New home: fernlim.com/blog.
Friday, June 25, 2010
It's moving day!
More accurately, it's moving week / month / time. All the posts have been transferred, but formatting and links get wonky during a transition (not unlike myself) so the cleanup process will take a bit more time.
New home: fernlim.com/blog.
New home: fernlim.com/blog.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
To The Graduate
A year from now, you might face the same sinking feeling that's been nipping at my heels for the past month… It's been a year since I graduated? Already?! What do I even have to show for it?
You might feel the need to report on what you've been up to out there in the real world in a nice succinct "I'm going somewhere with my life" manner. Accountability, to put a positive spin on it. Social pressure, to spin it in the other direction.
When I graduated, I felt the pressure to have an awesome answer to the question "So, what's next?" But that question never leaves. A year later, the big picture is still ambiguous. I highly doubt it'll resolve into crystal clear clarity anytime soon.
In other words, it's completely okay to not know what you're doing next or what "The Plan" is.
So go explore. Read. Meet people. Talk to strangers. Enter their worlds. Expand your world. Do stuff.
But stop for stillness and reflection.
And though I'm giving advice, take advice lightly. Don't discount it. But take it lightly.
It's a balance.
Because we need the guidance of others. But we also need to understand how their paths parallel or intersect with our own, even if we don’t have a clear picture of where our path is headed.
You might feel the need to report on what you've been up to out there in the real world in a nice succinct "I'm going somewhere with my life" manner. Accountability, to put a positive spin on it. Social pressure, to spin it in the other direction.
When I graduated, I felt the pressure to have an awesome answer to the question "So, what's next?" But that question never leaves. A year later, the big picture is still ambiguous. I highly doubt it'll resolve into crystal clear clarity anytime soon.
In other words, it's completely okay to not know what you're doing next or what "The Plan" is.
So go explore. Read. Meet people. Talk to strangers. Enter their worlds. Expand your world. Do stuff.
But stop for stillness and reflection.
And though I'm giving advice, take advice lightly. Don't discount it. But take it lightly.
It's a balance.
Because we need the guidance of others. But we also need to understand how their paths parallel or intersect with our own, even if we don’t have a clear picture of where our path is headed.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Guess where I'm going?
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This time? I've learned.
I visited two candy stores (read: my mom's bookshelf and the SDSU library) for a delicious feast four whole months before heading off to China. Which isn't exactly the one year I was aiming for, but it's certainly better than the two weeks and threefourfive days I gave myself to devour every tidbit of information I could find on Australia and New Zealand last year.
This trip will be rather different because I'll living in one location (studying Chinese) for one year rather than traipsing all over two countries for two months.
After that year? I don't know. Ambiguity seems to be a common theme in life. More language studies? (Scholarships please!) Job searching in the U.S.? Job searching in China? I'm open to anything.
Two and a half months ago, I wrote about goals and said that I'd wander the paths towards 3D animation, graphic design and learning Chinese in China.
3D animation? Reality check. I have a very, very, very long way to go. I'm not giving you up. But you are now in much further realms of possible futures.
Graphic design? Reality check. There is so much more to learn. But you're alive and kicking.
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(Learning the above, plus some real-world design projects.)
Studying Chinese in China? Reality check. All the wandering keeps leading back to this path even when I resisted. It hasn't sunk it yet. But that's okay. I'm going to China.
I'm going to China!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Life Lessons Learned on a Bus
Another installment of a peek into the mind of my high school self. Another installment of I haven't really changed. Another installment of why don't I write like this anymore? Another installment of, right, I don't take the time to. Another installment of, well what are you going to do about it?
As I stroll toward the bus stop, I restlessly finger the smooth token whose clones have found a daily home in the pocket of my favorite jeans. Before, its dulled golden center rimmed with a wide band of silver spoke of exciting travels in some foreign country. Now, it’s just the fare for my ride home. I used to scrutinize every facet of the token and feel the raised words and designs. I used to get excited like a five year old in Disneyland when I got to take the bus home. But repetition takes its toll. The once impressive token and adventurous bus ride has turned into a tedious and unwanted addition to my busy high school days.
Lost in my thoughts, I step up into the bus, feed the token to the hungry fare box and wait absentmindedly for my bus transfer. The bus driver hands the rectangular slip to me and without a second thought, I trundle toward the back of the bus hunting for a seat, preferably several empty ones in a row, where I can retain some semblance of my treasured personal space. Alas, the only vacancies are singletons scattered randomly throughout the bus. Yet again, I will have to rub shoulders with complete strangers, all of whom are wrapped up in their own little worlds. Which, in all honesty, is perfectly fine by me. I have more than enough worries, ideas, and random thoughts to keep myself occupied in my own little world during the lengthy ride home.
