% of her body...? (do people survive that? I asked myself).

No, there is no intelligible way to describe everything that came over me, other than my outward appearance, which was a withdrawn, awkward, wall of shock, more or less. In too much shock to even think to give her a hug...have I become that distant?

She said I should call Ian and tell him. I did it immediately. I can't handle this alone...help me Ian! He picked up, slightly beyond his standard consciousness ("Cookies"), at a weekend music festival. He said he already knew...whew! I don't have to break the news to him!.. but thought it wasn't as serious...minor burns was all he heard...and of course, that they lost all their possessions. No, I said, I heard it just a minute ago from 'H.' I feel like any of the girls in the house would be kept up to date, if anyone were. To this, Ian agreed. I know this is shallow, he said, but...I don't know how she's gonna handle that...I mean, she's so pretty, and her looks mean a lot to her. I know that's important, and it will be something she'll have to face, but not if she doesn't make it through recovery first, I said (though not in these words exactly...this is all paraphrased, more or less, unless otherwise noted)...we need to do something.

When we got off the phone, a night alone ensued. Adam was in Chicago, taking the night off from his scheduled gig, and having a personal sized gluten-free pizza from Lou Malnati's, where, rather than using a mix of gluten-free flours for a dough, they press ground sausage into the pan to form the canvas on which all other sauce and ingredients bake (I wonder: what does a vegetarian person with celiac do?). Ian was at the festival. Mom was out. I thought, but more than thinking, I tried not to let it get to me. Nothing can be done. I don't even know her that well. But this still affects me. I laid down and I watched RuPaul's Drag Race until it was too late to do anything else but go to sleep.

_______________

The next day, nothing.
It was on my mind, in my gut, as I went to my dad's shop, as I went to Board Boutique and played S.K.A.T.E. (which is to skateboarding, what H.O.R.S.E. is to basketball) with Dustin, as I had dinner with my dad and stepmom, as I hung out with Devin. On my mind, in my gut, and never out my mouth. keep it inside.

At Devin's, Ian calls. I leave Devin and her friends in the living room for a more respectful and quiet place on the balcony. Once I'm settled, Ian tells me of his trip to Springfield and the group visit to 'A.'s' bedside. How much it meant to her parents that her friends drove to see her. How her mom was smiling, lighthearted, and so welcoming, and at the same time able to say: that girl in there is not 'A.' She's a different person. What it must be like to go through this....What it must be like to go through this! ? ! ? ... ?
He told me of his repulsion at realizing her septum ring had turned red hot and burned her nose above and beyond the severity of the rest of her face.
Doctors opened her chest and pulled out her organs to clean them, one by one, of their smoke damage (what they could, at least). She's on a respirator. Her survival so far has been a miracle...she'll make it through the night. This is a day by day, hour by hour kind of situation? yes.
Throughout the whole conversation, he couldn't get over the fact that it was a fire. "Fires don't happen anymore! When was the last time you heard of a fire like this?" Over and over...but he does kind of have a point, I can't think of anything.

Devin came outside to check on me after what must have been 35-40 minutes. DEVIN, I'm Sorry! I hope you understand..but I need to be here for Ian right now (and for myself). But when I come in...please can I cry on your shoulder? Can you be the sister I never had, this one time? We always joked about it...
I told her everything was O.K. (Everything is not O.K!) and that I'd be in soon. I say that, Devin, but I don't know how much time this will take, and I'll be here as long as necessary.

We continue. I know this is horrible, Ian says, but maybe it'd be better if she didn't make it. I don't want to say it, but I think it too. I can't say it, yet, but I'm thinking of the medical bills and lack of health insurance, the use of resources for one girl who may not make it (or who may make it and wish she hadn't) that could be allocated to others. I'm wishing that I knew her better...but maybe it's better that I don't... it would only be harder.

It goes on, it goes on. There is really no point at which the doubt, questions, concerns, scenarios stop playing out in our heads. I have been in and out of tears this whole time. There is no point at which to say "O.K. I feel better. I'll talk to you later." But, we run out of things to say and start repeating, and he is almost in town anyway, so we make the motions to hang up. He asks if he can come by and see Devin, and suggests we go to the diner after. Plans set, we hang up.

Back inside, things have wound down. Devin and her apt.mate remain, the show we were watching is over, their friends have left. She asks if everything is OK. I answer with the standard, "not really," then break into everything we talked about.

No tears. Why am I not crying? Is it because of her reaction? Why does she sound so callous to me? Someone almost died, and may still...and whatever the circumstances, I feel like at least before she's healed she doesn't deserve this kind of talk about her. She can't even engage these kinds of thoughts in conversation - she's in a drug-induced coma...FUCK! But I don't want this to drive me away from people...this should be a time of coming together.

