Tomato for my thoughts.

We moved into this house in July of last year just in time to be way, way late for summer planting. As a novice of all things growy I was overcome with eagerness to cultivate my very own little green life forms, and as such wasn’t to be dissuaded by the gardening experts with their suggestions for proper planting protocols and their facts which correlate growth patterns to weather conditions. With the joy and commitment of a new mother, I faithfully toted fifteen+ potted plants back and forth between our bathroom (it gets the most sunlight) and the back porch from late last August until, well, last week. Doing so was a genuine labor of love but because doing math for the sake of doing math is fun, I figuratively back-paid myself the standard American minimum wage for my work: at a rate of $1.81 for every fifteen minutes we (Imran began to get with the program after a few months) spent carrying around young plants each morning and night, by now I’d have accumulated just shy of one thousand dollars. I am proud to say that in lieu of financial recompense I was awarded something much greater for my efforts:

Tiny tomatoes! Obviously, as soon as they turned I put one to use in crafting the tiniest falafel:

Number 7, 1951

I downloaded from the internet the highest quality image I could find of one of my favorite Jackson Pollock pieces:

I then printed two 8.27 × 11.69 copies, cut them accordingly, and used them to cover an old lamp shade:

Design on a non-existent budget. And there’s Scully in the corner!

Hi, I’m Amanda

My talents include recognizing voice actors, and replicating recipes by smell.

Inner City Pressure

Some days, the city feels like a bad dream that I can’t wake up from.

I find solace in simple joys, like the way it feels to rub noses with Imran in the morning before we verbally greet one another (should I be coherent enough to be sweet), or the “squeak, squeak” of Cardinals discovering fresh seeds on our porch but when evening comes and I must again travel into a vivid display of the crux of all human suffering, my heart grows heavy.

When you’re unemployed, there’s no vacation.
No one cares, no one sympathizes.

I view studying as my bridge from helplessness to helpful. I’m hopeful that electrical engineering as a field of study and subsequent career path will grant me the tools necessary to empower those lost in the shuffle of humanity’s undying love affair with money and control. I want to help communities build themselves. I want to do this in a way that promotes a commensal relationship between Earth and its inhabitants, and I don’t believe these goals can be realistically achieved in our modern world without understanding energy physics.

Studying while I’m not taking classes is necessary to keep my head from becoming soft but if I’m in the wrong state of mind each page turned in a textbook can be a painful reminder that I’m not accomplishing. During these times I become resentful of my circumstances, and pretty soon after I’m taking a mental trip to Ungrateful Island; a solitary place where nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. It sucks there, and I try my best not to visit because it’s difficult to get home from. I’ve always prayed that I would be granted the wisdom to take stock of my blessings without having to be stripped of them in order to appreciate the extent to which I have been spared from the harsher realities of this world. I get it right a lot of the time but on those dark days when I succumb to my lower nature there are few bright spots to speak of.

To combat this potentially detrimental mindset I have on occasion elected not to study for an extended period of time. The consequence of this decision is always the same: complete and utter boredom with my surroundings. I’m not naturally inclined to extroversion but will find myself becoming excessively chatty in an attempt to quiet the pleading of my brain for more challenging curricula. My sense of humor, which is usually reserved, will border on abrasive as the animosity I harbor toward the mundane overpowers me. After many painstakingly laborious years spent dissecting the laws governing social interaction I’ve learned enough to know one should not allow one’s self to be openly hostile, so I instead attempt to make jokes.

I’m embarrassed of this version of myself.

And just as quickly,

the yang to my yin makes itself known.

A Reed Warbler raising a Common Cuckoo after its mother abandoned it in her nest:

I should have stopped reading after I saw this photograph because I then discovered that Cuckoo babies actually knock the other eggs out of the nest, or just eat them to eliminate competition for sustenance. And little Cuckoos have learned to mimic the sounds of a nest full of baby birds in order to trick the momma into feeding them. Fucking nature, man.

I really didn’t intend for this to become a blog devoted entirely to my old-ladyish interests but apparently you are what you joke about being.

Nature is horrifying.

Our backyard borders a wooded area wherein many types of small to moderately sized animals thrive. The usual species are present: chipmunks, squirrels, possums, and raccoons. I can’t often discern the sounds of what occurs outdoors over the hum of aging appliances but tonight I heard what I now recognize to be the unmistakable, chilling sounds of a small animal being viciously killed.

