A young lady mentioned to me long ago that she felt like I become easily and intensely obsessed with things, only to later move on in favour of something else. At the time, I didn't really accept this idea...but now I know it's true.
Within the last two years, my major obsessions have been golf, medicine, and certain musical artists. There have been loads of miniature love affairs, which last anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. Most recently, the Bed Intruder song, as funny as it sounds, has been a tremendous draw for me. I was in the midst of studying for a series of exams and looked it up in a moment of desperation, needing a quick laugh. The result has been that I've listened to it several times a day since Saturday. I'm singing it over and over just about all day...just can't stop. During all of this, I was also obsessively watching clips from Mock the Week, as I mentioned earlier. I dropped that after a day or two.
Last year during Christmas break, I, for whatever reason, became intensely interested in football. Having never played a football video game before, I decided that I'd really enjoy owning a FIFA game for my xbox. I bought the latest edition, and sure enough, loved the tarnation out of it. I dropped it once classes resumed in January of this year. I had a brief revisiting during the World Cup. Several days ago, the idea to play it again hit me and it's been nonstop since. I've expanded it further by seeking out avenues by which I may watch actual games, despite not necessarily having the time to do so. Not sure if I'm going to let that stop me.
I remembered the other day, while watching Mock the Week, that I was intensely interested in Mortal Kombat video games at one time. I spent quite a lot of time memorising the button combinations that would perform specific moves for my favourite characters. Very clearly, I remember my mom saying, "If only you'd spend this much time and energy on your school work." I wasn't a bad student by any means at this time. Most of it came naturally and didn't require much study. My reply to her was something along the lines of, "Well, if my school work was this fun/interesting..." I've noticed that I'm not as excited to be at my current academic level as I was, say, a year ago. The material, especially molecular biology, is quite interesting, but studying it is tedious and uninteresting. I hate it. I'm bored by it... can't quite work out why. Maybe it's because I have to do it, whereas if I had the ability to do it at my leisure, I could be a molecular biology genius.
This is a problem. A big problem. I wonder what might happen if, by some miracle, I'm accepted into med school upon first applying. Will I burn out and be disinterested in learning the material just as quickly?
Hmm.
Showing posts with label Retrospective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Retrospective. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
I'm mad about you, baby. Yeaaah, yeah! I'm mad about you!
My dearest Nora, wherever thou mayst roam,
Today has brought many delights, a few of which I will discuss in light detail.
My urge to visit the driving range was strong, but the rain just wouldn't allow for it. Just as well, as I had some studying that needed doing. The heavy rain, on and off, was a relaxing backdrop. Peaceful.
Justin Rose won another PGA Tour event. Go England.
Saw the last twenty minutes of Germany vs. Argentina. Some of the most exciting football I've seen in ages. I was really getting into it.
US vs. Algeria has had some moments. 89 minutes have passed... 0-0. I think they got robbed of a goal in a few of the opening minutes, but I was off to the refrigerator to snatch up a beer. ... WHOA!!! US just scored a goal in extra minutes!!!! That was out of nowhere!! Brilliant!
As I was saying, I didn't see the whole play, but it sure looked like the goal was good. Doesn't much matter, because we won it with that goal. Whew.
Spent some time with Old Flame and her fiance recently. Awkward for the first half an hour, but a pretty enjoyable experience for the remainder of the evening. She was a bit bossy and I was glad to not be on the receiving end of that. Her family was wrapped up in its usual craziness, and I was glad to be able to sit back and not feel compelled to be actively involved. As much as I still love her, and suspect I always will, the book is becoming easier to close.
Received season four of Mad About You on DVD yesterday and had some time to catch an episode or two earlier in the day. I love that show dearly. First started watching it in 1995...saw a rerun late one school night and, as a young man of 13 years, took quite a liking to Ms. Helen Hunt. Oh. My. After about the fourth or fifth episode I saw, I took notice of the other entertainment opportunities the half-hour programme presented.
The mid-90s were an amazing time for me. Computers were quickly coming into peoples' homes, the Internet let you see websites built by people from all around the world (just imagine!!)...it was an exciting time, and I got the feeling of genuine good times in the United States. A good welcome! It was like a giant party. Really, a saxophone-playing president? Awesome! Oh, and cordless phones were such a novel thing to me. I'm still impressed by them, even with my familiarity with the iPhone. Haven't quite gotten to letting that one soak in yet. Might be a while.
Anyhow, Paul and Jamie Buchman represented everything I wanted. Great, loving relationship, nice apartment in a hip, swingin' city, laptop computers, cordless phones, an adorable dog... Ha. They had a certain kind of freedom that I was so envious of, being an enslaved student and everything. I used to read the USA Today at school in the mornings and just marvel at the world carrying on around me. I wanted a chunk of the experience, instead of sitting around cooped up and generally wasting time. Out there, I knew there were real-life Buchmans living a similar life. I wanted to find them. I wanted to find the real, honest American dream. Haha.
So, watching the programme necessarily brings back a lot of things from back then. Thoughts about past relationships entered and exited my mind. I was reminded how much Old Flame looks like Helen Hunt, and was a bit weirded out...maybe as a defense mechanism. Ha.
Then, I got to thinking about marriage and children.
I've made no effort to hide my desire for marriage, and possibly children, in these letters. Tonight, though, as I was thinking about things with The Nurse, with the Cute Shy Girl in my lab, with Ms. Edinburgh, etc., I began to wonder if I'd be missing out on the moment I was having just then if I'd been attached. Surely, I'd have been dragged off to see fireworks...not too terribly interested in them these days, to be honest. I'd rather stay indoors with the air conditioning. I checked Facebook during halftime and saw a post from a good friend about some event later this week. She was trying to recruit some lady unknown to me to go with her, but the woman had to reply in the negative, citing children as the reason. I felt glad that I didn't have to think about that; that I could get up right now and drive for 14 hours in any direction if I felt like it, and on a moment's notice.
...probably a temporary sense of freedom. I'm sure I'd rather have the love a good woman. Sure of it.
=)
Rather than ramble some more, I think I'll enjoy the last few hours of the obligation-free portion of my weekend...by looking at websites created by people from all sorts of countries. heh.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
Today has brought many delights, a few of which I will discuss in light detail.
My urge to visit the driving range was strong, but the rain just wouldn't allow for it. Just as well, as I had some studying that needed doing. The heavy rain, on and off, was a relaxing backdrop. Peaceful.
Justin Rose won another PGA Tour event. Go England.
Saw the last twenty minutes of Germany vs. Argentina. Some of the most exciting football I've seen in ages. I was really getting into it.
US vs. Algeria has had some moments. 89 minutes have passed... 0-0. I think they got robbed of a goal in a few of the opening minutes, but I was off to the refrigerator to snatch up a beer. ... WHOA!!! US just scored a goal in extra minutes!!!! That was out of nowhere!! Brilliant!
