And possibly fingerworm as well, I just spent an age digging up a free score for this piece. Tis Granados, Danza Española No. 2, Oriental. It kills me.
Piano: the first one I found was by this 11 year-old girl. While it's prolly a bit less polished than this other woman's version, I love how she's really into it. Also, dudes, 11.
Geetar:
It's great being able to compare versions on different instruments. I reckon the guitar one is more romantic and soulful, cos they make up for the instrument's relatively limited dynamic range with sensitive phrasing and flexible timing. Or something. I'm only just beginning to work on my classical ear after x million years/dollars of music tuition. The slides on the guitar make it more lyrical as well. Sigh.
Why is this piece so familiar and haunting? I have a feeling it's from a movie. Godfather? I've definitely heard it before. Only came upon the title by chance, listening to ABC Classic FM: Up Insanely Late. Digging that channel lately. In my car I've got it programmed along with Triple J and Today FM. In company the cooler ones are chosen; alone I wind down the windows and blast me some harp action.
PS for Chris: I SAW A MOUSE IN MY ROOM!!! The first time it was exiting. The second time it was coming in. Errrr.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Candles and other obvious metaphors
So, radio silence.
What I haven't been saying here, or rather what I've been saying by not saying anything here (are we following?), is how I'm terrified that med is not my One True Vocation and that I'm going to turn out to be a incompetent doctor, bitter and resentful at how it's taken up my life.
I think it's partly because of our lack of clinical stuff this year so far, with hardly any patient contact. Buried beneath the books, the weekly grind of Working Problems, it's easy to lose sight of where it's all leading. I fear that I still don't own medicine; being a student doctor isn't part of my identity. Compare this with learning French- it is a part of me, it was my passion (at least for a while). Whereas with med, part of me is standing to the side, half amazed at what knowledge I have managed to pick up, half bemused and terrified at the thought of one day being Dr Tina. Who, me? What a ridiculous notion. With my heart not really in it, I was afraid that I would be a half-ass doctor, knowing just enough to get by, fooling the less critical of my patients. And that's just not what I want out of life; I want to be brilliant at what I do, passionate, absorbed. Sure there are doctors who can do other things at the same time, like my hero Oliver Sacks, the great neurologist who's written about things as diverse as music and botany. But I don't have that kind of protean genius; I know that just getting to grips with the mountains of med knowledge will take up most of my efforts, leaving my other interests by the wayside.
Also, med frustrates my desire for creativity and Making a Difference. You're at the coal face, applying other people's technologies and research, with your impact being limited to the patient in front of you, basically working as an algorithm-churning machine. Yes, it is a noble and important job and satisfying in its way, too. But it's constrained. The scientist who invents a new vaccine, the politician who brings in universal health care, the teacher who shapes a class-full of young minds...that's how you multiply your impact. Yeah I realise how grandiose and naive that sounds. I know my limitations, but I want to use what I've got for the greatest effect and satisfaction.
In short, I felt trapped. Trapped by the 5 years I've already spent at uni, the $100k debt, the expectations of family, the 5 years of Bonded practice and at least 7 years of advanced training awaiting me. So I've been idly surfing for alternative lives. An English-for-foreigners teaching diploma, a correspondence course for a Grad Dip Psychology.
These worries have been sloshing around for months now, and I never thought to speak them to anyone. It's taboo. Then yesterday had a chat with Chris. A light of hope! She told me that she too has doubts about clinical med being her life's work. I'm not alone. She's interested in business, finding a niche to fulfill future healthcare needs. Now that is exciting stuff, where new ideas are possible. She wants a non-profit branch to her biz too, and suggested that I be part of that, doing some kind of travelling medico-journalism kinda thing. What a pipe dream, what perfection! It's so obvious. One of my main objections to Being a Writer (ooh la la) is that I'm crap at making up stories. But lo, there are many stories in med. As I was reminded today- we had a palliative care placement, and oh how it was lovely talking to a patient. With 10 years of cancer but still seemingly well, he told us about his love for the bush and his career as a forrester, his worldwide travel, his passion for Schubert and art. In fact he's going to Sydney tomorrow to buy a Schubert CD of the most beautiful piece ever, he says. So among my notes about his medical history of hip replacements and diabetes is a citation for Piano Sonata in B flat, D960. Have a listen (I downloaded the Lipkin one). I dunno about "best evah", but it sure is beautiful, especially the second movement. For Friday I've volunteered to be the one quizzing him about the psychospiritual stuff (what a silly term for "what do you think about dying?").