A number of things ran through my mind as I listened. I first considered attempting to interfere but then realized in doing so I might unintentionally prolong the animal’s suffering. The amount of time that passed between the initial piercing scream which alerted my attention and the silence to follow was considerably brief when measured in manmade increments but each of our passing seconds must have felt like a lifetime’s worth of misery to that helpless creature.

Then I remembered a simple commandment for supporting the local ecosystem:

Feed your songbirds. 

Romantic on its own, right? Imran, the pragmatic logician that he is begrudgingly embraced the sad truth as he spoke it for me:

We’re fattening them up so they can be eaten by something else.

Saving one small fluffy creature from certain death only increases the likelihood of death by starvation for its (likely, also fluffy) predator. I am aware of this dilemma on a subconscious level but it isn’t so often that I really dwell on the hopelessness of it.

Knives Millions says we have to kill the spider to save the butterfly but Vash the Stampede thinks neither should have to die.

I’m in big trouble, Mister.

Have I mentioned we live next door to our landlord? He owns at least five houses in succession on our street. We live in what we (Imran and myself) jokingly refer to as a Socialist compound, where water bills are shared and property lines don’t exist:

Hi Amanda,

I guess your phone isn’t working. I love seeing all the birds taking you up on your treats, but there is only one problem. Any kind of food left out after dark will attract raccoons. We’ve had big problems with them in the past, rodents as well. Luckily the cats take care of the mice and rats, but if the raccoons return, they are not so easy to deal with. I’ve had to trap them and re-locate them. So, please have fun feeding during the days, but don’t leave food of any kind around after dark.

Thanks, and please let me know that you got this.

I like to think of myself as a rebellious spirit with no spare care to give but in reality I am a (somewhat resentful) people-pleaser. Imagine the depths to which my heart dropped when we arrived home last night with our Taco Bell in tow and saw this in the headlights of the Yaris:

Fuck. I am going to be in so much trouble.

Owl Always Love You

On Saturday, Imran took me to a one-time three hour class about owls sponsored by our local nature center. More an informal meeting with a lot of owl chat (and wine!) than a class, it was seriously the best time I’ve ever had, except maybe for that time my dad took me to a cleanup day for the Chesapeake Bay when I was like eight. I thought for a long while that I don’t like to have fun but as it turns out I just haven’t been doing the right things. Our host was a witty lady that genuinely loves birds, and after reading her blog I realized that I might possibly have glimpsed into my own future.

This is Scully:

He’s a sassy Eastern Screech owl who stands a whopping six or so inches tall. He came to live with our host after falling from a dead tree¹ in the process of being cut down when he was just a blind, bald little baby about the size of a doughnut hole. As the smallest of owls even at full size, the Eastern Screech not only has to compete more aggressively to eat but must also work to avoid becoming dinner for larger birds. Each time the speaker lifted Scully from his perch during her talk he would make a (barely audible) hissing sound to express his displeasure. Later, as one of the participants was turning to leave, she voiced her affections for the littlest of the three owls we’d been introduced to. The host replied on his behalf: He loves you, too! Just kidding, Scully hates everyone!

Given his lot in life, his grumpy disposition is entirely forgiven in my heart.

Who doesn’t love that face?

______________________________________________
¹ However unsightly, dead trees should be left alone unless threatening to fall because they are soon repurposed as makeshift homes by various animals, including lovable owls.

No Heat February, NoHeFeb

As a longtime member of the Open Diary community, I have always secretly found the monthly themes sort of annoying. But after receiving our most recent water bill which we split with our upstairs neighbors, I have decided to make up my own catchy abbreviated phrase-word to motivate myself in a battle against rampant utility mismanagement.

Here is a larger replication of the tiny graph which accompanies the breakdown of our monthly water usage:

Note that we have lived in this bottom half of the house by ourselves since the smaller portion of late August. When we signed our lease in July,¹ the upstairs tenants with whom we agreed to share water costs were two gardening hippy engineering/science student-types, much like ourselves (read: poor). We weren’t told they’d be moving out (next door). And we didn’t anticipate the highfalutin, daily shower-taking fancy people that would be moving in during the latter half of December. I assumed (shame on me, one should never assume anything) in July that our then-neighbors would be our now-neighbors, and goddamnit if the universe didn’t have other plans. Other plans which include waking up each morning sharply at eight o’clock to the sounds of what is either a blender or a coffee grinder. I WORK NIGHTS, stop judging.