As I was saying, I didn't see the whole play, but it sure looked like the goal was good. Doesn't much matter, because we won it with that goal. Whew.
Spent some time with Old Flame and her fiance recently. Awkward for the first half an hour, but a pretty enjoyable experience for the remainder of the evening. She was a bit bossy and I was glad to not be on the receiving end of that. Her family was wrapped up in its usual craziness, and I was glad to be able to sit back and not feel compelled to be actively involved. As much as I still love her, and suspect I always will, the book is becoming easier to close.
Received season four of Mad About You on DVD yesterday and had some time to catch an episode or two earlier in the day. I love that show dearly. First started watching it in 1995...saw a rerun late one school night and, as a young man of 13 years, took quite a liking to Ms. Helen Hunt. Oh. My. After about the fourth or fifth episode I saw, I took notice of the other entertainment opportunities the half-hour programme presented.
The mid-90s were an amazing time for me. Computers were quickly coming into peoples' homes, the Internet let you see websites built by people from all around the world (just imagine!!)...it was an exciting time, and I got the feeling of genuine good times in the United States. A good welcome! It was like a giant party. Really, a saxophone-playing president? Awesome! Oh, and cordless phones were such a novel thing to me. I'm still impressed by them, even with my familiarity with the iPhone. Haven't quite gotten to letting that one soak in yet. Might be a while.
Anyhow, Paul and Jamie Buchman represented everything I wanted. Great, loving relationship, nice apartment in a hip, swingin' city, laptop computers, cordless phones, an adorable dog... Ha. They had a certain kind of freedom that I was so envious of, being an enslaved student and everything. I used to read the USA Today at school in the mornings and just marvel at the world carrying on around me. I wanted a chunk of the experience, instead of sitting around cooped up and generally wasting time. Out there, I knew there were real-life Buchmans living a similar life. I wanted to find them. I wanted to find the real, honest American dream. Haha.
So, watching the programme necessarily brings back a lot of things from back then. Thoughts about past relationships entered and exited my mind. I was reminded how much Old Flame looks like Helen Hunt, and was a bit weirded out...maybe as a defense mechanism. Ha.
Then, I got to thinking about marriage and children.
I've made no effort to hide my desire for marriage, and possibly children, in these letters. Tonight, though, as I was thinking about things with The Nurse, with the Cute Shy Girl in my lab, with Ms. Edinburgh, etc., I began to wonder if I'd be missing out on the moment I was having just then if I'd been attached. Surely, I'd have been dragged off to see fireworks...not too terribly interested in them these days, to be honest. I'd rather stay indoors with the air conditioning. I checked Facebook during halftime and saw a post from a good friend about some event later this week. She was trying to recruit some lady unknown to me to go with her, but the woman had to reply in the negative, citing children as the reason. I felt glad that I didn't have to think about that; that I could get up right now and drive for 14 hours in any direction if I felt like it, and on a moment's notice.
...probably a temporary sense of freedom. I'm sure I'd rather have the love a good woman. Sure of it.
=)
Rather than ramble some more, I think I'll enjoy the last few hours of the obligation-free portion of my weekend...by looking at websites created by people from all sorts of countries. heh.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Tuned in
My dearest Nora, wherever thou mayst roam,
I find myself this morning, as I have found myself on many mornings, pining for a time gone by; a time that preceded my entrance in this world by a strong sixty years.
Radio is something I hold with high esteem. When I was but a wee six year-old, my family did not have cable television...for any sort of visual entertainment, one would rely on the local broadcast stations or VHS tapes out on loan from the library. While I partook in many of the aged delicacies both sources provided (The Dick Van Dyke Show, I Love Lucy, etc.), radio stepped in to fill the vacancies left by my limited selection.
Never shall I forget that little portable radio I toted around with me, what one fine summer morning exposed to me a type of music that I loved then but swiftly forgot about, but was to return to focus in my late teens. Yes, at age six, when Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald came on, a sense of contentment, joy, but longing, overcame me. My, my.
Many a time I sat with the radio before me, listening to fantastic swinging numbers, whilst counting and organising my baseball card collection. As crazy as it may seem, I felt a real connection to those days gone by, especially since other areas of my life produced the same.
When we got our first video game system, the NES, on Christmas of 1989, the radio was neglected, never to rise to prominence in my life again, except in memory.
I was in my early teens when my paternal grandmother had somehow introduced me to those tape recordings of old radio shows one can purchase at The Cracker Barrel, for example. The adoration was swift in onset. There was something in the voices of radio announcers and personalities back then that one just cannot find anywhere else these days. The quality of production of many of those old shows, what with the fancy sound effects (all hand-made!), let you close your eyes and see it all in your mind's eye...your creativity filling in any blanks, or adding quirky details. I imagined what it must've been like to sit around the big radio set with family after dinner oh so many years ago, and take in such programmes.
As it was 21 years ago, I find that radio presently makes up the bulk of my entertainment needs. I listen to a station my university puts on which broadcasts a variety of music, from reggae to opera, but mostly jazz. Mostly, however, I listen to NPR. It's good to not be yelled and screamed at, bought and sold, and swayed in one direction or another by newscasters. Furthermore, I take great delight in shows like Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me and especially A Prairie Home Companion. Garrison Keillor and his crew presents to me weekly a slice of those days I've somehow, and quite inexplicably, have longed for most of my life.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Another olfactory trip
My dearest Nora, wherever thou mayst roam,
I'd forgotten how comfortable the fogginess of sickness can sometimes be. There's a disconnection, at least it's always been the case with me, from the mad rush of the world surrounding. It's almost like the kid in gym class who, for whatever reason, had a note that excused him from running round the track and had to walk it instead. I was that kid once or twice and it was always a pleasant experience, even in the freezing cold.
My hatred for running was well-known. I wonder if they suspected foul play on my part on these days to get out of it. Probably could've gotten away with faking a few times had I not been scared out of my mind at the possibility of being caught.
I was transported back to 6th grade today, and it was actually a quite pleasant journey, despite my general feelings of disdain for that school year.
As a youngster, I was ill somewhat frequently. Some of the days that I hated most during that school year were when I was sick, especially in my first period science class. He was a great teacher, very funny, and even looked an awful lot like Bill Murray.
But his classroom (in a portable on the edge of campus) STUNK.
Horribly.
It smelled like a stack of soaking wet towels that had been left in a greenhouse, with a little eau de gym sock lightly sprinkled throughout. It was completely overwhelming, and it often made me gag.
To be fair, a lot of things used to make me gag. A lot of things still do. These days, however, I'm mostly only brought to that point when I'm already feeling under the weather. Back then, even on the days I felt the healthiest, some smells would drag me to that threshold...which thankfully, I never crossed whilst at school.
It's funny, but I just realised that I started wearing cologne back then just so I could have a pleasant smell to refer to when things were reaching the puke point. I fell back on that mechanism many a time, I can assure you.