Whether or not these are impossible dreams, suddenly the trap seems less deathly tight. The inevitable bitter end - haggard repressed half-assed GP - doesn't have to be that. There's something to work towards and hope for. I'm reminded how I convinced myself to get into med in the first place and it doesn't seem quite so self-delusional- that people and their stories are pretty damn awesome.
Now for the "study and pass" bit.
What I haven't been saying here, or rather what I've been saying by not saying anything here (are we following?), is how I'm terrified that med is not my One True Vocation and that I'm going to turn out to be a incompetent doctor, bitter and resentful at how it's taken up my life.
I think it's partly because of our lack of clinical stuff this year so far, with hardly any patient contact. Buried beneath the books, the weekly grind of Working Problems, it's easy to lose sight of where it's all leading. I fear that I still don't own medicine; being a student doctor isn't part of my identity. Compare this with learning French- it is a part of me, it was my passion (at least for a while). Whereas with med, part of me is standing to the side, half amazed at what knowledge I have managed to pick up, half bemused and terrified at the thought of one day being Dr Tina. Who, me? What a ridiculous notion. With my heart not really in it, I was afraid that I would be a half-ass doctor, knowing just enough to get by, fooling the less critical of my patients. And that's just not what I want out of life; I want to be brilliant at what I do, passionate, absorbed. Sure there are doctors who can do other things at the same time, like my hero Oliver Sacks, the great neurologist who's written about things as diverse as music and botany. But I don't have that kind of protean genius; I know that just getting to grips with the mountains of med knowledge will take up most of my efforts, leaving my other interests by the wayside.
Also, med frustrates my desire for creativity and Making a Difference. You're at the coal face, applying other people's technologies and research, with your impact being limited to the patient in front of you, basically working as an algorithm-churning machine. Yes, it is a noble and important job and satisfying in its way, too. But it's constrained. The scientist who invents a new vaccine, the politician who brings in universal health care, the teacher who shapes a class-full of young minds...that's how you multiply your impact. Yeah I realise how grandiose and naive that sounds. I know my limitations, but I want to use what I've got for the greatest effect and satisfaction.
In short, I felt trapped. Trapped by the 5 years I've already spent at uni, the $100k debt, the expectations of family, the 5 years of Bonded practice and at least 7 years of advanced training awaiting me. So I've been idly surfing for alternative lives. An English-for-foreigners teaching diploma, a correspondence course for a Grad Dip Psychology.
These worries have been sloshing around for months now, and I never thought to speak them to anyone. It's taboo. Then yesterday had a chat with Chris. A light of hope! She told me that she too has doubts about clinical med being her life's work. I'm not alone. She's interested in business, finding a niche to fulfill future healthcare needs. Now that is exciting stuff, where new ideas are possible. She wants a non-profit branch to her biz too, and suggested that I be part of that, doing some kind of travelling medico-journalism kinda thing. What a pipe dream, what perfection! It's so obvious. One of my main objections to Being a Writer (ooh la la) is that I'm crap at making up stories. But lo, there are many stories in med. As I was reminded today- we had a palliative care placement, and oh how it was lovely talking to a patient. With 10 years of cancer but still seemingly well, he told us about his love for the bush and his career as a forrester, his worldwide travel, his passion for Schubert and art. In fact he's going to Sydney tomorrow to buy a Schubert CD of the most beautiful piece ever, he says. So among my notes about his medical history of hip replacements and diabetes is a citation for Piano Sonata in B flat, D960. Have a listen (I downloaded the Lipkin one). I dunno about "best evah", but it sure is beautiful, especially the second movement. For Friday I've volunteered to be the one quizzing him about the psychospiritual stuff (what a silly term for "what do you think about dying?").