If I could find the breakdown of our electricity usage, I would proceed to offer my usual Aspy over-analytical commentary. Lucky for you, when I write could find really I mean had tried to find. Here’s the gist of it: shit got real expensive in January.

With my insider knowledge, I can tell you the tremendous jump in kWh from the previous months is a direct result of our heat usage. We live in a drafty house with aging appliances, and these questionably safe heating “units” along the floor in each room. I’ve caulked to high heaven, and I do my best to combat the dreaded phantom energy drain but a girl can only do so much.

Because we cannot by ourselves influence the amount of water tragically wasted each month, we have decided that The Heat Must Go. Henceforth, the month of February shall be celebrated as No Heat February, or as Open Diary would call it: NoHeFeb.

___________________________________________
¹ In defense of July: I washed all of our belongings after storing them in a dusty garage filled with spiders (omg) for a year. Imran suggests that maybe the neighbors had to do this as well but rational thinking doesn’t make for good blogging.

I will fix ALL THE THINGS.

After reading multiple engineer/really lame dudes’ internet forum discussions over the differences and similarities between the manufactured parts used in both DeWalt and Black & Decker cordless drills, I have decided to add this little 12.0 V monster to my toy box:

Thanks, Dad, for funding my dream. I’m going to make you proud.

The Test of a Man

If he removes the frosting eyes from your cookie so that you may eat it without feeling like a cookie killer.

Gemini’s companion

The first was born June 16th. The second, on the 14th. But most significant is the charm, born June 15th.

I noticed the grave and gentle expression of his face, as well as a certain abandon in his attitude, suggesting the dreamer absorbed in his reflections.

Selfishness is a reductive action.

Withholding does not preserve but diminish. Grasping too tightly only serves to force away more quickly, like water through one’s fingers.

I try to remember this.

I dream of dreary

When I was twenty-one I dreamed a similar apocalyptic scenario. That time, I was doing some sort of community outreach in a location unfamiliar to me but I remember feeling with that dreamlike inexplicable certainty that I was somewhere in Central America.

I was there, living among those native to my subconsciously constructed location with my multiple yet-to-be born children and my then-uncertain significant other. I remember, mostly, a vision of myself standing with my dark-haired progeny inside a shoddily constructed shelter I associated with “home,” and noticing the earth begin to quake forcibly. I then either dialed out on my cellular-type device to reach my husband away at work, or received his call from the off-site location. After a short conversation which I recognized to be a confirmation that our blissful time together had finally expired, we disconnected. I attempted quickly to process the magnitude of my situation: the world was ending and my husband had just informed me that he might not make it back to myself and our children. Peculiarly, I felt at peace with my impending great loss because I believed we had done well the work which had called us to that place.

the Second Law

Last night I dreamed something vivid and awful, and only an approximate sixty second time sequence of events took place. I saw a man talking on a cellular phone surrounded by toddlers on what I assume was the playground area of a daycare facility. The earth began to shake, sending most of the children sprawling across the pavement and out of focus. The quake carried the man toward the far side of the surrounding chain link fence where he struggled to protect the few toddlers still surrounding him. He began to slide through what had become some sort of fence-type barrier (dream physics are weird), and was quickly pinned between the fence and a brick wall.

The shaking stopped, and a woman appeared. She hurried toward the faceless man to assist him. Almost immediately, a second wave of vibrations began and the progress of the unlikely couple was momentarily thwarted. For a short time, the earth was again still. The woman released her hold on the fence she’d taken to steady herself, and worked carefully to free the man from his uncomfortable and potentially life-threatening position; this time successfully. The two turned their backs and started to run, and as the woman removed her arm from a supportive position around the man, I noticed a large metal rod sticking out of his back. Upon my own realization, he was alerted to his condition and fell to his knees defeated, exclaiming that he could not walk.

I woke up just after, and all I could think was that life progresses normally until it doesn’t. And that we’re all going to pay for crimes against the earth.

A man after my own heart.

I thought for certain Einstein was the one, but goddamn Fechner. Holy fucking hell, Fechner. I always come back to you.

Osama, no longer.