At any rate, that was first period, 7:30 a.m. I knew that if I could just get through that stinky class, I'd probably be okay for the rest of the day.
Besides, I had second period to look forward to! Second period was a typing class, but it was done on computers. They were Apple computers, and I'll never forget the look of the desktop on those...the trashcan in which you'd discard unwanted files was a simple black and white design, but its alternating thick and thin lines around the middle were mesmerising.
The computer lab that this class was in was in the main building, right next to where the high schoolers were attending classes. There were three rows comprised of two tables crammed side-to-side to make one wide table, upon which sat a bunch of computers. There was a dry erase board at the front of the class, which was just as amazing to me as the computers. All my life, until this point, I'd been taught from chalkboards. Dry erase boards, computers, printers producing pages with the perforated crap on the edges you had to tear off...all of it was cutting-edge stuff. Boy, if I didn't already feel like a big shot being in middle school, the very idea that I was using technology that grown-ups used in exciting jobs (far, far, far away from the confines of a school!) really made me feel like something. I desperately loved that class, and it was there that I learned to type.
Another thing I loved about that class, and the thing which ties this look to the past in with my story from today, is the smell of those dry erase markers.
Maybe it was only because I'd just come from one of the most horrific stenches I'd ever been subjected to for more than a few minutes, but those markers sure did produce a lovely and welcoming aroma. They smelled so clean and sterile, almost like the rubbing alcohol applied to my arm just before a shot. Despite my absolute dread over the fact I was about to be jabbed with a needle, the rubbing alcohol smell comforted me and made the process that much more bearable. But, yes, you can be sure that I always tried to sit as close to the front (and thus, as close to the dry erase board) as possible. Taking in that smell was like spraying Lysol up my nose to destroy the funk collected in my nasal passages in my first period class...only, uh, I'd imagine slightly less harmful. As you might've guessed, the smell was most enjoyed on the days that I was sick and on the verge of gagging at the slightest hint of an unpleasant odour.
To put the two pieces together, which up until now have been separated by 14-some odd years...drumroll please...
So, this a.m. I was attending my only class of the day. I'm ill, miserable, don't want to be anywhere besides me bed. The bus ran late, of course, and it's quite cold out (something I'd ordinarily be overjoyed with), and I practically had to run to make to class on time. Upon arrival, I find that only a few seats are open...some way in the back where the constant talkers sit, and one, just one, in the very front row. Hmm. Not much of a decision to make here. I plop down in the front row.
Everything's going fine...or, perhaps more realistically, I'm bored out of my skull. I started to think about my scratchy throat, and suddenly started feeling like one false aroma would send me into gagland, just like back in the day. At the precise moment that I was making that connection to the past, my professor began writing on...yep, you guessed it, the dry erase board. The pleasant aroma of those markers wafted ever so gently towards me, and my psychological queasiness was subdued. Of course, my mind wandered off into the past, to the the beginning of this letter.
It's amazing to realise that I'd not used a computer until I was 12 or 13 years of age, and surely almost all of my classmates this morning had been using them since kindergarten. That's one of the first "back in my day, we didn't have..." I've come across. Hmm. Aging is a funny thing and I'm so glad that I've always been welcoming of it and the changes it brings.
Homework calls, my dear.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
I'd forgotten how comfortable the fogginess of sickness can sometimes be. There's a disconnection, at least it's always been the case with me, from the mad rush of the world surrounding. It's almost like the kid in gym class who, for whatever reason, had a note that excused him from running round the track and had to walk it instead. I was that kid once or twice and it was always a pleasant experience, even in the freezing cold.
My hatred for running was well-known. I wonder if they suspected foul play on my part on these days to get out of it. Probably could've gotten away with faking a few times had I not been scared out of my mind at the possibility of being caught.
I was transported back to 6th grade today, and it was actually a quite pleasant journey, despite my general feelings of disdain for that school year.
As a youngster, I was ill somewhat frequently. Some of the days that I hated most during that school year were when I was sick, especially in my first period science class. He was a great teacher, very funny, and even looked an awful lot like Bill Murray.
But his classroom (in a portable on the edge of campus) STUNK.
Horribly.
It smelled like a stack of soaking wet towels that had been left in a greenhouse, with a little eau de gym sock lightly sprinkled throughout. It was completely overwhelming, and it often made me gag.
To be fair, a lot of things used to make me gag. A lot of things still do. These days, however, I'm mostly only brought to that point when I'm already feeling under the weather. Back then, even on the days I felt the healthiest, some smells would drag me to that threshold...which thankfully, I never crossed whilst at school.
It's funny, but I just realised that I started wearing cologne back then just so I could have a pleasant smell to refer to when things were reaching the puke point. I fell back on that mechanism many a time, I can assure you.
At any rate, that was first period, 7:30 a.m. I knew that if I could just get through that stinky class, I'd probably be okay for the rest of the day.
Besides, I had second period to look forward to! Second period was a typing class, but it was done on computers. They were Apple computers, and I'll never forget the look of the desktop on those...the trashcan in which you'd discard unwanted files was a simple black and white design, but its alternating thick and thin lines around the middle were mesmerising.
The computer lab that this class was in was in the main building, right next to where the high schoolers were attending classes. There were three rows comprised of two tables crammed side-to-side to make one wide table, upon which sat a bunch of computers. There was a dry erase board at the front of the class, which was just as amazing to me as the computers. All my life, until this point, I'd been taught from chalkboards. Dry erase boards, computers, printers producing pages with the perforated crap on the edges you had to tear off...all of it was cutting-edge stuff. Boy, if I didn't already feel like a big shot being in middle school, the very idea that I was using technology that grown-ups used in exciting jobs (far, far, far away from the confines of a school!) really made me feel like something. I desperately loved that class, and it was there that I learned to type.
Another thing I loved about that class, and the thing which ties this look to the past in with my story from today, is the smell of those dry erase markers.
Maybe it was only because I'd just come from one of the most horrific stenches I'd ever been subjected to for more than a few minutes, but those markers sure did produce a lovely and welcoming aroma. They smelled so clean and sterile, almost like the rubbing alcohol applied to my arm just before a shot. Despite my absolute dread over the fact I was about to be jabbed with a needle, the rubbing alcohol smell comforted me and made the process that much more bearable. But, yes, you can be sure that I always tried to sit as close to the front (and thus, as close to the dry erase board) as possible. Taking in that smell was like spraying Lysol up my nose to destroy the funk collected in my nasal passages in my first period class...only, uh, I'd imagine slightly less harmful. As you might've guessed, the smell was most enjoyed on the days that I was sick and on the verge of gagging at the slightest hint of an unpleasant odour.
To put the two pieces together, which up until now have been separated by 14-some odd years...drumroll please...