Whether or not these are impossible dreams, suddenly the trap seems less deathly tight. The inevitable bitter end - haggard repressed half-assed GP - doesn't have to be that. There's something to work towards and hope for. I'm reminded how I convinced myself to get into med in the first place and it doesn't seem quite so self-delusional- that people and their stories are pretty damn awesome.
Now for the "study and pass" bit.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Neurosis alert
Current stressors:
Ok feeling better now.
- EXAMS IN 7 WEEKS. 10 weeks' work to catch up on. Motivation level: subterranean. The exams are on 3 consecutive days which translates to: pass the razor. Small consolation is that I get to see Phantom after all- accidentally booked it during exam period, but luckily we will have finished by then.
- Recurring doubts about What The Flying Fluck I am doing in this course. Why did I ever say I wanted a challenge? How did I ever convince myself this was my vocation when as a kid my ambitions included psychology, anthropology, journalism, language teaching, &c &c but NEVER EVER medicine?! How did I even get admitted? Still waiting for the letter that says "Just kidding. *BOOT*".
- HES project. I've got a supervisor lined up, but he's a frigging big shot lecturer and epidemiological researcher. His field is exactly what HES is meant to be about. Seems like a nice guy too. One problem. He wants me to do publication-level research! Which is cool except for the fact that the last time I did field research was...........NEVER. Know jackshit about it.
- HES in Vietnam. I'll be staying with a family friend previously mentioned. I'm stressed out about all the etiquette and language barriers cos this is in the very politesse-conscious North. I'm afraid I will use the wrong honorific for some Head Honcho, thus condemning my host to social exile and and bringing SHAME AND HELLFIRE upon seventeen generations of my ancestors and progeny who will spit on my grave!! I will also be a small lonesome English-speaking island wanting my mummy, in an ocean of streetsmart Vietnamese who eat Australian-Vietnamese Traitors for breakfast. Why oh why didn't I go to Viet school? Should've known. Blood will out. And how come at 22 I'm still not self-sufficient or confident or grown up yet? Hurry up already.
Ok feeling better now.
Monday, March 31, 2008
The Seed
The things I suffer for other people's art. On Saturday, I had to wake up in the MORNING (gasp! 9am) to take the 2.5 hour train to Central station. From there I had to lug my overstuffed bright green backpack like a studious turtle over to the Belvoir St Theatre. All this to see the second-last performance of an Australian play, my first without any Big Names or familiar authors as risk-mitigation.
Totally. Freaking. Worth it.
It was The Seed by Kate Mulvany, a semi-autobiographical play about an Australian ex-journo-turned-aspiring-writer-(the-real-kind), Rosie, who goes to Ireland with her Vietnam veteran father to meet her ex-IRA grandfather. The playwright is also the lead actress playing her barely-fictional self. This isn't a big-R review, so go elsewhere for the plot synopsis. There are several spoilers that aren't included there...watch out, cos I'm going to blow it for you. Basically, the dad got hit with Agent Orange which meant that he and the mum had four miscarriages before Rosie...who was born with kidney cancer, the treatment for which made her unable to have children. Her fiancé's just left her because of that. The other big reveal is about the grandpa. Throughout the play he paints himself as a devoted bomb-maker for the IRA, regaling them with stories of how many English pigs he's killed. But in the end it turns out that it was all a myth, that the "meetings" were just drinks at the pub with his mates and that the fundraised money was spent on the bookies. His lifelong lie had sown a (lo!) seed of guilt in his son for deserting his family and The Cause, driving him to Vietnam to prove himself. Dominoes and reverberations.
I laughed, I was sucked into the story, I blinked a whole damn lot. Kinda embarrassing when you're in the front row and one of the actors seems to be staring right at you. The emotion lingered for hours afterwards and I'm still thinking about it today - that's how I measure the impact of a play. Wanted to give a standing ovation at the end but, well, again with the self-conscious front-row squirmies.