As the bus starts off again, it slowly becomes apparent that not everyone in the bus is isolated in solitary worlds. Near the front of the bus, a large man with scraggly brown hair and large glasses happily chatters, patters, natters, then chatters again to all and anyone who will listen. He’s like a human megaphone booming his childlike enjoyment of the nuances of life throughout the length of the bus. He doesn’t seem to care – or maybe it doesn’t occur to him – that other people may not want to hear his stories. Yet… there’s something about this man that begins to draw my attention. My solitary world begins to expand slightly as snippets of his chatter filter through my senses.
The bus grinds to a halt at a shady spot downtown for a single passenger. As he steps onto the bus, I note his ripped, grimy clothes and greasy, unwashed hair. He carries a bulging trash bag and I can’t help but wonder what circumstance caused his demise. Perhaps he had a comfortable life at one time or mayb– Ugh. That smell! Light travels faster than smell but the latter certainly demands the most attention. I don’t seem to be the only one whose solitary world has been permeated by the man’s inescapable reek. Aren’t there places where he can go to take a shower? Just one shower would do so much… just one.
The grimy man sits across from me and next to a lean woman who shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Her body instinctively slants away from the man as her hand moves toward her nose in a purposefully vague motion. She makes eye contact across the aisle with the man seated to my left and makes a slight face. A glance. A grimace. A glance and a grimace. That is all it takes to form a connection, a thread, between the two solitary worlds. That is all it takes to erect a wall for the deliberate exclusion of another. That is all it takes to reveal to me that cliques extend far beyond the dramas of the high school scene. That is all it takes to show the power of actions. The bus stops and the woman stands up with an air of relief, interrupting the exclusive connection, and exits the bus without a word.
A young Asian American man with sharp spiked hair, a tight white muscle shirt and a tattoo of a sun creeping over his left shoulder enters and fills the freshly evacuated seat. As the bus begins to move, he leans forward with his hands together and his elbows resting on his knees while a half-empty Coke bottle dangles from his fingers. I follow his tapping feet to the grimy man’s torn and tattered shoes to the immaculate high heels of the African American businesswoman sitting next to him. She sits tall in her seat as she taps efficiently on her PDA with her stylus. I follow the rapid movements of her hand to the motionless hands of the woman next to her whose only movement comes from the jostling of the bus. Her entire body is covered in dark blue, accented by a light gray head covering which frames a dark face with expressive eyes. I follow her head covering and dark eyes to the baseball hat and closed eyes of the old Latino man sitting next to her. He leans wearily on his armrest with his chin in his hand and a transfer pass in his fist.
Five seats.
Five people.
Five cultures.
Five different walks of life that convene for a momentary journey together on the bus before each hurtles off in their own directions and after their own dreams.
As my eyes travel back over the group, I realize that this group is America; the land where differences in cultures can be accepted and understood, the land where communities and connections are created between the most unexpected people, the land where… I become aware of the rhythm of the man’s rapping feet… the tapping of the woman’s stylus… the movements of the covered woman… the rustle of the old man’s bus transfer… the heavy breathing of the grimy man … the rhythm and the beat… the rhythm and the beat… the rhythm and the be–
A sudden piercing screech of abrupt brakes jerks me out of my rhythmic world as all of our bodies jolt heavily toward the front of the bus and we grab at whatever we can for support. After the initial shock, as the bus pulls into the next stop, a frazzled woman behind me begins to curse angrily at the driver as she grabs at her many bags of fallen groceries in frustration. A teenage boy with a Mohawk and headphones wrapped around his head quickly jumps to her aid, helping her to carry her bags out of the bus. The frazzled woman smiles at him with gratitude touched with a hint of surprise as I turn around and note the half-full Coke bottle dangling from the fingers of the foot-rapping man.
I turn back again and look at the mohawked teenager with a surprise similar to the frazzled woman’s. I had seen him and immediately shoved him into a box of a molded stereotype: Mohawk + Piercings = Uncaring Troublemaker. By his simple action he had destroyed his box, perhaps for more people than just the frazzled lady and I. By his simple action he had bettered the day of one person in particular and perhaps he had even caused a chain reaction of little acts of kindness.
With one last enlightened glance, I stand up and head toward the front as the bus slows to a stop. Yes, each person on this bus may be in their own little world, but we share a larger world, even if it’s just the slightly larger world of the bus. And it doesn’t take very much for a connection in this larger world to be made. Just an action or a word or two could–
“Wait!” yells a voice behind me as I hop out of the bus. I glance over my shoulder and see the grimy man dashing after me with my little blue cell phone clasped high over his head in his hand.
“Wait!” he repeated again, “You left your cell phone on your seat.”
I freeze for a moment remembering my stereotypes, my thoughts, and my connections, both past and present, to people encountered.
A connection is to be found by two powerful words.
“Thank you.”
The kind man smiles, nods, and darts back into the bus with a friendly wave.
Now, go.