So, this a.m. I was attending my only class of the day. I'm ill, miserable, don't want to be anywhere besides me bed. The bus ran late, of course, and it's quite cold out (something I'd ordinarily be overjoyed with), and I practically had to run to make to class on time. Upon arrival, I find that only a few seats are open...some way in the back where the constant talkers sit, and one, just one, in the very front row. Hmm. Not much of a decision to make here. I plop down in the front row.
Everything's going fine...or, perhaps more realistically, I'm bored out of my skull. I started to think about my scratchy throat, and suddenly started feeling like one false aroma would send me into gagland, just like back in the day. At the precise moment that I was making that connection to the past, my professor began writing on...yep, you guessed it, the dry erase board. The pleasant aroma of those markers wafted ever so gently towards me, and my psychological queasiness was subdued. Of course, my mind wandered off into the past, to the the beginning of this letter.
It's amazing to realise that I'd not used a computer until I was 12 or 13 years of age, and surely almost all of my classmates this morning had been using them since kindergarten. That's one of the first "back in my day, we didn't have..." I've come across. Hmm. Aging is a funny thing and I'm so glad that I've always been welcoming of it and the changes it brings.
Homework calls, my dear.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Some favourite music
To whom it may concern:
Music is one of my strongest passions, and there are certain artists and/or songs that are just inexplicably good and have an enormous effect on me. Here I shall list some of my all-time favourite songs, partly in hopes that what I present is unfamiliar to you in some manner.
Django Reinhardt - "September Song"
This song is so warm and inviting...it's lazy, like a nice Sunday afternoon lounging around with family. Every single time I listen to this version of it (there are several that ol' Django did), I feel some strange sense that I heard this while on some travel to lands faraway...a beautiful time, full of happiness and remarkable joy. Beyond this, I cannot find sufficient words to describe just what the music stirs up within me.
Spiritualized - "Lay It Down Slow"
I've been a huge fan of this band (okay, yeah, J. Spaceman) for nearly ten years now, starting after I first heard the record "Ladies & Gentlemen...We Are Floating In Space." I bought "Let It Come Down" via pre-order (special edition and everything!), which had come out a few months after I graduated high school. In fact, the day I received it in the post, my band at the time had a birthday party to play that night and we all got drunk on some nasty grape-tasting wine and some other junk. Apple flavoured Boone's Farm wine, probably. This one's off "Amazing Grace," but that story was somehow worth telling anyway.
This song, unfortunately, appears to have been used on the season finale of some show called Prison Break. On one hand, great for the exposure, but knowing this somehow cheapens my association with it. Probably just as well, since I mostly think of Old Flame when I hear it. Still, it's a beautiful and delicate song. So fantastic. So Spiritualized. Listen to everything ever recorded under that name. Do it.
Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong - "A Fine Romance"
I don't recall precisely how I came across this one, but it was the spring of 2006. So many changes were taking place within me and around me during that time, and this song cheered me up on many occasion while I was getting screamed at by unruly customers on the telephone. It's a cute song, and fun to sing Louis' part when I'm feeling particularly outgoing. I can do a fair impersonation of Mr. Armstrong, you see.
The Beatles - "Within You, Without You"
This one, I'm sure, is known to just about everyone on the face of the planet. I don't even know where to begin about how much this song has impacted my life. When I first heard it on Christmas day, aged 17, I thought that maybe it was just some weird effects that they'd whipped up in the studio. I soon learned that there were a lot of Indian instruments present and, while it was cool, I focused my attention and adoration elsewhere. When I was working that terrible call center job, I took a liking to this one much more than ever before. I understood more of the spiritual aspect of the song and got swept up in the mystic qualities of the sweeping, droning music and vocals. I wanted more music like it. This led to Ravi Shankar naturally, and then to Nikhil Banerjee, and on down the line. As I was exploring this, Buddhism and Hinduism became incredibly appealing from a very Western, "How so very strange!" point of view. I soon saw the beauty in it, and loved all of the peace and altruism I was reading about. It fit in so nicely with my views as a Christian, and with my political beliefs. For the longest time, I wanted nothing more than to go to India, grow my hair and beard long, wear a kurta and salwars and whatnot, learn to play Indian classical instruments and spend the rest of my days practicing patience, love, generosity, graciousness, and so on. This is still a dream I hold close to my heart, and I think that I should like to travel to India to provide medical care and explore this fantasy.
All the best,
J.O. Morris
Music is one of my strongest passions, and there are certain artists and/or songs that are just inexplicably good and have an enormous effect on me. Here I shall list some of my all-time favourite songs, partly in hopes that what I present is unfamiliar to you in some manner.
Django Reinhardt - "September Song"
This song is so warm and inviting...it's lazy, like a nice Sunday afternoon lounging around with family. Every single time I listen to this version of it (there are several that ol' Django did), I feel some strange sense that I heard this while on some travel to lands faraway...a beautiful time, full of happiness and remarkable joy. Beyond this, I cannot find sufficient words to describe just what the music stirs up within me.
Spiritualized - "Lay It Down Slow"
I've been a huge fan of this band (okay, yeah, J. Spaceman) for nearly ten years now, starting after I first heard the record "Ladies & Gentlemen...We Are Floating In Space." I bought "Let It Come Down" via pre-order (special edition and everything!), which had come out a few months after I graduated high school. In fact, the day I received it in the post, my band at the time had a birthday party to play that night and we all got drunk on some nasty grape-tasting wine and some other junk. Apple flavoured Boone's Farm wine, probably. This one's off "Amazing Grace," but that story was somehow worth telling anyway.
This song, unfortunately, appears to have been used on the season finale of some show called Prison Break. On one hand, great for the exposure, but knowing this somehow cheapens my association with it. Probably just as well, since I mostly think of Old Flame when I hear it. Still, it's a beautiful and delicate song. So fantastic. So Spiritualized. Listen to everything ever recorded under that name. Do it.
Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong - "A Fine Romance"
I don't recall precisely how I came across this one, but it was the spring of 2006. So many changes were taking place within me and around me during that time, and this song cheered me up on many occasion while I was getting screamed at by unruly customers on the telephone. It's a cute song, and fun to sing Louis' part when I'm feeling particularly outgoing. I can do a fair impersonation of Mr. Armstrong, you see.
The Beatles - "Within You, Without You"
This one, I'm sure, is known to just about everyone on the face of the planet. I don't even know where to begin about how much this song has impacted my life. When I first heard it on Christmas day, aged 17, I thought that maybe it was just some weird effects that they'd whipped up in the studio. I soon learned that there were a lot of Indian instruments present and, while it was cool, I focused my attention and adoration elsewhere. When I was working that terrible call center job, I took a liking to this one much more than ever before. I understood more of the spiritual aspect of the song and got swept up in the mystic qualities of the sweeping, droning music and vocals. I wanted more music like it. This led to Ravi Shankar naturally, and then to Nikhil Banerjee, and on down the line. As I was exploring this, Buddhism and Hinduism became incredibly appealing from a very Western, "How so very strange!" point of view. I soon saw the beauty in it, and loved all of the peace and altruism I was reading about. It fit in so nicely with my views as a Christian, and with my political beliefs. For the longest time, I wanted nothing more than to go to India, grow my hair and beard long, wear a kurta and salwars and whatnot, learn to play Indian classical instruments and spend the rest of my days practicing patience, love, generosity, graciousness, and so on. This is still a dream I hold close to my heart, and I think that I should like to travel to India to provide medical care and explore this fantasy.