Of course being a INTP equivocator type, I had to find some flaws with it as well. Can't let pure emotion go unchallenged by nitpicky thought! The "VN war = bad....just like IRAQ" thing was a little heavyhanded. You don't need to convince me that war is bad, you only have to do it elegantly. "What the fock is Agent Orange?!" and the list of PTSD symptoms were like being hit on the head with a giant expository hammer. The drama of the final confrontation flagged a bit - can't put my finger on the reason - and a reference to old and new, literal and figurative scars was a tad obvious at the end.
On the other hand, most of the writing was gorgeous. Occasionally in between the segments of family reunion dialogue, there are bits of monologue by the author-as-herself about a crayfishing trip with her father as a kid. There was a moment about how her father pulled the ropes to lift the pot as if he were dancing with himself. Mulvany's reading is dream-like as she acts out the hypnotising motion...omg. I won't forget that soon. What did Tom Stoppard say about moments that transcend text? That was one of them, even though it was so verbal. The other bit that made me sniffle like crazy was when Rosie tells her grandfather she can't have children (after his long spiel about how Malloney women are made to be mothers). She says maybe she doesn't deserve them and rips into this speech about the envy, rage and desire that she has when she sees pregnant women and soon-to-be fathers and babies. The violence and spite shock you, the wrenching yearning draws the blinkage. It is so painfully raw, made more so by the realisation that maybe this is the actress/writer speaking from her own experience. Chills, man. It takes real balls to put yourself on the line like that, and everybody appreciated it.
It's definitely nudging the top ranks on my "Theatre Bests" list, even accounting for recency bias. See if I was a real reviewer I'd end this with a crappy extension of the seed metaphor, blooms and trees or something, but instead I'm just going to brush my teeth and go to bed.
PS. I have this ultra-sexist crackpot theory that while men may be better at writing about great ideas and the sweep of history &c, women, even authors of teen fiction and other low-brow genres, are better at psychological and emotional realism. I mean much as I revere Sir Tom, with his piercing, crystalline turns of phrase, sometimes his characters' changes in mood are abrupt and seem contrived. Victor Hugo was one of my favourites as a teen, but a couple of dudes in Les Mis are impossibly saintly or heroic or villainous. Michael Ondaatje's English Patient is beautifully poetic but strange; people do inexplicable things and they all talk in this oblique manner. For shiz this is gross over-generalisation - Henry James' Washington Square was a masterpiece in minutely detailed character development. Emphasis on the "crackpot" part of the theory.
PPS. AMSA, you suck.
PPPS. My grammer and speling also suck. Fer shame.
Totally. Freaking. Worth it.
It was The Seed by Kate Mulvany, a semi-autobiographical play about an Australian ex-journo-turned-aspiring-writer-(the-real-kind), Rosie, who goes to Ireland with her Vietnam veteran father to meet her ex-IRA grandfather. The playwright is also the lead actress playing her barely-fictional self. This isn't a big-R review, so go elsewhere for the plot synopsis. There are several spoilers that aren't included there...watch out, cos I'm going to blow it for you. Basically, the dad got hit with Agent Orange which meant that he and the mum had four miscarriages before Rosie...who was born with kidney cancer, the treatment for which made her unable to have children. Her fiancé's just left her because of that. The other big reveal is about the grandpa. Throughout the play he paints himself as a devoted bomb-maker for the IRA, regaling them with stories of how many English pigs he's killed. But in the end it turns out that it was all a myth, that the "meetings" were just drinks at the pub with his mates and that the fundraised money was spent on the bookies. His lifelong lie had sown a (lo!) seed of guilt in his son for deserting his family and The Cause, driving him to Vietnam to prove himself. Dominoes and reverberations.
I laughed, I was sucked into the story, I blinked a whole damn lot. Kinda embarrassing when you're in the front row and one of the actors seems to be staring right at you. The emotion lingered for hours afterwards and I'm still thinking about it today - that's how I measure the impact of a play. Wanted to give a standing ovation at the end but, well, again with the self-conscious front-row squirmies.