Life Lessons Learned on a Bus
As I stroll toward the bus stop, I restlessly finger the smooth token whose clones have found a daily home in the pocket of my favorite jeans. Before, its dulled golden center rimmed with a wide band of silver spoke of exciting travels in some foreign country. Now, it’s just the fare for my ride home. I used to scrutinize every facet of the token and feel the raised words and designs. I used to get excited like a five year old in Disneyland when I got to take the bus home. But repetition takes its toll. The once impressive token and adventurous bus ride has turned into a tedious and unwanted addition to my busy high school days.
Lost in my thoughts, I step up into the bus, feed the token to the hungry fare box and wait absentmindedly for my bus transfer. The bus driver hands the rectangular slip to me and without a second thought, I trundle toward the back of the bus hunting for a seat, preferably several empty ones in a row, where I can retain some semblance of my treasured personal space. Alas, the only vacancies are singletons scattered randomly throughout the bus. Yet again, I will have to rub shoulders with complete strangers, all of whom are wrapped up in their own little worlds. Which, in all honesty, is perfectly fine by me. I have more than enough worries, ideas, and random thoughts to keep myself occupied in my own little world during the lengthy ride home.
As the bus starts off again, it slowly becomes apparent that not everyone in the bus is isolated in solitary worlds. Near the front of the bus, a large man with scraggly brown hair and large glasses happily chatters, patters, natters, then chatters again to all and anyone who will listen. He’s like a human megaphone booming his childlike enjoyment of the nuances of life throughout the length of the bus. He doesn’t seem to care – or maybe it doesn’t occur to him – that other people may not want to hear his stories. Yet… there’s something about this man that begins to draw my attention. My solitary world begins to expand slightly as snippets of his chatter filter through my senses.
The bus grinds to a halt at a shady spot downtown for a single passenger. As he steps onto the bus, I note his ripped, grimy clothes and greasy, unwashed hair. He carries a bulging trash bag and I can’t help but wonder what circumstance caused his demise. Perhaps he had a comfortable life at one time or mayb– Ugh. That smell! Light travels faster than smell but the latter certainly demands the most attention. I don’t seem to be the only one whose solitary world has been permeated by the man’s inescapable reek. Aren’t there places where he can go to take a shower? Just one shower would do so much… just one.
The grimy man sits across from me and next to a lean woman who shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Her body instinctively slants away from the man as her hand moves toward her nose in a purposefully vague motion. She makes eye contact across the aisle with the man seated to my left and makes a slight face. A glance. A grimace. A glance and a grimace. That is all it takes to form a connection, a thread, between the two solitary worlds. That is all it takes to erect a wall for the deliberate exclusion of another. That is all it takes to reveal to me that cliques extend far beyond the dramas of the high school scene. That is all it takes to show the power of actions. The bus stops and the woman stands up with an air of relief, interrupting the exclusive connection, and exits the bus without a word.
A young Asian American man with sharp spiked hair, a tight white muscle shirt and a tattoo of a sun creeping over his left shoulder enters and fills the freshly evacuated seat. As the bus begins to move, he leans forward with his hands together and his elbows resting on his knees while a half-empty Coke bottle dangles from his fingers. I follow his tapping feet to the grimy man’s torn and tattered shoes to the immaculate high heels of the African American businesswoman sitting next to him. She sits tall in her seat as she taps efficiently on her PDA with her stylus. I follow the rapid movements of her hand to the motionless hands of the woman next to her whose only movement comes from the jostling of the bus. Her entire body is covered in dark blue, accented by a light gray head covering which frames a dark face with expressive eyes. I follow her head covering and dark eyes to the baseball hat and closed eyes of the old Latino man sitting next to her. He leans wearily on his armrest with his chin in his hand and a transfer pass in his fist.
Five seats.
Five people.
Five cultures.
Five different walks of life that convene for a momentary journey together on the bus before each hurtles off in their own directions and after their own dreams.
As my eyes travel back over the group, I realize that this group is America; the land where differences in cultures can be accepted and understood, the land where communities and connections are created between the most unexpected people, the land where… I become aware of the rhythm of the man’s rapping feet… the tapping of the woman’s stylus… the movements of the covered woman… the rustle of the old man’s bus transfer… the heavy breathing of the grimy man … the rhythm and the beat… the rhythm and the beat… the rhythm and the be–
A sudden piercing screech of abrupt brakes jerks me out of my rhythmic world as all of our bodies jolt heavily toward the front of the bus and we grab at whatever we can for support. After the initial shock, as the bus pulls into the next stop, a frazzled woman behind me begins to curse angrily at the driver as she grabs at her many bags of fallen groceries in frustration. A teenage boy with a Mohawk and headphones wrapped around his head quickly jumps to her aid, helping her to carry her bags out of the bus. The frazzled woman smiles at him with gratitude touched with a hint of surprise as I turn around and note the half-full Coke bottle dangling from the fingers of the foot-rapping man.