All the best,
J.O. Morris
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
To tea: I love you
My dearest Nora, wherever thou mayst roam,
I've begun re-reading Kerouac's The Dharma Bums, which I first read approximately 8 years ago. When I read the following excerpt, tea became the most mysterious and wonderful tangible object in the world to me:
A peacefuller scene I never saw than when, in that rather nippy late red afternoon, I simply opened his little door and looked in and saw him at the end of the little shack, sitting crosslegged on a Paisley pillow on a straw mat, with his spectacles on, making him look old and scholarly and wise, with book on lap and the little tin teapot and porcelain cup steaming at his side. He looked up very peacefully, saw who it was, said, "Ray, come in," and bent his eyes again to the script.
"What you reading?"
"Translating Han Shan's great poem called 'Cold Mountain' written a thousand years ago some of it scribbled on the sides of cliffs hundreds of miles away from any other living beings."
"Wow."
"When you come into this house though you've got to take your shoes off, see those straw mats, you can ruin 'em with shoes." So I took my softsoled blue cloth shoes off and laid them dutifully by the door and he threw me a pillow and I sat crosslegged along the little wooden board wall and he offered me a cup of hot tea. "Did you ever read the Book of Tea?" said he.
"No, what's that?"
"It's a scholarly treatise on how to make tea utilising all the knowledge of two thousand years about tea-brewing. Some of the descriptions of the effect of the first sip of tea, and the second, and the third, are really wild and ecstatic."
"Those guys got high on nothing, hey?"
"Sip your tea and you'll see; this is good green tea." It was good and I immediately felt calm and warm.
I thought from then on as tea-brewing being an art form, and perhaps even a spiritual sort of ritual. I was reading this book at work, in a coffee shop that just sold that cheap Bigelow crap, and stopped at the grocery store after my shift ended to buy a box of the best stuff I could find.
Ended up with regular old green tea, in little bags without a string, which tasted like grass. I kept drinking it, though, thinking that, like beer, it is an acquired taste.
No, as I later learned, the stuff I'd purchased was no better than the Bigelow stuff at my job.
I spent a few years strictly drinking the bagged stuff. It was not until I met Old Flame that I first encountered the joys of looseleaf tea. One of the first of many similarities we shared was a desperate fondness for tea. Hmm. Once she turned me on to the looseleaf stuff, I've hardly looked back. One of the best gifts I ever received came from her on my 24th birthday...a tea strainer and a bag of quality green tea blended with some sort of cherry and rosehip bits. I felt like I inherited the world, and my first independent brewing experience shall live on in my memory until the end of my days.
When preparing a cup, I first like to observe the manner by which the steam is rising from the cup. Next, I note the change in the steam-rising-pattern as the strainer is introduced, and then watch with childlike glee as that old familiar turbidity comes on, settles... Then, there's the first sip, like a gracious bow to a dance partner in some customary dance of a far away land. Things press on swimmingly until the last two sips. It's that sip before the last that always, without fail (assuming it's good tea to begin with), tastes the best. It's perfection. Not too hot, not too cold. Not to strong, nor too weak. It's satisfying, like the feeling of downing a half-gallon of ice cold water after prolonged exertion in the worst of the summer heat. It's a beautiful and touching farewell, with the last sip being that wave through the window of the the train pulling away from the station, bound for destinations unknown. Best of all is when those last two tastes leave one yearning for another cup. I don't generally give into that lust, for it's been my experience that any subsequent cups are never quite as good.
I'm severely indebted to Mr. Kerouac for numerous contributions to my life, which all started at the age of 18 when I read On the Road. The time in the spring of 2006 when I took to studying Buddhism on my own, was one of the most beautiful and peaceful times in my life. I had no intention of becoming Buddhist, and didn't, but I took away some serene imagery and helpful mechanisms for dealing with certain troubling aspects of life.
I sometimes want to pack it up and head off to the mountains in Nepal, grow my hair and beard long, and meditate, write, paint, think, dream, learn, wonder, appreciate, wander... I would say Tibet, but China's gone and ruined that...and for that reason, I didn't say China. Japan is appealing, but is too "modern" in the sense that whenever the country is mentioned, mountains and peace and Buddhist mental meanderings are not the first things one thinks of. Personally, electronics, manga, and strange expressions of sexual repression/aggression/who-knows-what are forthcoming. Shame.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
I've begun re-reading Kerouac's The Dharma Bums, which I first read approximately 8 years ago. When I read the following excerpt, tea became the most mysterious and wonderful tangible object in the world to me:
A peacefuller scene I never saw than when, in that rather nippy late red afternoon, I simply opened his little door and looked in and saw him at the end of the little shack, sitting crosslegged on a Paisley pillow on a straw mat, with his spectacles on, making him look old and scholarly and wise, with book on lap and the little tin teapot and porcelain cup steaming at his side. He looked up very peacefully, saw who it was, said, "Ray, come in," and bent his eyes again to the script.
"What you reading?"
"Translating Han Shan's great poem called 'Cold Mountain' written a thousand years ago some of it scribbled on the sides of cliffs hundreds of miles away from any other living beings."
"Wow."
"When you come into this house though you've got to take your shoes off, see those straw mats, you can ruin 'em with shoes." So I took my softsoled blue cloth shoes off and laid them dutifully by the door and he threw me a pillow and I sat crosslegged along the little wooden board wall and he offered me a cup of hot tea. "Did you ever read the Book of Tea?" said he.
"No, what's that?"
"It's a scholarly treatise on how to make tea utilising all the knowledge of two thousand years about tea-brewing. Some of the descriptions of the effect of the first sip of tea, and the second, and the third, are really wild and ecstatic."
"Those guys got high on nothing, hey?"
"Sip your tea and you'll see; this is good green tea." It was good and I immediately felt calm and warm.
I thought from then on as tea-brewing being an art form, and perhaps even a spiritual sort of ritual. I was reading this book at work, in a coffee shop that just sold that cheap Bigelow crap, and stopped at the grocery store after my shift ended to buy a box of the best stuff I could find.
Ended up with regular old green tea, in little bags without a string, which tasted like grass. I kept drinking it, though, thinking that, like beer, it is an acquired taste.
No, as I later learned, the stuff I'd purchased was no better than the Bigelow stuff at my job.