We talk and things get better, they always have, even if not immediately. I push...I don't know if she'll be accommodating, but I push in the only way I know how (which is probably not pushing at all) for her to see my point of view, and her tone starts to change. Maybe she can tell I'm bothered and does it to make me feel better. I don't know. Before long, Ian comes and we all talk a bit - more of his stories from the festival than the Bunny Ranch fire. But Devin is getting tired, and we are as well.

Unsure of what lies ahead, I depart with Ian from Devin's. I am exhausted - at this point, I'm well aware that worrying can achieve that like no other - and going to Merry-Ann's (the standard 24-hr diner in town) would only exacerbate things. I'm thinking of the long couple of days ahead of me, and part of me wants to curl up and disappear from the world between this evening and my travels back to MN. But we are here, we are now, if Ian needs my help, I will stay.

We reach our cars. We've decided to go by the Ranch and see what it looks like now.

When we get there, it looks the same as when I drove by the day before:
When 'H.' had said "burned down," I envisioned a pile of ashes.
When Ian had said "I don't think it's that serious," I didn't know what to think.
When I turned onto their corner, I wasn't sure if it would have been better if it'd just burned down completely (except that 'A.' was inside). The front porch, completely charred. The evergreen tree in front of the house will for as long as it stays alive (if it actually survived this) bear the mark on its northern side, which is now needle-less and covered in soot. All the windows and doors are boarded up. The couches and chairs on the porch are no more than the metal frames that once held their stuffing in its contours. The kiddie pool they had bought earlier that week and setup in the front lawn was almost completely deflated, and all I could help but think was...that damn plastic penguin standing in front of the pool with the upside down cross on its belly must have had something to do with it. I am not one to believe in Christianity, but I couldn't help but think of this omen.

When Ian and I arrived that night at around 1am, it was the same as before. But this time, I got out of my car. Beyond the caution tape was another world. The only thing that permeated this invisible wall between the two was the almost mesquite smell lingering in the air. Why does this smell like a sweet bar-b-que? That's not right.... Perhaps if the smell had been as repulsive as the sights and where my mind took them, we wouldn't have noticed the pile of clothes that lay on the grass, roughly below 'A.'s' bedroom window. They had been on fire...or, at least, parts of them had. Bra still inside shirt, underwear still in pants. They looked as though they had been ripped or cut off...but from who? Please say it wasn't her! Please say the heat and fire that done this wasn't on her body as well! We both shiver with repulsion at the thought.

When a guy skated up and asked us about the house, it almost reminded me of the last scene in Donnie Darko: "so this is the house with the fire?" Ian said yeah, that it was friends, and that one was really hurt. That these clothes we were standing in front of may have been on her. Before rolling away, the guy, half-turned, said his goodbye, that he hoped she was OK, and that we have a good night. Yes, I hope so too.

____________

The topic did not disappear the next day, when Hani, Ian, and I got lunch at Zorba's Gyros. It had been almost two years since Hani and I had seen each other, and we could talk about nothing but the Ranch for the first while. It still never got better. Talking, in this case, brought no sense of relief other than the escape from a strictly internal dialogue. But it offered a rare chance to see the humanity of my friends, for which I feel a profound sense of gratitude.

And though I tried to avoid it, the topic came up before dinner that night with my bro, my mom, and Stephen. It didn't feel much better to get their consolations, but at least it wasn't worsened...that's all I could ask for. And it was in this conversation we realized: the dresser my mum had given 'S.', the one that Adam had drawn a hidden eye inside of, the one which had been in our house from my birth until three years ago, was now gone. Good bye, dresser. You were something to hold on to, but now you are a reason to move on.

____________

The trip back to Minnesota was long, as usual, but marked by an even longer layover than usual - 9 hours. I had so much time to think - not something I was prepared to do - I had to find a way to escape. I was so tired, in as many senses of the word as I've ever known, and some I hadn't. It's strange how much something can affect me, when I wasn't very close with the most-affected person. But it's not just about her. It's about what I saw in my last few days back home, and what I didn't. It's about the people she loved, and who loved her. It's about the house as a place, as a home for many, being gone. It's about a summer's, and next year's, and many years to come's visions and dreams that burned up with the fire and now must be redreamed.

And it is about what I tell myself as a result of all this: we are not invincible.

____________

To the four of you, my friends, I think of you often, and I wish for your safety, for shelter, for family; that support, love, and generosity meet you as you move through this and through life. I know there may be a benefit concert, and I will come back for that, but if there is any way I can help you or give you support from my current location, do not hesitate to ask. You mean more to me than I know, and I regret that it took this for me to realize that. You are amazing people, and the world needs you.