I turn back again and look at the mohawked teenager with a surprise similar to the frazzled woman’s. I had seen him and immediately shoved him into a box of a molded stereotype: Mohawk + Piercings = Uncaring Troublemaker. By his simple action he had destroyed his box, perhaps for more people than just the frazzled lady and I. By his simple action he had bettered the day of one person in particular and perhaps he had even caused a chain reaction of little acts of kindness.
With one last enlightened glance, I stand up and head toward the front as the bus slows to a stop. Yes, each person on this bus may be in their own little world, but we share a larger world, even if it’s just the slightly larger world of the bus. And it doesn’t take very much for a connection in this larger world to be made. Just an action or a word or two could–
“Wait!” yells a voice behind me as I hop out of the bus. I glance over my shoulder and see the grimy man dashing after me with my little blue cell phone clasped high over his head in his hand.
“Wait!” he repeated again, “You left your cell phone on your seat.”
I freeze for a moment remembering my stereotypes, my thoughts, and my connections, both past and present, to people encountered.
A connection is to be found by two powerful words.
“Thank you.”
The kind man smiles, nods, and darts back into the bus with a friendly wave.
“Thank you.”
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
East and West: Honor vs Pride
While strolling around the 99¢ store in a rather bored and aimless fashion, the thought occurred to me that a difference between the values of the East and the West lies in valuing honor versus pride.
Perhaps I should state this a little less globally.
In my experience of being Malaysian-Chinese and being American, I've been a part of two value systems without really thinking about it. These value systems are foundational to the point that I don't consciously think about it.
It's just the way things are.
That is, it's just the way things are in my world. But since I don't have the privilege of literally transplanting myself into another person's frame of reference without my own frame of reference interfering, I normally live life without adding "in my world" to the subconscious statement "it's just the way things are."
In my world, it's utterly splendid to buy a dress at Ross for twenty bucks then wear it multiple times to multiple events over the course of four years at Westmont because the dress just rocks. I have no qualms about the fact that I got free lunches when I was in elementary school because of our financial situation. I'm completely fine with saying that my family relied on Goodwill when I was younger, and that I recently got an awesome bag there for $5 that normally sells for $80. Getting stuff at Payless Shoes, Wal-Mart, the $5 store, Target, etc is not a knock on my dignity. I got a good deal. I didn't get ripped off. We survived and we thrived no matter what.
And yet, I hesitated after writing "It's no big deal if I come out of the 99¢ store with food or stationery because it tastes just fine and it writes just fine." So I have enough Western pride to feel the need to explain that "I don't have to buy food at the 99¢ store. But there's good food there, so why not? Plus you get to try new things with a low-risk factor because if you don't like it, well, it was only 99¢, so no harm done." And even after that explanation has been given, I still feel the need to say, "Oh, but of course we get our food at Trader Joe's, Ranch 99, Vons and Costco too." It's a pride thing. And it trumps this particular expression of the honor thing.
An American friend who went to China to live with a Chinese family told a story that illustrates the Chinese value of honor. He went to buy something in a market but, being an obvious foreigner, was overcharged for it.
No big deal, right? He was learning the system and he'd know better next time.
But getting overcharged meant something more to his host: she kept repeating over the course of several days that he should have brought her along. He wouldn't have been ripped him off if she were there.
Okay, no problem. He'd be sure to go with her next time. But despite that assurance, she was still distressed about the situation.
What was at stake?
It wasn't really the money. It was honor that was lost when he was taken advantage of. He had been dishonored, and since he was a part of her family, her honor and the honor of her entire family had taken a blow. (Therein lies another value difference in collective versus individualistic identity.)
I'm not saying that this is the truth, globally or otherwise. But in my experience, a difference between values of the East and West can be found in the relationship between monetary cost and personal identity.
One culture values honor and retains this honor by not being taken advantage of, i.e. not being ripped off.
The other values pride and retains this pride by having the resources to provide at a higher level, i.e. being able to afford costlier (read: nicer, better) resources.
There's also the mashup of cultures and values where sometimes the honor prevails and sometimes the pride prevails. And then there are times when they appear in equal degrees and the culturally mixed just learn to hold paradoxical values and be at peace with it. And that's life.
Perhaps I should state this a little less globally.
In my experience of being Malaysian-Chinese and being American, I've been a part of two value systems without really thinking about it. These value systems are foundational to the point that I don't consciously think about it.
It's just the way things are.
That is, it's just the way things are in my world. But since I don't have the privilege of literally transplanting myself into another person's frame of reference without my own frame of reference interfering, I normally live life without adding "in my world" to the subconscious statement "it's just the way things are."
In my world, it's utterly splendid to buy a dress at Ross for twenty bucks then wear it multiple times to multiple events over the course of four years at Westmont because the dress just rocks. I have no qualms about the fact that I got free lunches when I was in elementary school because of our financial situation. I'm completely fine with saying that my family relied on Goodwill when I was younger, and that I recently got an awesome bag there for $5 that normally sells for $80. Getting stuff at Payless Shoes, Wal-Mart, the $5 store, Target, etc is not a knock on my dignity. I got a good deal. I didn't get ripped off. We survived and we thrived no matter what.
