Saturday, October 22, 2005
The Girl
Her eyes darted across her room, blurred, fleeting, searching for something that could, would hold her back. She did not know where to look, what to look for. The distinct yellow on the cover of the photo album caught her eye amongst the bleakness of the whitewashed walls. She freed her hand, for this while, to reach for the album. It was fat, filled with pictures; no, memories. Sweet or otherwise, she didn't really care anymore. She dusted the cover of the album, seeing puffs of dust like tiny white spheres of light, glimmering. The dust is making it itch again. But don't worry, it will not itch for long. Things will change for the better after this.
She turned the pages gingerly, squinting past the tears to get a better look at the miniature human silhouette trapped beneath the plastic covers. She could recognise her at once, it was certain. The ubiquitous slit eyes (inherited from her father, whom she used to blame profusely after attending her first lesson on genetics), the toothy grin that would make the eyes disappear beyond the sallow oriental skin, the thick peg-like legs, the awful dress sense and if you look closely, the redness around the arms and knees aren't exactly problems with the lighting or the camera. It's really there. As she scanned the picture, a flux of memories came surging, paralyzing her with reminiscence. She drifted.
Since young, she knew it was rude to stare, mom had taught her well. But unfortunately, the others didn't know about that. Perhaps, they were just too young too lazy too ignorant to know better. but she simply couldn't comprehend how different she could be when she was just as human as anybody else. She walked on two legs just like them, just that maybe sometimes she limped a little because the wounds on her legs would hurt and crack open again if she had straightened her knees. She played just like them, except sometimes she couldn't join them in the field because she hated what sweat does to her. She read and wrote, just like them. Except that she knew a tad better about medicines and chemicals simply because she heard the doctors talking about them all the time. Yet, she knows despite the justifications and the reasons, they would still ostracize her. She could only admire and fantasize about the 'normalities' that people enjoy, the fundamental things that makes them as normal as humans could be. (Although it would be ironic if they too, realize that to be normal, they would have to be different) Oh, how nice it would be, if they knew who and what she was and could be beneath the veneer.
Ah, yes, the veneer. She remembers how the weaknesses relegated to strengths, the skill in adopting various veneers for her so-called life. She played along life's masquerade, changing masks as the occasion calls for it. The Bully, The Nerd, The Taciturn, The Sacharine Sweet One, The Clown, The Rubenesque, she played it all, each one more successful than the last. But it wasn't long before the facades wore off and she had to replace it with a new one. A different one to shield the raw, feeble human within. She, like plasma, shifted its shape to fit into a new mould. Like a piece in a new puzzle, a puzzle that could never fit her. Then again, she hated puzzles anyway.
She ran her stubby fingers along the outlines of the girl in the photograph, as if attempting to bring her to life so that she can hug her for real. Plonk plonk, two teardrops trickled onto the plastic covers, distorting the features of the girl's face, contorting the girl's smile into a sneer/gnarl. She pulled back,
"Are you disappointed in what you've have become, dear girl? Am I not what you imagined you'd be?"
It was true; she had stopped dreaming since reality became so formidable and daunting that her dreams drowned, lost in a mist of illusions. She knew for a fact that no matter how hard she tried, Norm had no way of accommodating her. They lied that people had to be unique and different to remain within the strata. That humans are like spectrums in a rainbow, kaleidoscopic yet integrated. What a lie! To her, humans seem more monochromatic than the black and white in photographs she had of her grandmother. Conformists. Like a speck in the eye, the weak and the sick are weeded out faster than she could say "listen here". Perhaps it is true; she has failed the girl in the photograph. The girl wanted a voice but she failed to give her one. The girl wanted fun but she was too busy figuring out the rest of the world.
"You promised. You said that I'd be fine as I grow older. Where are we now?"
She knew where she is; clearly, in fact. She stands at the edge, marginal between reality and fantasy. She could let go and forget everything or she could hold back and soak in every bit of existence she still has got left. She, like her dreams and her past, is transient. Staring intently at the photo, the tears have dried up; the snarl is replaced by the familiar impish grin again. Then, it struck. Albeit her naivete, the girl in the picture seem to posses a childlike wisdom about her, something that grown ups forget about. Despite the fact that one of her socks are pulled higher than the other, her thighs a tad thicker than those around her, her hair in a chaotic mess and her skin being less than perfect, she seemed unfazed by these worldly attachments. That little girl in the picture was brave enough to face the world with that huge grin and an even bigger imagination. She left nothing to the ravages of reality, not even the toughest of logic. The girl was different but she simply couldn't give a damn about it.
***
She lifted the penknife from across her translucent skin on her wrists and retracted the blade. Wiping the tears that started to stream again, she replied
"Yes dear girl, everything's fine now. We're going back to Wonderland."
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Tempestuous
I just have this urge to post this since no one really ever cares or bothers listening to whatever rants i have. So, instead of bombarding your ears with my whiny cries, allow me to blind you with my atrocious jottings.
I speak at the speed of 300 words/minute whenever i get really pissed or angry at something or someone. And the only group of people ever so privileged to see that incredible human feat of mine are my poor lab mates. Not that I have anything against them ( let us just skip that part, shall we) but sorry, we're just not gonna click no matter what. I'm not sure which part of my pathetic mug shows you that i do not have the mental capacity of handling a single experiment or to make a simple suggestion, but i guess you guys simply have the gift of making someone feel like she's the lowliest, most useless 'thing' to have ever roamed the earth. Bravo. Or maybe, nature made us in a way that four girls will never make a great lab team. We're just too...'female' for our own good. (Forgive my rants if any of you happen to stumble upon this blog of mine. Oh well, now you know why i always look as if i could bite someone's head off whenever i'm in the lab, don't you?)
It's always times like these where i wonder if i'm really even made for life science. Frankly, I'd rather graze my wrists with a blade, drive an icepick through my aorta or heck, fug william hung for all i care, than to wear a lab coat, have my eyes permanently plastered to a microscope and be called Ms. Life Sciencer in 2 years' time. I think (no, change that to 'sure') i'm better off doing english literature than staring at rat livers all day long. I'd rather be learning about iambic pentameters than to bother about ionic interactions and pH meters. It sucks being stuck in the wrong place, wrong course with the wrong people. I regret not following my own instincts and passion and went ahead with english lit instead. I regret being such a wuss, an invertebrate for allowing myself to be persuaded into changing majors earlier on. I'm such an idiot.
Sure, life science's great, but what's the fun in competing with 500 other people whom you know will be stuck with you in the same lab somewhere in biopolis 25 years down the road, complaining about that hot date that you've missed because you've been so busy trying to formulate a glow-in-the-dark rats to 'facilitate the extermination of these pests'. We work too hard just to have our fascination and awe of the wonders of life stripped off with the advent of a few mathematical formulas or random biological breakthroughs. The lives we save, nonetheless, cannot be disputed, but at what price? By the killing of a 10000 mice just to save a single human being? Is the centrality of the human consciousness really more superior than that of animals?Read J.M. Coetzee's Lives of Animals and you'll know that that parallels the atrocities committed towards humans during the Holocaust. Well, that's what the english lit people think and which i undoubtedly agree. The 'science people' will never get it.
Which boils down to the larger picture : science and the arts will always be at loggerheads with each other. And here i am, trapped in the eye of the storm.