To you and to myself, I love you.

Reed

and another thing...

(this accompanies the post directly below, probably best to read after) The story line of the game is set, you can't choose your character, change your name, or make any decisions as to the course of the game. Which means I'm at the mercy of the developers in who I play as...I guess he does look a little like me, but what if I don't want to be him? What if he didn't look like me? Why are my assistants always beautiful women? Why is the only other woman in the game other than my assistants/nurses an anesthesiologist? All the heads of the hospitals and surgical units, and other surgeons, are men. Hmmmm.

This game never made any claims to be realistic though...aside from the part where they try to make a facsimile of a real surgical experience. But hey, who really cares about particulars?

I'd want to say some shit about the global economy...but my brain is in some weird state between graduation and "real world"...struggling to find meaning through what all I learned, and re-membering it all again in a new context of my post-grad existence. These are the most salient...and I feel there's more I could say, I just can't find it.

Oh...to be a graduate.

Videogame post #2: Trauma CTR, Under the Knife!

No...this time I did not finish a game. This super sweet image, though, is me getting ready for surgery! I just wanted to write a review of sorts, and use that as a chance to expound upon my love for science.

So, first: TRAUMA CENTER!
It all started this weekend. My bro was DJing at Exile on Main St., a local music, movie, and videogame sale/resale shop. I was hangin out and I spotted:
-a used Nintendo DS.
-Trauma Center (a game I'd been wanting to buy a DS just to play when it came out)

So, when I got home later that day, I started going through my videogames. There's so many I don't even play anymore...it's not worth keeping them at this point. I just graduated - I'm not trying to hoard anything. So, I got together what I thought would be my least-used/missed stuff and took it in Monday. I traded for

this thing.

And...drumroll....


Screenshot:


This was one I just did (not my screenshot, of course, but it looked just like this), a girl's lungs were all tore up, so I had to cut her chest open with the scalpel (tools are along the right and left edges, and you have to make the motions with the little pointer thing on the bottom touch-screen part! So advanced this thing is!), drain blood with some tube thingy, pull the wounds tight with forceps, suture with needle, disinfect w/ some gel shit (all without letting the heart rate in the top left corner reach zero), and I thought I was set. But NO!
Apparently, she had some kind of fish, insects, sharks, or some other parasitic, pointy things that were causing all this damage. Right when I was about to stitch her up, they tore through again, and I had to use ultrasound to find them...then I cut them out, shot them with the laser, fixed up the wounds, and BAM, she's healed. Time to call mom and dad, she'll be ok! The Bio-terrorists won't win today (not happy about this game exploiting the "terrorism" narrative going around these days...).

One of the things I love most about this game is, it makes me feel almost like a real doctor...except for that one question that always pops up when the inevitable (for me, with my video game skills...or lack thereof) failure comes up: "Retry?" If only it were so in real life. "Why yes...I would like to do Tina's surgery one more time...I think I could have done a better job suturing up that wound, if you know what I mean...?" or...you know...maybe it's not Tina's time to die yet...and my rookie doctor skills shouldn't determine that.

I wonder what kind of hospital has only white staff and treats only white patients...perhaps this is set in an alternate universe. The "Angeles Bay" where the game is set could be anywhere...could be nowhere...but it doesn't seem so far away from reality (a certain California bay I'm familiar with seems like a pretty close match)....eeeexceeeeeeeppt the lack of any yellow, black, red, brown people that may (have) inhabit(ed) the land (since before Cortez/Columbus arrived, before the U.S. Mexico war, or since the transatlantic slave trade, the gold rush and transcontinental railroad, and so many other things I haven't learned about yet or am not thinking of now). It's always an intentional choice when it comes to games...everything has to be programmed. A point to consider is: the game was developed in Japan, and then translated and adapted for the U.S. market. And I don't know too much about Japan's racial makeup, but I've heard it's a fairly homogeneous country (aside from the indigenous Ainu people, the people living on U.S. Military bases, and of course...all those lovely people in teach English abroad programs, who may be there for whatever reason...won't go into that).

So, I can see perhaps some reason(s) why most people in the game look the same - also, I'll add that it's in the anime/manga aesthetic, so people have sharp jaw lines, round, large eyes, long and thin noses...the women all have large breasts...and one of my favorites (because of my hair when it's blow-dried), there is the occasional "Dragon Ball Z hair." This isn't exactly DBZ, but...

Hey, he looks a little like me...just gotta get those plastic frames, and curl the hair a bit. I have to admit...I love how every time an operation is about to begin he does this - LET'S BEGIN THE OPERATION!!!!