And yet, I hesitated after writing "It's no big deal if I come out of the 99¢ store with food or stationery because it tastes just fine and it writes just fine." So I have enough Western pride to feel the need to explain that "I don't have to buy food at the 99¢ store. But there's good food there, so why not? Plus you get to try new things with a low-risk factor because if you don't like it, well, it was only 99¢, so no harm done." And even after that explanation has been given, I still feel the need to say, "Oh, but of course we get our food at Trader Joe's, Ranch 99, Vons and Costco too." It's a pride thing. And it trumps this particular expression of the honor thing.
An American friend who went to China to live with a Chinese family told a story that illustrates the Chinese value of honor. He went to buy something in a market but, being an obvious foreigner, was overcharged for it.
No big deal, right? He was learning the system and he'd know better next time.
But getting overcharged meant something more to his host: she kept repeating over the course of several days that he should have brought her along. He wouldn't have been ripped him off if she were there.
Okay, no problem. He'd be sure to go with her next time. But despite that assurance, she was still distressed about the situation.
What was at stake?
It wasn't really the money. It was honor that was lost when he was taken advantage of. He had been dishonored, and since he was a part of her family, her honor and the honor of her entire family had taken a blow. (Therein lies another value difference in collective versus individualistic identity.)
I'm not saying that this is the truth, globally or otherwise. But in my experience, a difference between values of the East and West can be found in the relationship between monetary cost and personal identity.
One culture values honor and retains this honor by not being taken advantage of, i.e. not being ripped off.
The other values pride and retains this pride by having the resources to provide at a higher level, i.e. being able to afford costlier (read: nicer, better) resources.
There's also the mashup of cultures and values where sometimes the honor prevails and sometimes the pride prevails. And then there are times when they appear in equal degrees and the culturally mixed just learn to hold paradoxical values and be at peace with it. And that's life.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Muggles!
I emitted a very excited squeak (in a public place with a crowd) when I saw the 4th entry listed below in my KTdict Chinese-English iPhone dictionary.
Or is it 我是一个麻瓜。?
I'm trying to say "I am a muggle."
I'd like to be able to say: I am a muggle, but I'd rather be a wizard.
Unfortunately, my Chinese is far too elementary.
Now I want to get a copy of Harry Potter in Chinese. (Or maybe I shouldn't. I bought a copy Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone in Spanish in high school when I was attempting to learn Spanish in my sorry excuse for a language class. I don't think I ever made it past the first few pages.)
Ooh! Maybe I'll just use my "studying Chinese" time to look up Harry Potter words. Like, how would you say pensieve? Or boggart? Or Snape? Or Blast-ended skrewt?!
And what about hobbit? Legolas? Bombadil? Fool of a Took!? Figwit?! (Though considering Figwit is a product of fangirl frenzy and not an actual written character, I doubt there's an official Chinese rendition of his name.)
What about Middle Earth?
I vote 中国.
That is, Middle Kingdom/Country.
That is, the official name of China.
Look! I'm thinking of going to Middle Kingdom/Earth this year!
Last year, I went to Middle Earth under the guise of New Zealand (hehe).
I sense a trend here.
I've been geeked. Travel geeked.
Now how do you say "Fern, get your travel-geeked butt back to work." in Chinese?
Or is it 我是一个麻瓜。?
I'm trying to say "I am a muggle."
I'd like to be able to say: I am a muggle, but I'd rather be a wizard.
Unfortunately, my Chinese is far too elementary.
Now I want to get a copy of Harry Potter in Chinese. (Or maybe I shouldn't. I bought a copy Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone in Spanish in high school when I was attempting to learn Spanish in my sorry excuse for a language class. I don't think I ever made it past the first few pages.)
Ooh! Maybe I'll just use my "studying Chinese" time to look up Harry Potter words. Like, how would you say pensieve? Or boggart? Or Snape? Or Blast-ended skrewt?!
And what about hobbit? Legolas? Bombadil? Fool of a Took!? Figwit?! (Though considering Figwit is a product of fangirl frenzy and not an actual written character, I doubt there's an official Chinese rendition of his name.)
What about Middle Earth?
I vote 中国.
That is, Middle Kingdom/Country.
That is, the official name of China.
Look! I'm thinking of going to Middle Kingdom/Earth this year!
Last year, I went to Middle Earth under the guise of New Zealand (hehe).
I sense a trend here.
I've been geeked. Travel geeked.
Now how do you say "Fern, get your travel-geeked butt back to work." in Chinese?
Friday, February 12, 2010
Goals! Oh dear.
Two months ago, I essentially said, screw goals, I'm gonna wander. But lately, I've come to the conclusion that goals are rather important.
For example... I wanted to take some classes to fill in some skill gaps but got rather carried away with all the freakishly cool things to learn. Like futures studies! But in the end, it had to be dropped and filed away under "cool things to learn about someday" because meandering there stretched my energy a bit too thinly across too many arenas.
