I've been cranky. Pretty much for the past two days, yep, cranky. Ahh, there's reasons, reasons (work stuff) that I'll not go into here - but trust me when I say you'd be cranky too.
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Besides being cranky, I've also been cold. Which sounds terribly whiny (whiney? or either?) - so, there's also the possibility that I've been whiny AND cranky. Yikes. Not good. I'm sure that it hasn't been pretty.
(And let me just add, at the risk of humiliating myself: it's 54 degrees outside as I write this).
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So, what does one do?
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Pay attention to the little things, the funny things. Like tonight, while I was walking the New Wild Dog, the Stannish was running in circles under the three Leyland Cypresses - going back and forth, then in circles - and finally I realized that the branches were at a height that they scratched his back when he moved under them. The Stan was happy! Then I noticed that the passion vine had sprouted some leaves at it's base, that one hyacinth was up (and you could see the beginning of a flower) - and that there were several clumps of daffodils that were already four or so inches high. There were also all sorts of birds hanging out in the branches of the fig tree, waiting patiently even, daydreaming of mid-July and a tree filled with sweet, sweet brown figs.
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Before that, I thought about something interesting I had listened to on NPR - this piece about building a bacterium's genetic code in the laboratory (something recently published in Science, Online). Their organism of choice was Mycoplasma genitalium - the smallest known free-living bacteria - and this truly has remarkably possibilities (for both good and bad - but possibilities nonetheless). It's a step in a new direction.
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Which is what we all try to do, right?
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Then I did what I've shown great personal restraint in regards to for months now: I went to the bookstore. I needed the distraction of books. I hadn't looked around for awhile, and I need to get some hot tea and walk around, just wandering, discovering that I might need to read Brooks' 'March' , that Mary Oliver's latest book, 'Our World', is her text along with the photographs of her deceased partner, Molly Malone Cook. There was not a 'newest-greatest' collection of Neruda (and I had hoped there would be one) and I read a bit of Stanley Kunitz but wasn't moved to get the book (I can't remember now which one it was). I did weaken though, and walked away with Jonah Lehrer's 'Proust Was a Neuroscientist' and Michael Dirr's 'Viburnums: Flowering Shrubs for Every Season'. I've been wanting to learn more about viburnums (especially those with the gorgeous blue berries that linger during the winter) - and as for Proust, here's a bit of Lehrer's Prelude:
I used to work in a neuroscience lab. We were trying to figure out how the mind remembers, how a collection of cells can encapsulate our past. I was just a lab technician, and most of my day was spent performing the strange verbs of bench science: amplifying, vortexing, pipetting, sequencing, digesting, and so on. It was simple manual labor, but the work felt profound. Mysteries were distilled into minor questions, and if my experiments didn't fail, I ended up with an answer. The truth seemed to slowly accumulate, like dust.
At the same time, I began reading Proust. I would often bring my copy of Swann's Way into the lab and read a few pages while waiting for an experiment to finish. All I expected from Proust was a little entertainment, or perhaps an education in the art of constructing sentences. For me, his story about one man's memory was simply that: a story. It was a work of fiction, the opposite of scientific fact.
But once I got past the jarring contrast of forms -- my science spoke in acronyms, while Proust preferred meandering prose -- I began to see a surprising convergence. The novelist had predicted my experiments. Proust and neuroscience shared a vision of how our memory works. If you listen closely, they were actually saying the same thing.
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So I'm feeling less cranky tonight. I hope this new feeling holds.
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So during yesterday's lab meeting, we listened to one student tell us about new observations (that even made sense - how nice!) while a second student continued her on-going preparations for her proposal defense seminar. Another student interjected a cry - 'it's Fe!!' - because he's had Fe (iron) on the brain of late. As usual, Katherine presented us a poem - from a collection of poems titled 'Verse and Universe' (edited by Kurt Brown) - a poem by Charles Harper Webb that, I'm guessing, Proust might have been fond of...(and forgive the scan of page 197 in the book - but the form of this poem is important and I haven't the patience to re-create it here). (Much better! Now I can add: And with belated permission from the author, via Katherine).
Proust knew stuff, indeed he did. But not the way scientists know stuff, you know? Or, rather, he knows a different language for describing what he knows; as Lehrer appears to conclude, based on your excerpt, what differs is not so much the knowledge as the language used to convey that knowledge.