Anyway, another question is, how do the programmers responsible for creating a product appropriate for U.S. markets make their decisions to leave this (and many other games) so whitewashed? Is it a decision they make? If they had the ability to change the words in the game to English, did they have the ability to reprogram any other aspects? Was the Japanese version of the game set in the U.S. also? Or was it a made up (or existing) part of Japan? Something else? Even if the game is being sold in markets other than the U.S...perhaps Canada, England, and maybe even other countries where English is not the primary language, there are communities of color in all those countries, and there is no excuse for this.... And, people all over the world know that the U.S. is not just white...think of all the music videos that get exported that hold mostly, if not exclusively, black bodies within their frames. But to what degree, I don't know. I've heard some disturbing shit about what people outside the U.S. think of black people in the U.S. before coming here...or without coming here at all, and it's all based on media (mis)representations. hmmm.

****Correction: I started this post when I was only in the 2nd chapter of the game. I'm now in the third, and I've since joined an international disease eradication organization/hospital group called Caduceus. I traveled to southern Africa (to no specific country, of course, just the region), where a village was wiped out because a bioterrorist group decided to perfect their weapons (a strain of viruses, the likes of which doctors have never seen, called G.U.I.L.T.) through trial and error on the townspeople. Of course, there's one boy who survived:
"The boy responds to Reuben" <-direct quote Not sure if his name is really Reuben, but he responds to it. Shit...if everyone in my community died, I'd probably respond to anything if someone came up to me. But anyway, I successfully operated on "Reuben" and he is now free of G.U.I.L.T. and healthy. Alright! But yeah...that was pretty weird. Of course the only brown body in the game is in the country of Africa, not the U.S., where the rest of the game takes place (cuz immediately after taking care of "Reuben" the protagonist flies back to the U.S. to help his old boss). It's just a quick plot device to further the story about the G.U.I.L.T. bioterrorism.**** OK, yeah, so that was point 1...and 1.1, 1.2, 1.3, etc. Second: my love of science! This game makes me feel like being a doctor is fun! Well...a surgeon I guess. I mean...there are chapters that are just the plot "thickening," which pretty much means a lot of reading, and no cutting. But most of the time, it's a pretty good balance of that and performing surgery. My average rating, btw, is a C. It goes S, A, B, C, D(?...haven't got that low). So, I could improve. But yeah, all the time I'm playing, I'm thinking "damn...I could do this! Maybe I'll go to med school..." haha. I kid. That would be if there were, like a said, a "Retry" function in real life, if I had the "healing touch" (an innate ability that lets me slow down time to do amazingly fast procedures - in the game, people! I wish I really had it tho), if there were no mundane procedures or paperwork or pharmaceutical companies, if capitalism wasn't part of the picture, if all I did as a doctor was talk a little bit and do surgery, if there were no recovery time after procedures and you didn't have to check back up on people (though I think I would actually enjoy that a lot, it's just not part of the game), if I already knew how to do everything and didn't have to go to school.... So, not really plausible. But at least I lived out that fantasy through this videogame, I guess. It all just reminds me a little bit too much of the Macalester Step Forward campaign video tho...
^For those who haven't seen or need a refresher...
But I want to get past that. It just did remind me a little bit of that recurring theme I've noticed.
Oh...science without capitalism...

I have to say, ever since taking Origins, a class on evolutionary biology, with one of the best prof.'s I had in my college career, Kristi Curry Rogers, I am giving science more thought. There was a time during high school where I was actually learning legit stuff about science. But it was required, and most of it was boring, not made relevant. During my time at Macalester, though, I noticed that I'd have conversations about scientific events, advances, phenomena - the kind that come up in everyday life, like "I wonder how yeast works..." or "why is there a dark side of the moon?" - as if I knew anything about the actual science they were grounded in. Having a critical and analytical mind does not mean science!

It was, more than anything, like making conjectures about what could possibly be going on, without actually knowing anything. The thing is, I can't really think of a specific case, but they usually come up around food and cooking, or nature things.

I feel it's one of my favorite things to do...especially with other people. That's when it gets really fun. And if you have a group of people who are all not-scientists, then it's the best. American Studies majors have said some of the most compelling science I've ever heard. Not sure if it's accurate. I know Suma and I have frequently had non-scientific scientific conversations, and I feel like we've made some good progress.

Taking Origins, though, showed me it could be all those fun things, and also be accurate at the same time. My life is complete, for the moment - and I can do imaginary surgery where no one actually dies.

Also, I defused a time-bomb with my surgery kit. It was raw. I saved a conference full of medical specialists. Boo-yah!

Fin.