I spent a few years strictly drinking the bagged stuff. It was not until I met Old Flame that I first encountered the joys of looseleaf tea. One of the first of many similarities we shared was a desperate fondness for tea. Hmm. Once she turned me on to the looseleaf stuff, I've hardly looked back. One of the best gifts I ever received came from her on my 24th birthday...a tea strainer and a bag of quality green tea blended with some sort of cherry and rosehip bits. I felt like I inherited the world, and my first independent brewing experience shall live on in my memory until the end of my days.
When preparing a cup, I first like to observe the manner by which the steam is rising from the cup. Next, I note the change in the steam-rising-pattern as the strainer is introduced, and then watch with childlike glee as that old familiar turbidity comes on, settles... Then, there's the first sip, like a gracious bow to a dance partner in some customary dance of a far away land. Things press on swimmingly until the last two sips. It's that sip before the last that always, without fail (assuming it's good tea to begin with), tastes the best. It's perfection. Not too hot, not too cold. Not to strong, nor too weak. It's satisfying, like the feeling of downing a half-gallon of ice cold water after prolonged exertion in the worst of the summer heat. It's a beautiful and touching farewell, with the last sip being that wave through the window of the the train pulling away from the station, bound for destinations unknown. Best of all is when those last two tastes leave one yearning for another cup. I don't generally give into that lust, for it's been my experience that any subsequent cups are never quite as good.
I'm severely indebted to Mr. Kerouac for numerous contributions to my life, which all started at the age of 18 when I read On the Road. The time in the spring of 2006 when I took to studying Buddhism on my own, was one of the most beautiful and peaceful times in my life. I had no intention of becoming Buddhist, and didn't, but I took away some serene imagery and helpful mechanisms for dealing with certain troubling aspects of life.
I sometimes want to pack it up and head off to the mountains in Nepal, grow my hair and beard long, and meditate, write, paint, think, dream, learn, wonder, appreciate, wander... I would say Tibet, but China's gone and ruined that...and for that reason, I didn't say China. Japan is appealing, but is too "modern" in the sense that whenever the country is mentioned, mountains and peace and Buddhist mental meanderings are not the first things one thinks of. Personally, electronics, manga, and strange expressions of sexual repression/aggression/who-knows-what are forthcoming. Shame.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Unraveling, remembering...
My dearest Nora, wherever thou mayst roam,
It seems impossible that some of the most significant and defining moments of my early adulthood were taking place at this very time ten years ago. My first love had just casually waltzed into the picture...for an accurate description of how I see that in retrospect, please give a listen to Nat King Cole's "Orange Coloured Sky." The Beatles had just recently become a huge chunk of my musical diet, and at the time, the early years were my preference. Christmas that year, when I received Sgt. Pepper, Revolver, and Abbey Road as gifts, my stance was forever changed. I can still recall how it felt to hear "For No One" and "And Your Bird Can Sing" for the first time that beautiful morning. Oh, my, and "Eleanor Rigby!" Revolver blew me clean out of my britches. Also that Christmas, I was the enthusiastic recipient of a grey cardigan sweater, which was to become my trademark sweater for the duration of my high school experience. My best friend at the time lived right next door, and it was his younger sister who had introduced me to my first love. She went to visit my neighbour that day and we watched a little of Yellow Submarine, which Lil Sister had received from Best Friend. LS made a hasty exit, citing a craving for some left-over turkey, and Girlfriend and I wasted no time immediately engaging in frantic osculation. Later, the two of us, during the golden hour, sat together under a tree in the yard, each with rosy cheeks, twinkling eyes, and pounding hearts. Merry Christmas.
A year later, the relationship had been over for a month, having been brought to its demise by my depression and insecurity, for which I sought treatment. Yet again, the nice, crisp December weather would blow in a beautiful set of ingredients from which life-long memories were made. Coffee shops, jazz musicians, a homeless man, a new girlfriend, antique typewriters, Jack Kerouac..."On the Road" changed my life. This whirlwind of excitement was over in six months. Got dumped after a month, coffee shop closed just after graduation, homeless man disappeared (never to be heard from or of again), typewriters took up space...but ol' Kerouac, he stuck around. Matter of fact, Jackie-boy saw me through my political and spiritual transformation and growth, and introduced to me, together with George Harrison, eastern religions from which I've gleaned an incredible amount of joy and countless hours of imaginative contemplation. Tea. I discovered tea, thanks to "The Dharma Bums," and haven't let it go since.
The next several years of my life, during which time you entered and subsequently exited, were filled with weekends of excess...too much to drink, too many cigarettes. Not an incredibly unhappy period, but none of this will make the highlight reel. Things began to look up again in 2005.
I was promoted at the job I'd taken on and it looked as though a career in IT was my calling. It seemed a natural fit, having always been given to technological wizardry, if you will (and I think you might). However, this was not to be, and the project I was a part of had been abandoned. Once again, "What next?" was on my mind and I turned to foreign film for an escape. Quite naturally, I decided to become a filmmaker.
Best Friend/Drinking Buddy got swept up in my passion and, using his father's Hi-8 camcorder, we suited up, slapped a tablecloth on a card table, and started acting out a mobster tale. Later, I'd saved enough for a miniDV camcorder with all sorts of knobs and levers and I began writing short films about spiritual happenings, especially awakenings. Never could reliable "actors" hit upon my projects, and around the time of my 24th birthday, I hung the filmmaking idea up indefinitely.
...I had met a woman, someone with whom I was sure I'd be spending the rest of my days. I went back to college, having a mind to become an architect, but was soon put off of that when I found that most do commercial work instead of residential. The housing market crisis gleefully hammered in the final nail in that coffin. So there I was, without any direction once more.
It was at this moment that family, work, and personality combined in such a way as to reveal the path down which I am currently strolling. My grandmother began exhibiting signs of what I thought was Alzheimer's Disease. She soon began complaining of constant dizziness, nausea, and other uncommon distressing feelings. I knew what was coming, but I couldn't admit it and my family dared not discuss it. Everything was going to be okay. Everything had to be okay.
Nothing was okay.
Pancreatic cancer. Less than a month after the initial symptoms, she was gone. In the meantime, we learned that the cancer had metastised, reaching portions of her brain and just about everywhere else. Aha, it was this that caused the changes in her personality. Hmmmm, I should be grieving more, but I'm having an awfully hard time not being curious about the mechanics of consciousness and perception. This took me way back to my mid-teens when I first met people who regularly ingested LSD and shrooms. My exposure to psychedelics prior to these interactions came from Woodstock concert footage and a couple of episodes of Dragnet--the "Blue Boy" episode, most notably. In listening to trip reports from these individuals, always my mind sort of drifted away from the specifics of what they were telling me and towards the mechanics of the process. How? WHY? I happened upon a notable street drug reference website and essentially printed off everything there was to know about LSD...in the high school's library. Far too terrified to try these things out for myself, trip reports and pages upon pages of meaningless jargon were all I had. It was a valiant effort to make sense of the mechanical (or maybe, the theorised mechanical) aspects of acid-induced hallucinations, but it was beyond my understanding. I finally threw in the towel and moved on. Funny how things such as this resurface.