I don't think I knew you have a fig tree. My dad's mother had a large fig tree in her yard; it was all I could do, during the summer, to keep from picking them too early. Now that I think about it, it may have been because of my desire for that fig tree's fruit that I was introduced to the concept of ripeness.
In those birds in your fig tree, there's a poem in there somewhere.
Sorry for any weirdness you may detect in this comment--it's the (one) beer talking, I do believe.
Posted by: John B. | 24 January 2008 at 09:46 PM
Perhaps the common denominator is simple observation? Then comes the language to describe that observation...
After reading your comment, I couldn't help but think back about when I became aware of the concept of 'ripeness'. Your story was a nice one. I'm guessing mine was associated with my parent's vegetable garden - but there's not a specific memory there I don't think. And yes, I would agree that there is a poem - or perhaps several - tangled up in the branches of that fig tree.
Posted by: Pam | 25 January 2008 at 08:52 AM
I have really been enjoying your blog lately. I used to live in the Low Country in another life. I lived on Folly Beach and then moved to the Seabrook. I see you also have a Virginia connection, which is where I am now. I have just started my own gardening blog and have linked your site to mine, and if you like mine I would appreciate it if you would reciprocate.
Thank You!
Les
atidewatergardener.blogspot.com
Posted by: Les | 25 January 2008 at 08:19 PM
Geeez...
Quite a post.
First things first: 54 degrees??? Hell, it is January. 54 won't even prompt dormancy in a tropical plant. You are just in flux.
Also... the food we eat keeps us warm. When it is chilly, eat something non-dietetic. Burn. Burn. Burn.
I heard the same NPR thing (and thought of you). That's a guy who has his talking points together. I remember thinking, at the time (-5 degrees F according to the vehichle):
I wonder if that guy tells his "students/employees" to "explore" or to "solve." I'm an engineer (in theory). To me, we solve. But we do so hoping that somewhere scientists are out there "exploring."
The whole story seemed a little too "packaged" for my taste. I bet the guy is a good scientist. But I felt a little like I was listening to the "Google Boys" talk about a new product/service that is "in development."
And then I thought (apologies for my polarizing POV): "I bet this cat gets federal dollars... I bet the dude just owns the grant scene." And this upset me.
Discovery dollars (our money) doesn't go to product development... or it shouldn't. That is what "private money" is for. Discovery dollars go to crazy Italian navigators who, in Spain, convince victorious princes and princesses to give them money so they can sail into oblivion... or not.
The guy actually agitated me. "I'll be disappointed if we don't get that done in six months."
I thought of you.
I bet you could be very famous and moderately wealthy if you only "prentended" to be a scientists (or... my favorite thing to be: a scholar).
Of course, I am aware that I certainlly have this wrong... that I am unfair... that "I leave a wake of damage behind me"1.
Yeah... I'm wrong.
But if this cat has it so "figured out" I'd rather he spend some enegry looking into things we don't know anything about.
If our acientists can't be lunatics, then who can?
Unfair and Stupid. Accept my apologies.
Hank
1 A recent description of me, from a colleague, observing my sensistive-people-skils. I am clearly a jerk.
Posted by: The County Clerk | 26 January 2008 at 02:48 AM
Oh... the poem...
Many thoughts...
But i must sleep.
The morrow...
Posted by: The County Clerk | 26 January 2008 at 02:52 AM
And the books.
This is a monster post. It hit all my buttons.
Posted by: The County Clerk | 26 January 2008 at 02:53 AM
Les: I'm glad you've enjoyed visiting here - and yes, I'm now in South Carolina but definitely have a strong Virginia connection.
County Clerk: Well. Did I say that it was 54 and HUMID? :) And yes, I'd like to think that scientists can be lunatics, but yesterday I was told that my 'asylum' sign over the lab's door would have to come down, because of a new 'policy' (my door is the only door with anything on it). Geez. I had policies - especially ones that constrain lunacy.
Posted by: Pam | 26 January 2008 at 04:54 PM
This is just why we come here - for posts you can get your teeth into and comments like bittersweet chocolate for dessert.
Annie
Posted by: Annie in Austin | 27 January 2008 at 08:51 PM
Thank you Annie. (Bittersweet chocolate for dessert...yum).
Posted by: Pam | 28 January 2008 at 10:33 PM