Of course being a INTP equivocator type, I had to find some flaws with it as well. Can't let pure emotion go unchallenged by nitpicky thought! The "VN war = bad....just like IRAQ" thing was a little heavyhanded. You don't need to convince me that war is bad, you only have to do it elegantly. "What the fock is Agent Orange?!" and the list of PTSD symptoms were like being hit on the head with a giant expository hammer. The drama of the final confrontation flagged a bit - can't put my finger on the reason - and a reference to old and new, literal and figurative scars was a tad obvious at the end.
On the other hand, most of the writing was gorgeous. Occasionally in between the segments of family reunion dialogue, there are bits of monologue by the author-as-herself about a crayfishing trip with her father as a kid. There was a moment about how her father pulled the ropes to lift the pot as if he were dancing with himself. Mulvany's reading is dream-like as she acts out the hypnotising motion...omg. I won't forget that soon. What did Tom Stoppard say about moments that transcend text? That was one of them, even though it was so verbal. The other bit that made me sniffle like crazy was when Rosie tells her grandfather she can't have children (after his long spiel about how Malloney women are made to be mothers). She says maybe she doesn't deserve them and rips into this speech about the envy, rage and desire that she has when she sees pregnant women and soon-to-be fathers and babies. The violence and spite shock you, the wrenching yearning draws the blinkage. It is so painfully raw, made more so by the realisation that maybe this is the actress/writer speaking from her own experience. Chills, man. It takes real balls to put yourself on the line like that, and everybody appreciated it.
It's definitely nudging the top ranks on my "Theatre Bests" list, even accounting for recency bias. See if I was a real reviewer I'd end this with a crappy extension of the seed metaphor, blooms and trees or something, but instead I'm just going to brush my teeth and go to bed.
PS. I have this ultra-sexist crackpot theory that while men may be better at writing about great ideas and the sweep of history &c, women, even authors of teen fiction and other low-brow genres, are better at psychological and emotional realism. I mean much as I revere Sir Tom, with his piercing, crystalline turns of phrase, sometimes his characters' changes in mood are abrupt and seem contrived. Victor Hugo was one of my favourites as a teen, but a couple of dudes in Les Mis are impossibly saintly or heroic or villainous. Michael Ondaatje's English Patient is beautifully poetic but strange; people do inexplicable things and they all talk in this oblique manner. For shiz this is gross over-generalisation - Henry James' Washington Square was a masterpiece in minutely detailed character development. Emphasis on the "crackpot" part of the theory.
PPS. AMSA, you suck.
PPPS. My grammer and speling also suck. Fer shame.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Who's got the map?
"We need wit and courage to make our way while our way is making us."Spoken about historical necessity, but also conveniently applicable to this one small life. Not blogging lately because everything comes out in angst. Who am I? Where am I going? Who stole my socks?
- Salvage, Stoppard
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Cut-loss week
My second "shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning" day this week. On Tuesday I was going to go swimming so drove to uni instead of walking, only to circle the campus for half an hour in fruitless search for a parking spot with the petrol meter already in the red. Then decided to screw it and went to find fuel. The first place I went to, as bad luck would have it, was completely out, so had to cross the suburb to fill up. The punchline? Couldn't have gone swimming anyway, because there was a school carnival on that day at the pool. I managed to tun the day around by treating myself to an icecream - panacea! - and it was actually quite productive study-wise.
Today we had a derm clinic: utter waste of time. There were about two patients in two hours. We ended up getting taught stuff off the internet, no joke. And got my first taste of hardcore pimpage from this toolish Viet reg who quizzed us on all the obscure immunomodulator drugs you can use on BCC's while he cut one out of a lady's neck. The other reg, on the other hand, was the one who had given us a lecture yesterday, and he only expected us to know how to identify macules, papules, etc etc. when we split up I made sure to be in the latter's group! Har.
Luckily we got to leave early so did a bit of study in the library and got a gross but cheapo lunch from the subterranean caf. Whose idea was it, by the way, to put the poor paeds wards underground, circles-of-hell style? Then left to drive to the city where they randomly scheduled two lectures. Foiled by bearshit again, this time in the form of a frigging monsoon. Guess who didn't bring an umbrella? And wore a white shirt? And got soaked down to her unmentionables? Gah. The car was no refuge either as could hardly see through the fogged-up windows and had to drive illegally sans glasses because they made my vision even worse. Was gung-ho at first and was going to soldier on to the lectures but finally decided that listening to two dudes read off Powerpoint slides wasn't worth indecent exposure, pneumonia, or a ten car pileup.