But, back to goals specifically.
The problem for me is that "goals" sounds far too fixated and impermeable. It's like saying, THIS is where I WILL be in x years and I will ZOOM into TIGHT focus towards this SINGULAR ambition. My space-loving soul cringes and wriggles to find a more flexible way to roam.
So the best compromise seems to be to reframe my whole perception of goals. It doesn't have to be a singular goal. Or if it does need to be one goal, it doesn't have to get there NOW. I'm fully allowed to wittle them into focus slowly. And, most importantly, these goals can change. They can be scrapped completely in light of new discoveries. They can be modified according to how the path pans out. They can grow, live and, if need be, pass away.
Chris Guillebeau over at The Art of Non-Conformity (a blog with great posts and a splendidly artistic header) had this to say:
Are they related? Not in the slightest. At least, not as far as my mind can see right now.
It's a bit like being a double major in art and physics at the same time. Are they related? If you're looking at the path to get a physics major and looking at the path to get an art major... not in the slightest. No overlap at all. Except in my own learning, problem-solving, and creativity, where I've found plenty of overlap in the process.
Are the paths to 3D animation, graphic design and China related? Not really.
But I'm going to try the paths to all three out and see where it takes me. If one gains prominence either in my own desire or in outside traction, then I'll travel down that path.
And the most important thing to note here is that going down any one of these paths doesn't mean that the other paths are automatically excluded for the rest of my life. Aren't we constantly told that the days of one single career are over?
In the end, it's a combination of goals and wandering.
The goals help focus the wandering.
Or maybe it's that the wandering that helps give the goals life and focus.
Your thoughts?
For example... I wanted to take some classes to fill in some skill gaps but got rather carried away with all the freakishly cool things to learn. Like futures studies! But in the end, it had to be dropped and filed away under "cool things to learn about someday" because meandering there stretched my energy a bit too thinly across too many arenas.
But, back to goals specifically.
The problem for me is that "goals" sounds far too fixated and impermeable. It's like saying, THIS is where I WILL be in x years and I will ZOOM into TIGHT focus towards this SINGULAR ambition. My space-loving soul cringes and wriggles to find a more flexible way to roam.
So the best compromise seems to be to reframe my whole perception of goals. It doesn't have to be a singular goal. Or if it does need to be one goal, it doesn't have to get there NOW. I'm fully allowed to wittle them into focus slowly. And, most importantly, these goals can change. They can be scrapped completely in light of new discoveries. They can be modified according to how the path pans out. They can grow, live and, if need be, pass away.
Chris Guillebeau over at The Art of Non-Conformity (a blog with great posts and a splendidly artistic header) had this to say:
But most of us are not Tigers or Serenas yet. Not all of us know what we want to do; not everyone is single-minded towards the pursuit of only one goal. Some of us have more than one passion.So, for now, my goals consist of going into 3D animation in the entertainment or education areas, being a graphic designer or publication designer, and moving to China to learn Chinese.
So that’s the idea: why not try it all? Have your cake and eat it too.
I’ve written about living a renaissance life a few times before—see here and here, for example—but this is a different approach. Try this, for example:
Higher Education: sign up for the maximum number of credits. You can drop any classes that aren’t a good fit, but maybe you just have a busy semester of learning. Why not?
Business: Have four ideas and aren’t sure which to pursue? Launch all four. Stick with the one or two that gains traction in the marketplace. Don’t worry about the others.
Are they related? Not in the slightest. At least, not as far as my mind can see right now.
It's a bit like being a double major in art and physics at the same time. Are they related? If you're looking at the path to get a physics major and looking at the path to get an art major... not in the slightest. No overlap at all. Except in my own learning, problem-solving, and creativity, where I've found plenty of overlap in the process.
Are the paths to 3D animation, graphic design and China related? Not really.
But I'm going to try the paths to all three out and see where it takes me. If one gains prominence either in my own desire or in outside traction, then I'll travel down that path.
And the most important thing to note here is that going down any one of these paths doesn't mean that the other paths are automatically excluded for the rest of my life. Aren't we constantly told that the days of one single career are over?
In the end, it's a combination of goals and wandering.
The goals help focus the wandering.
Or maybe it's that the wandering that helps give the goals life and focus.
Your thoughts?
Saturday, February 6, 2010
A Wild Sheep Chase, Chapter 35 ¾
Part Two of a peek into the mind of my high school self, this round via an English assignment in my sophomore year. (Part one here.) We were to write an additional chapter for a book. I chose A Wild Sheep Chase by Haruki Murakami.
Now, I fully admit to being slightly kooky. I also fully admit to being a sponge. I easily absorb people's styles and writing styles. The latter absorption becomes problematic after reading authors like Faulker because my sentences grow from lengthy to unending. However, when reading a slightly kooky book like A Wild Sheep Chase--a book which I highly recommend--the absorption tendency can lead to some, well, interesting, results...
