Friday, June 12, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Age 26
When you were young, music moved you. You resonated with the beat and with the story. And with the story you cataloged your experiences. Adam Song for hard times – I never thought I'd die alone / I laughed the loudest, who'd have known? Radiohead when you just needed to fall into the Earth and be absorbed by it. Kenny Loggins for reminiscing – Winnie the Pooh doesn't know what to do / got a honey jar stuck on his nose – and Tool for transcendence. There was a song for every feeling, every subdivided emotion. There was a soundtrack, a mix-tape, for every one of life's events.
Prone to hero-worship, it's no wonder young people are drawn in and captivated by the rock-stars of their generation. Still, I was never much of a concert-goer. With few exceptions I never went to big shows or bought tapes of live performances. I did hang out at coffee shops with live music but not the kind you'd stand in line for. No, I'm talking about the hypnotic synchronicity that comes from choosing the perfect CD for the occasion – for the exact shade of emotion that's coloring your world at the time. It's this desire for resonance I think we lose as adults.
The cry of the American teenager is, Please understand me! They grow into their maturity early - with a depth of emotion comparable to adults - but have no experience with which to interpret it. Their puppy-loves and heartbreaks aren't shallow, they're just unguided. And in steps Rock'n'Roll. The music travels with them – like guided meditation – through their experience of every new sensation. They know how they feel, but the music tells them why they feel.
As adults we've grown out of this 'music as a shaman' phase. We interpret every new emotional state with an ever increasing library of personal experience. We still cry at movies and keep a few mix-tapes around for particularly low days. We still resonate, but we do so with perspective.
I resonate less and less these days. I watch movies more and experience them less. I rely on personal experience more than lyrics or bass-lines to guide my mental wanderings. In the case of unwieldy emotions, I seek human interaction over music for their interpretation. It's good, this maturing. I like the feel of my emotional library; it's still a little roomy, but it's filling out nicely. And today it's okay that I'd rather listen to NPR than a burnt CD on my commute. I do miss the transcendence of a well chosen moment-to-moment personal soundtrack, but I'm embracing my stage. Today I feel old. And today that feels fine.
Prone to hero-worship, it's no wonder young people are drawn in and captivated by the rock-stars of their generation. Still, I was never much of a concert-goer. With few exceptions I never went to big shows or bought tapes of live performances. I did hang out at coffee shops with live music but not the kind you'd stand in line for. No, I'm talking about the hypnotic synchronicity that comes from choosing the perfect CD for the occasion – for the exact shade of emotion that's coloring your world at the time. It's this desire for resonance I think we lose as adults.
The cry of the American teenager is, Please understand me! They grow into their maturity early - with a depth of emotion comparable to adults - but have no experience with which to interpret it. Their puppy-loves and heartbreaks aren't shallow, they're just unguided. And in steps Rock'n'Roll. The music travels with them – like guided meditation – through their experience of every new sensation. They know how they feel, but the music tells them why they feel.
As adults we've grown out of this 'music as a shaman' phase. We interpret every new emotional state with an ever increasing library of personal experience. We still cry at movies and keep a few mix-tapes around for particularly low days. We still resonate, but we do so with perspective.
I resonate less and less these days. I watch movies more and experience them less. I rely on personal experience more than lyrics or bass-lines to guide my mental wanderings. In the case of unwieldy emotions, I seek human interaction over music for their interpretation. It's good, this maturing. I like the feel of my emotional library; it's still a little roomy, but it's filling out nicely. And today it's okay that I'd rather listen to NPR than a burnt CD on my commute. I do miss the transcendence of a well chosen moment-to-moment personal soundtrack, but I'm embracing my stage. Today I feel old. And today that feels fine.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Language
The transition between School and Not is a greasy business. Even when it's over it sticks around, coating your hands and not wiping off. It stays under your fingernails even when you use that shower brush you're not sure is for fingernails or grout cleaning. You're contaminated, tainted for who knows how long.
I sometimes wonder if the Bodhidharma began to see a world of walls like I see a world of medicine. This 5th century Buddhist monk spent nine years staring at a single wall in a cave in Southern China. He spoke to no one. After 7 years the Bodhidharma is said to have fallen asleep. Enraged at his own behavior, he cut off both of his eyelids to ensure it would never happen again. He stared and he stared, letting the seasons pass him by until one day he was finished. When he finally stood on those wobbly, atrophied, legs and hobbled out of the cave, what did he see?
The Bodhidharma probably did see a world of walls thanks to the thickened and scarred corneas that come with eyelid removal. Still, he had trained his mind to find meaning in this absurdly finite sliver of reality: a single wall of a single cave. As I begin to reclaim bits of the life I left to pursue medicine, I feel like I'm rewriting my narrative in terms my own small sliver of focus.