My obsessive personality took hold and anything that had even a remote association to the brain and its functions that I could get my hands on, I spent inordinate amounts of time with. V.S. Ramachandran became my hero and somewhere along the way, I just knew neurology was in the cards for me.
Please allow me to back up a few steps and explain that during this time, I worked for a document imaging company whose primary clients were hospitals. They'd ship to us boxes upon boxes of ED reports and it was our job to digitise them. I ended up in quality analysis, so I was the last pair of eyes to see the images before being sent back to the client. This afforded me ample opportunity to read through the charts, which I took to doing almost immediately, before the desire to become a doctor had hit me. After a few months, I got to where I could sometimes guess correctly the diagnosis, but this was rare. Eloquent language has always turned me on, and there was just something about the reports doctors would write that grabbed me...also of great interest were post-op reports.
As far as my personality is concerned, I've always had a grand desire to take care of people, to be someone that a soul in need can turn to for a shoulder to cry on, to offer solutions, to stand firmly by someone when perhaps no one else can or will...all of these things that are undoubtedly the wistful dreams of billions of premed students. But I'm different! Hmm. I know, my dear, that I am on the right path and that my enthusiasm shall not waiver.
Last fall, I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to shadow several doctors at a neurology practice not far from my home. There were five there in total, and I sat in with four of them over the several months I visited. The first doctor seemed a little impersonal with patients, but to me, between patients, he was eager to answer all of my silly questions and expound indefinitely on conditions and treatment. I could not, however, get over the slightly cold manner with which he dealt with patients. The second doctor I sat in with was easily in his late 60s and did not seem to want to stop laughing, which is fine by me! During examinations, he was highly personable and asked plenty of questions about patients' interests, hobbies, family... almost all of the patients seemed receptive to this and, at times, it was easy for me to lose a sense of where I was and to what I should be paying attention. Nearly every patient left the examination room smiling and seemingly unwilling to part ways! That's the kind of doctor I want to be...taking care of business and getting serious as needed, but generally relating to these patients as people (as opposed to the next ailing thing in line to be treated), keeping their spirits up when things might not look so good for them in the long run. My favourite doctor was the one I shadowed next. Not only did he also display this desire to get on well with his patients, he was extraordinarily thorough, in both his examinations and in involving me in the process!! He made me feel as though I could contribute to the diagnosis and recommended treatment (although we both were well aware that I could not), which very nearly made me pass out from excitement. Before a patient arrived, he'd tell me their issue, what he'd done for them in the past, and a little about the condition if I was not familiar. He'd introduce me to the patient, instead of just saying "Do you mind if this guy sits in?", and during the examination he'd explain in detail what he was doing and what he was looking for, including those things which are normal and those which are not. At the end of his time with each patient, he'd open it up to me to ask any questions of the patient I so desired! I had died and gone to heaven. Needless to say, I spent the majority of my remaining visits with him.
I'll have to admit, out of all of the cases I got to see, Alzheimer's patients were by far my favourite. Apparently, lady luck was great to me in that all of the patients were subdued and gentle, and nothing like the agitated and violent people one of my nurse friends so often encounters. Dementia. To say that I am fascinated is insufficient. A girl I briefly dated when I was 19, or thereabouts, had a grandmother who was severely afflicted. We were all at some family member's house for dinner, and as I brought my dishes into the kitchen, I saw the kindly old grandmother bent over the kitchen counter examining the toaster. I was unaware of her condition at this point, and didn't know what to make of what she was doing. As I began to offer assistance, she turned to several decorative salt and pepper shakers on the adjacent counter. Still bent over, hovering over them, she appeared to be murmuring to each of them. I put two and two together, coming to the conclusion that she must have diminished eyesight. Again as I was about to offer assistance, I was interrupted, My girlfriend walked in and seconds later, her grandmother leaned in further and kissed each of the shakers. She pointed to one nearer to the middle, kissed it again, and said, "Don't tell the others, but I like you the best!" I laughed, thinking she was fooling around, but I was soon informed of her dementia. It was still a funny sight, but a wave of sickness, despair, and a large damned amount of curiosity washed over me. I had never felt so moved by something in my life up to that point. I didn't know what to do with it, so like the curiosity about perception-altering drugs, I filed it away and moved on with my life.
For fear of need of extra postage, I shall cease these self-indulgent explorations of the past and turn you loose.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
It seems impossible that some of the most significant and defining moments of my early adulthood were taking place at this very time ten years ago. My first love had just casually waltzed into the picture...for an accurate description of how I see that in retrospect, please give a listen to Nat King Cole's "Orange Coloured Sky." The Beatles had just recently become a huge chunk of my musical diet, and at the time, the early years were my preference. Christmas that year, when I received Sgt. Pepper, Revolver, and Abbey Road as gifts, my stance was forever changed. I can still recall how it felt to hear "For No One" and "And Your Bird Can Sing" for the first time that beautiful morning. Oh, my, and "Eleanor Rigby!" Revolver blew me clean out of my britches. Also that Christmas, I was the enthusiastic recipient of a grey cardigan sweater, which was to become my trademark sweater for the duration of my high school experience. My best friend at the time lived right next door, and it was his younger sister who had introduced me to my first love. She went to visit my neighbour that day and we watched a little of Yellow Submarine, which Lil Sister had received from Best Friend. LS made a hasty exit, citing a craving for some left-over turkey, and Girlfriend and I wasted no time immediately engaging in frantic osculation. Later, the two of us, during the golden hour, sat together under a tree in the yard, each with rosy cheeks, twinkling eyes, and pounding hearts. Merry Christmas.
A year later, the relationship had been over for a month, having been brought to its demise by my depression and insecurity, for which I sought treatment. Yet again, the nice, crisp December weather would blow in a beautiful set of ingredients from which life-long memories were made. Coffee shops, jazz musicians, a homeless man, a new girlfriend, antique typewriters, Jack Kerouac..."On the Road" changed my life. This whirlwind of excitement was over in six months. Got dumped after a month, coffee shop closed just after graduation, homeless man disappeared (never to be heard from or of again), typewriters took up space...but ol' Kerouac, he stuck around. Matter of fact, Jackie-boy saw me through my political and spiritual transformation and growth, and introduced to me, together with George Harrison, eastern religions from which I've gleaned an incredible amount of joy and countless hours of imaginative contemplation. Tea. I discovered tea, thanks to "The Dharma Bums," and haven't let it go since.
The next several years of my life, during which time you entered and subsequently exited, were filled with weekends of excess...too much to drink, too many cigarettes. Not an incredibly unhappy period, but none of this will make the highlight reel. Things began to look up again in 2005.