The glaring sun seemed to have a way of hooking weights surreptitiously onto my eyelids. I looked out over the pasture through diminishing slits and it wasn’t long before my head drooped over with its heavy load.
I dreamed about the dairy cow again. Except this time, it had an uncanny resemblance to the Sheep Man. The cow still wanted pliers in exchange for the old electric fan so I ransacked the Rat’s house looking for those evasive pliers. Dust flew in little clouds around me like those hastily drawn in a comic strip. Then one of the dust clouds pulled together with a loud sucking *thwooop* and materialized into the Sheep Man. He was staggering around in circles like a drunkard because of the weight of a gigantic pair of red furry pliers. The pliers had a star on what would be its back, if pliers had backs. I started to wrestle with the Sheep Man for the pliers when a sudden spurt of efficient raps on the door made me start and loose my grip.
I opened my eyes and squinted violently at the sunbeam that fell across the door. The raps became more insistent. How is it that the manner in which one knocks on a door sounds exactly like the manner of their voices? There were deep booming door knocks that shook the foundations of the earth. Those went with the deep booming voices that blew you off your feet and onto the floor with an ungainly crash. Then there are voices and door knocks like this present jabbering rap that eats its way into every fiber of your being, annoying and aggravating every cell until the one responsible for the rapping is pacified.
Now, I fully admit to being slightly kooky. I also fully admit to being a sponge. I easily absorb people's styles and writing styles. The latter absorption becomes problematic after reading authors like Faulker because my sentences grow from lengthy to unending. However, when reading a slightly kooky book like A Wild Sheep Chase--a book which I highly recommend--the absorption tendency can lead to some, well, interesting, results...
A Wild Sheep Chase
by Haruki Murakami
Translated from Japanese by Alfred Birnbaum
Chapter 35 ¾
—¶ð
Pliers That Jabber and Rap
The glaring sun seemed to have a way of hooking weights surreptitiously onto my eyelids. I looked out over the pasture through diminishing slits and it wasn’t long before my head drooped over with its heavy load.
I dreamed about the dairy cow again. Except this time, it had an uncanny resemblance to the Sheep Man. The cow still wanted pliers in exchange for the old electric fan so I ransacked the Rat’s house looking for those evasive pliers. Dust flew in little clouds around me like those hastily drawn in a comic strip. Then one of the dust clouds pulled together with a loud sucking *thwooop* and materialized into the Sheep Man. He was staggering around in circles like a drunkard because of the weight of a gigantic pair of red furry pliers. The pliers had a star on what would be its back, if pliers had backs. I started to wrestle with the Sheep Man for the pliers when a sudden spurt of efficient raps on the door made me start and loose my grip.
I opened my eyes and squinted violently at the sunbeam that fell across the door. The raps became more insistent. How is it that the manner in which one knocks on a door sounds exactly like the manner of their voices? There were deep booming door knocks that shook the foundations of the earth. Those went with the deep booming voices that blew you off your feet and onto the floor with an ungainly crash. Then there are voices and door knocks like this present jabbering rap that eats its way into every fiber of your being, annoying and aggravating every cell until the one responsible for the rapping is pacified.
A Short Little Tale Regarding the Importance of Mushrooms
A peek into the mind of my high school self (November 2003!) via a short story I wrote for English in my junior year. Unfortunately, the external harddrive on which all my pre-college work resided went and died on me, so this is one of the few digital bits that remain. Thanks to... get this... a floppy disc! It had two whole word documents on it, the second of which is titled, A Wild Sheep Chase, Chapter 35 ¾.
So why post this? For one, I like traipsing into the mind of past selves. For two, it reflects my high school concerns quite well. And, for three, threads of those high school concerns have wound their way into the present. Things evolve as time progresses, but do they really change?
Note: My high school self had a thing for mushrooms. It showed up in my nickname, in a series I did for art, and of course, this story... So, without further ado...
A Short Little Tale Regarding the Importance of Mushrooms
In a world entirely unrelated to our own, the pursuit of life is not happiness, but mushrooms. Now before you start to think of little people zooming around and snatching more mushrooms to add to the already large piles in their arms, understand this – these mushrooms are not ones you eat. It has never even so much as crossed the minds of the inhabitants of the world that mushrooms are items to be ingested. Mushrooms grow, most certainly, but not in the way you might imagine…
Thursday, January 28, 2010
California = G.I. Joe, or, On Learning Chinese
There are definite advantages to learning Chinese in an English setting.
Sure, you won't get the pressure of full immersion, but for getting the basics, I do like starting in a less intense environment.
When catering to an English speaking crowd, the professor can pull examples from familiar territory to help you learn the four Chinese tones. So instead of having to remember how the tones sound from scratch, you can repeat this:
John = tone one. __
ming = tone two. /
Well... = tone three. \/
yes! = tone four. \
Or, break out the music staff:
First tone: at the top. Second tone: start two notches down, move your voice upward. Third tone: start three notches down, move down one then raise up three. Fourth tone: start at the top, drop down four. Neutral tone: short, sweet and light at the top.