Sometimes I sit with my Someone and reminisce about our travels. There is a curious phenomenon that often happens when we picture past events. I will recall, for instance, a small greasy taxi driver chatting us up as we careened down dirt roads on a mountainside in Peru. Someone will remind me of a particular town we passed, and I tell her, “Yes, and that's when the guy said, 'if we don't tip kids who fix roads, they are much much worse.'” I can picture the driver, his thick accent and pigeon English, and the little boy we passed filling in the potholes with rocks. It's about here in our recollecting that Someone laughs at my impersonation, reminding me that the driver spoke only Spanish. This happens all the time. I can remember whole conversations in English I've had with poor Ecuadorian children who've never spoken a word of English in their lives. Not having spoken Spanish in a while, my brain has rewritten my experiences in light of my current linguistic priorities.
As I retrace my steps from a year ago, I wonder how my cave will have shaped my recollection and experiences. Even as I picture old friends, I can't help but label them: Marfan, foot-drop, Fragile X. Last night as I walked by the house where a neighbor with Down Syndrome used to live, I picture ligamentous laxity and the danger of dislocating his odontoid process. After only 10 months I've already begun to rewrite my reality in this new language. After nine years will it be all I can see?
I sometimes wonder if the Bodhidharma began to see a world of walls like I see a world of medicine. This 5th century Buddhist monk spent nine years staring at a single wall in a cave in Southern China. He spoke to no one. After 7 years the Bodhidharma is said to have fallen asleep. Enraged at his own behavior, he cut off both of his eyelids to ensure it would never happen again. He stared and he stared, letting the seasons pass him by until one day he was finished. When he finally stood on those wobbly, atrophied, legs and hobbled out of the cave, what did he see?
The Bodhidharma probably did see a world of walls thanks to the thickened and scarred corneas that come with eyelid removal. Still, he had trained his mind to find meaning in this absurdly finite sliver of reality: a single wall of a single cave. As I begin to reclaim bits of the life I left to pursue medicine, I feel like I'm rewriting my narrative in terms my own small sliver of focus.
Sometimes I sit with my Someone and reminisce about our travels. There is a curious phenomenon that often happens when we picture past events. I will recall, for instance, a small greasy taxi driver chatting us up as we careened down dirt roads on a mountainside in Peru. Someone will remind me of a particular town we passed, and I tell her, “Yes, and that's when the guy said, 'if we don't tip kids who fix roads, they are much much worse.'” I can picture the driver, his thick accent and pigeon English, and the little boy we passed filling in the potholes with rocks. It's about here in our recollecting that Someone laughs at my impersonation, reminding me that the driver spoke only Spanish. This happens all the time. I can remember whole conversations in English I've had with poor Ecuadorian children who've never spoken a word of English in their lives. Not having spoken Spanish in a while, my brain has rewritten my experiences in light of my current linguistic priorities.
As I retrace my steps from a year ago, I wonder how my cave will have shaped my recollection and experiences. Even as I picture old friends, I can't help but label them: Marfan, foot-drop, Fragile X. Last night as I walked by the house where a neighbor with Down Syndrome used to live, I picture ligamentous laxity and the danger of dislocating his odontoid process. After only 10 months I've already begun to rewrite my reality in this new language. After nine years will it be all I can see?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
The Story of Stuff
I know I know: Jon, didn't you just say you were in a testing week and didn't have time to write origional content for the Blog?
Well, the answer is yes. And once again I find myself in the oh-so fortunate predicament of being stuck in a perpetual Education:Exam time loop that is higher education. I mean all that fortunate stuff too. Exam weeks are for shit and my stress, emotions, normal brain function and humanity are all a bit tweaked, but what a place to be! I feel like any one of a number of Keanu Reeves characters* (Johnny Mnemonic, Neo, uh... that guy from The Devil's Advocate) who just soak up new information like a slightly moistened sponge. As stressful as exams can be I'm really grateful to be here.
Ok, the pity link:
http://www.storyofstuff.com/
This is the 20 min version of a book called, Stuff: The Secret Lives of Everyday Things. I read it a few years ago in New Zealand and think it's worh its weight in natural resources - more than enough to justify ordering yourself a used copy on Amazon (which, if you've read the book is high praise).
It's finals week for me and it may be for you as well. But, if youve got a second, use it to check out the link below:
http://www.storyofstuff.com/
*(Keanu Reeves turns 45 this September! Crazy.)
Well, the answer is yes. And once again I find myself in the oh-so fortunate predicament of being stuck in a perpetual Education:Exam time loop that is higher education. I mean all that fortunate stuff too. Exam weeks are for shit and my stress, emotions, normal brain function and humanity are all a bit tweaked, but what a place to be! I feel like any one of a number of Keanu Reeves characters* (Johnny Mnemonic, Neo, uh... that guy from The Devil's Advocate) who just soak up new information like a slightly moistened sponge. As stressful as exams can be I'm really grateful to be here.
Ok, the pity link:
http://www.storyofstuff.com/
This is the 20 min version of a book called, Stuff: The Secret Lives of Everyday Things. I read it a few years ago in New Zealand and think it's worh its weight in natural resources - more than enough to justify ordering yourself a used copy on Amazon (which, if you've read the book is high praise).
It's finals week for me and it may be for you as well. But, if youve got a second, use it to check out the link below:
http://www.storyofstuff.com/
*(Keanu Reeves turns 45 this September! Crazy.)
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