Left in the comment section of a blog I read:

“Even the finest arms are an instrument of evil,
A spread of plague,
And the way for a vital man to go is not the way of a soldier.
But in time of war men civilized in peace
Turn from their higher to their lower nature.
Arms are an instrument of evil,
No measure for thoughtful men
Until there fail all other choice
But sad acceptance of it.
Triumph is not beautiful.
He who thinks triumph beautiful
Is one with a will to kill,
And one with a will to kill
Shall never prevail upon the world.
It is a good sign when man’s higher nature comes forward,
A bad sign when his lower nature comes forward,
When retainers take charge
And the master stays back
As in the conduct of a funeral.
The death of a multitude is cause for mourning:
Conduct your triumph as a funeral.”
Tao Te Ching

amāre

For someone whose name means “lovable,” I understand that it is at times most difficult to love me.

Academia is not unlike the fashion industry.

And most days, as uncomfortable as it can be to bare myself before the critics of higher learning, I am able to remind myself that no matter the judgment I might receive, I have to keep asking the questions which reveal my complete lack of expertise on practically everything.

The Old Astronomer to His Pupil

Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.

Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, ’tis original and true,
And the obliquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men’s fellowship and smiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.

You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant’s fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You “have none but me,” you murmur, and I “leave you quite alone”?

Well then, kiss me, — since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, — that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.

I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife,
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, “Patience, Patience,” is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

I have sown, like Tycho Brahe, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, ’twill disturb me in my sleep
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.

a house for your spices to live

I fixed up a dusty old shelf to display his varied collection of fragrant aromatics; that ever-growing confusion of colors and textures necessary for crafting new and insightful contributions to the palatable arts.

My true love hath my heart

“My true-love hath my heart and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given;
I hold his dear and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driven.
My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

His heart in me keeps him and me in one;
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides.
My true-love hath my heart and I have his,”
Philip Sidney

e=mc2

I don’t think I’m a biologist.

And I ended up within the minority within a minority.

…the gifted kid with undiagnosed ADHD. So many wasted years? Or many useful lessons learned?

The Gifted Student with ADD:
Between Two Worlds
Carol Watkins, MD
Baltimore, Maryland

“The gifted child or adolescent with AD/HD may not fit classical definitions of educationally handicapped or gifted. On one hand, he may be able to use his skills to cover up the AD/HD and thus never receive help or guidance. On the other hand, he may be doubly handicapped, the minority within a minority who cannot fit into either accelerated classes or special education settings.

Giftedness has been defined in a variety of ways. In the past, giftedness was defined by a global score on an IQ test. More recently, professionals have been interested in looking at different types of talents instead of a global number. The term gifted is often used to refer to students with academic gifts in language or mathematics. Individuals with specific gifts in the areas of art, music or athletic performance are sometimes called talented. In this paper, I will be focusing on AD/HD students with great strengths in verbal or mathematical skills.

Gifted children and children with AD/HD can share many characteristics. Both groups may tend to question authority. A gifted child without AD/HD may become restless or even disruptive if the curriculum is not challenging. Some teachers may not appreciate a gifted child’s creative solutions to problems. Some studies have suggested that gifted children may be more active and sleep less than normal children. In the past, many educators felt that the gifted showed “across the board achievement.” More recent studies show that unevenness in abilities is greater in the gifted than in people with average intellectual ability. Unlike AD/HD children, gifted children usually pay attention quite well when placed in accelerated classes. An exception is the small group of profoundly gifted children whose abilities are so divergent that regular programs for the gifted cannot serve them. In this small group, there may be an increased incidence of educational and emotional problems whether or not AD/HD is present.

A gifted student with AD/HD may have particular challenges. A bright individual, often more self-aware, is more likely to perceive himself as inadequate. If the task is repetitive or below the student’s achievement level, he will tune out all the faster. Consequently, he will miss out on vital information presented later in the lesson. The same student, engaged, can perform brilliantly. Teachers may interpret poor performance as laziness or conflicts with particular teachers. In some cases, AD/HD students may spend time in resource room, unequipped to meet his or her unique needs.

When a student is gifted and also has AD/HD, while tests may indicate that he is gifted while he is performing at only an average level in classes. His homework and class work may be poor but his actual test and exam grades may be excellent. A student may be placed in a slower curriculum because the school may place many types of special needs students together. The student, bored and frustrated, may act out more, making administrators less likely to place him in a more challenging curriculum. This last situation may lead to a paradox for the student and his parents. While, they may feel that an unchallenging curriculum is exacerbating the child’s inattention or impulsivity, the school, on the other hand, may resist placing the student into an accelerated class until he can show improved performance. [...]“