Out of everything we've learned so far, I'm mainly butchering the 'r' sound. The prof tells us it sounds like the s in television. I think it sounds more like a "zheh" oh "zhuh" with a marshmallow in your mouth.
In addition to the professor's helpful language tie-ins, you can also use other people's butcheration of the tone to help you remember words.
California in Chinese is Jiā zhōu (using 1's to indicate tone 1) and is written as follows:
(courtesy of http://chineseculture.about.com/)
Jiā is the sound that approximates the Ca syllable. Actually, the li, for, ni, and a syllables have sound twins too which brings the entire name to this monster: 加利福尼亞, or Jiā lì fú ní yà. Thank goodness it shortens to Jiā zhōu (the latter meaning state or province).
Even in its shortened form, I had trouble remembering that California = Jiā zhōu.
That is, until I sat next to a guy in class who thoroughly butchers the sounds and tones of Chinese.
When saying Jiā zhōu, he sounds entirely like a southerner saying G.I. Joe.
Try it out! Jiā zhōu. G.I. Joe.
But run the G.I. into a single syllable... G.I. Joe. Jiā zhōu.
So, thank you butcherer of tones. Because of you, I shall always remember that California = G.I. Joe.
Whatever works to learn the language, right?
Sure, you won't get the pressure of full immersion, but for getting the basics, I do like starting in a less intense environment.
When catering to an English speaking crowd, the professor can pull examples from familiar territory to help you learn the four Chinese tones. So instead of having to remember how the tones sound from scratch, you can repeat this:
John, are you coming?
Wellll... yes!
John = tone one. __
ming = tone two. /
Well... = tone three. \/
yes! = tone four. \
Or, break out the music staff:
Out of everything we've learned so far, I'm mainly butchering the 'r' sound. The prof tells us it sounds like the s in television. I think it sounds more like a "zheh" oh "zhuh" with a marshmallow in your mouth.
In addition to the professor's helpful language tie-ins, you can also use other people's butcheration of the tone to help you remember words.
California in Chinese is Jiā zhōu (using 1's to indicate tone 1) and is written as follows:
Jiā is the sound that approximates the Ca syllable. Actually, the li, for, ni, and a syllables have sound twins too which brings the entire name to this monster: 加利福尼亞, or Jiā lì fú ní yà. Thank goodness it shortens to Jiā zhōu (the latter meaning state or province).
Even in its shortened form, I had trouble remembering that California = Jiā zhōu.
That is, until I sat next to a guy in class who thoroughly butchers the sounds and tones of Chinese.
When saying Jiā zhōu, he sounds entirely like a southerner saying G.I. Joe.
Try it out! Jiā zhōu. G.I. Joe.
But run the G.I. into a single syllable... G.I. Joe. Jiā zhōu.
So, thank you butcherer of tones. Because of you, I shall always remember that California = G.I. Joe.
Whatever works to learn the language, right?
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Never Say Never
I am a packrat.
It takes years before I can bear to start getting rid of old school notes and assignments. Even then, it's more of a tame weeding than a complete purge.
Last year, after graduation and moving back to San Diego, I sat on my floor organizing the dead tree evidence of my Westmont academic life.
I came across my papers for Mechanics: my very last (and most painful) physics class covering Statics and Dynamics.
With a flourish, I threw the entire lot into the recycling bin.
"I'm NEVER going to need THAT again!" I crowed with delight.
Never say never.
Because I'm about to walk into the first class session of Dynamics at SDSU.
It's an entire semester full of all the material from the second half of Westmont's Mechanics class.
i.e. The hardest parts of the class.
i.e. The part that builds on the hard first section of the Westmont class for which I have no useful memories NOR any useful notes from which to jog my memory.
I threw those notes away because for all the uncertainty of my future, it was obvious to me that I would never set foot in mechanics related class again.
You think you know where life is going to take you?
Think again.
It takes years before I can bear to start getting rid of old school notes and assignments. Even then, it's more of a tame weeding than a complete purge.
Last year, after graduation and moving back to San Diego, I sat on my floor organizing the dead tree evidence of my Westmont academic life.
I came across my papers for Mechanics: my very last (and most painful) physics class covering Statics and Dynamics.
With a flourish, I threw the entire lot into the recycling bin.
"I'm NEVER going to need THAT again!" I crowed with delight.
Never say never.
Because I'm about to walk into the first class session of Dynamics at SDSU.
It's an entire semester full of all the material from the second half of Westmont's Mechanics class.
i.e. The hardest parts of the class.
i.e. The part that builds on the hard first section of the Westmont class for which I have no useful memories NOR any useful notes from which to jog my memory.
I threw those notes away because for all the uncertainty of my future, it was obvious to me that I would never set foot in mechanics related class again.
You think you know where life is going to take you?
Think again.
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