I was promoted at the job I'd taken on and it looked as though a career in IT was my calling. It seemed a natural fit, having always been given to technological wizardry, if you will (and I think you might). However, this was not to be, and the project I was a part of had been abandoned. Once again, "What next?" was on my mind and I turned to foreign film for an escape. Quite naturally, I decided to become a filmmaker.
Best Friend/Drinking Buddy got swept up in my passion and, using his father's Hi-8 camcorder, we suited up, slapped a tablecloth on a card table, and started acting out a mobster tale. Later, I'd saved enough for a miniDV camcorder with all sorts of knobs and levers and I began writing short films about spiritual happenings, especially awakenings. Never could reliable "actors" hit upon my projects, and around the time of my 24th birthday, I hung the filmmaking idea up indefinitely.
...I had met a woman, someone with whom I was sure I'd be spending the rest of my days. I went back to college, having a mind to become an architect, but was soon put off of that when I found that most do commercial work instead of residential. The housing market crisis gleefully hammered in the final nail in that coffin. So there I was, without any direction once more.
It was at this moment that family, work, and personality combined in such a way as to reveal the path down which I am currently strolling. My grandmother began exhibiting signs of what I thought was Alzheimer's Disease. She soon began complaining of constant dizziness, nausea, and other uncommon distressing feelings. I knew what was coming, but I couldn't admit it and my family dared not discuss it. Everything was going to be okay. Everything had to be okay.
Nothing was okay.
Pancreatic cancer. Less than a month after the initial symptoms, she was gone. In the meantime, we learned that the cancer had metastised, reaching portions of her brain and just about everywhere else. Aha, it was this that caused the changes in her personality. Hmmmm, I should be grieving more, but I'm having an awfully hard time not being curious about the mechanics of consciousness and perception. This took me way back to my mid-teens when I first met people who regularly ingested LSD and shrooms. My exposure to psychedelics prior to these interactions came from Woodstock concert footage and a couple of episodes of Dragnet--the "Blue Boy" episode, most notably. In listening to trip reports from these individuals, always my mind sort of drifted away from the specifics of what they were telling me and towards the mechanics of the process. How? WHY? I happened upon a notable street drug reference website and essentially printed off everything there was to know about LSD...in the high school's library. Far too terrified to try these things out for myself, trip reports and pages upon pages of meaningless jargon were all I had. It was a valiant effort to make sense of the mechanical (or maybe, the theorised mechanical) aspects of acid-induced hallucinations, but it was beyond my understanding. I finally threw in the towel and moved on. Funny how things such as this resurface.
My obsessive personality took hold and anything that had even a remote association to the brain and its functions that I could get my hands on, I spent inordinate amounts of time with. V.S. Ramachandran became my hero and somewhere along the way, I just knew neurology was in the cards for me.
Please allow me to back up a few steps and explain that during this time, I worked for a document imaging company whose primary clients were hospitals. They'd ship to us boxes upon boxes of ED reports and it was our job to digitise them. I ended up in quality analysis, so I was the last pair of eyes to see the images before being sent back to the client. This afforded me ample opportunity to read through the charts, which I took to doing almost immediately, before the desire to become a doctor had hit me. After a few months, I got to where I could sometimes guess correctly the diagnosis, but this was rare. Eloquent language has always turned me on, and there was just something about the reports doctors would write that grabbed me...also of great interest were post-op reports.
As far as my personality is concerned, I've always had a grand desire to take care of people, to be someone that a soul in need can turn to for a shoulder to cry on, to offer solutions, to stand firmly by someone when perhaps no one else can or will...all of these things that are undoubtedly the wistful dreams of billions of premed students. But I'm different! Hmm. I know, my dear, that I am on the right path and that my enthusiasm shall not waiver.
Last fall, I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to shadow several doctors at a neurology practice not far from my home. There were five there in total, and I sat in with four of them over the several months I visited. The first doctor seemed a little impersonal with patients, but to me, between patients, he was eager to answer all of my silly questions and expound indefinitely on conditions and treatment. I could not, however, get over the slightly cold manner with which he dealt with patients. The second doctor I sat in with was easily in his late 60s and did not seem to want to stop laughing, which is fine by me! During examinations, he was highly personable and asked plenty of questions about patients' interests, hobbies, family... almost all of the patients seemed receptive to this and, at times, it was easy for me to lose a sense of where I was and to what I should be paying attention. Nearly every patient left the examination room smiling and seemingly unwilling to part ways! That's the kind of doctor I want to be...taking care of business and getting serious as needed, but generally relating to these patients as people (as opposed to the next ailing thing in line to be treated), keeping their spirits up when things might not look so good for them in the long run. My favourite doctor was the one I shadowed next. Not only did he also display this desire to get on well with his patients, he was extraordinarily thorough, in both his examinations and in involving me in the process!! He made me feel as though I could contribute to the diagnosis and recommended treatment (although we both were well aware that I could not), which very nearly made me pass out from excitement. Before a patient arrived, he'd tell me their issue, what he'd done for them in the past, and a little about the condition if I was not familiar. He'd introduce me to the patient, instead of just saying "Do you mind if this guy sits in?", and during the examination he'd explain in detail what he was doing and what he was looking for, including those things which are normal and those which are not. At the end of his time with each patient, he'd open it up to me to ask any questions of the patient I so desired! I had died and gone to heaven. Needless to say, I spent the majority of my remaining visits with him.
I'll have to admit, out of all of the cases I got to see, Alzheimer's patients were by far my favourite. Apparently, lady luck was great to me in that all of the patients were subdued and gentle, and nothing like the agitated and violent people one of my nurse friends so often encounters. Dementia. To say that I am fascinated is insufficient. A girl I briefly dated when I was 19, or thereabouts, had a grandmother who was severely afflicted. We were all at some family member's house for dinner, and as I brought my dishes into the kitchen, I saw the kindly old grandmother bent over the kitchen counter examining the toaster. I was unaware of her condition at this point, and didn't know what to make of what she was doing. As I began to offer assistance, she turned to several decorative salt and pepper shakers on the adjacent counter. Still bent over, hovering over them, she appeared to be murmuring to each of them. I put two and two together, coming to the conclusion that she must have diminished eyesight. Again as I was about to offer assistance, I was interrupted, My girlfriend walked in and seconds later, her grandmother leaned in further and kissed each of the shakers. She pointed to one nearer to the middle, kissed it again, and said, "Don't tell the others, but I like you the best!" I laughed, thinking she was fooling around, but I was soon informed of her dementia. It was still a funny sight, but a wave of sickness, despair, and a large damned amount of curiosity washed over me. I had never felt so moved by something in my life up to that point. I didn't know what to do with it, so like the curiosity about perception-altering drugs, I filed it away and moved on with my life.
For fear of need of extra postage, I shall cease these self-indulgent explorations of the past and turn you loose.
May the grace of He keep you always,
J.O. Morris
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