IV icecream please.
Today we had a derm clinic: utter waste of time. There were about two patients in two hours. We ended up getting taught stuff off the internet, no joke. And got my first taste of hardcore pimpage from this toolish Viet reg who quizzed us on all the obscure immunomodulator drugs you can use on BCC's while he cut one out of a lady's neck. The other reg, on the other hand, was the one who had given us a lecture yesterday, and he only expected us to know how to identify macules, papules, etc etc. when we split up I made sure to be in the latter's group! Har.
Luckily we got to leave early so did a bit of study in the library and got a gross but cheapo lunch from the subterranean caf. Whose idea was it, by the way, to put the poor paeds wards underground, circles-of-hell style? Then left to drive to the city where they randomly scheduled two lectures. Foiled by bearshit again, this time in the form of a frigging monsoon. Guess who didn't bring an umbrella? And wore a white shirt? And got soaked down to her unmentionables? Gah. The car was no refuge either as could hardly see through the fogged-up windows and had to drive illegally sans glasses because they made my vision even worse. Was gung-ho at first and was going to soldier on to the lectures but finally decided that listening to two dudes read off Powerpoint slides wasn't worth indecent exposure, pneumonia, or a ten car pileup.
IV icecream please.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Why there will never be Grey's Anatomy: The Med School Years
Actual conversation today.
This is just in case you were wondering why the posts about the actual process of aquackening are rather sparse here. Want to hear about, um, the textbook I read yesterday? Ophthalmology Made Ridiculously Simple, if you must know. Don't mock, it covered 90% of the stuff we got in lectures today. I bite my thumb at fat textbooks. Why get bogged down in detail when a skinny book with cartoons can tell you the basic essentials like: don't press on a possibly burst eyeball, for that will make the goo come out. Good to know.
Ophthalmology week has been pretty interesting actually. I like the anatomy and physiology of it, probably because we did heaps of vision stuff in psychology so it mostly makes sense. Briefly wondered why I didn't do optometry and then remembered that their whole job seems to be "now which lens is better, one or two? two or three? three or four? four or should I go with the gas oven or the razor blades?". Wouldn't mind ophthalm as a job except for the apparently crazy competition to get in...who's got that much ambition? The ophthalm lecturers we've seen so far seem cool. I've decided that I will probably choose my specialty based on whether I like the type of people who are in it. So...surgery it is!
(cut to: Satan getting frostbite)
R: So what did you do yesterday?The glamorous lives of medkids, ladies and gentlemen. Where is the sex in anatomy labs I was promised?!
Me: Mmmm nothing much. Studied. You?
R: Meh, same.
[5 minutes later]
Me: Any plans for tonight?
R: Study probably. You?
Me: Yeah, gotta cram for derm tute tomorrow.
This is just in case you were wondering why the posts about the actual process of aquackening are rather sparse here. Want to hear about, um, the textbook I read yesterday? Ophthalmology Made Ridiculously Simple, if you must know. Don't mock, it covered 90% of the stuff we got in lectures today. I bite my thumb at fat textbooks. Why get bogged down in detail when a skinny book with cartoons can tell you the basic essentials like: don't press on a possibly burst eyeball, for that will make the goo come out. Good to know.
Ophthalmology week has been pretty interesting actually. I like the anatomy and physiology of it, probably because we did heaps of vision stuff in psychology so it mostly makes sense. Briefly wondered why I didn't do optometry and then remembered that their whole job seems to be "now which lens is better, one or two? two or three? three or four? four or should I go with the gas oven or the razor blades?". Wouldn't mind ophthalm as a job except for the apparently crazy competition to get in...who's got that much ambition? The ophthalm lecturers we've seen so far seem cool. I've decided that I will probably choose my specialty based on whether I like the type of people who are in it. So...surgery it is!
(cut to: Satan getting frostbite)
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