Hugs Not Bugs

I went to a benefit tonight as part of a radio assignment. The event consisted of several speakers including three young people, two of whom have HIV and a third whose mother has HIV, and they all gave speeches about how HIV has affected their lives and how hard it is to be public about the disease. It was pretty powerful. I interviewed the speakers afterward. One girl, who is 17 and an eloquent speaker, gave me a terrific interview. She was so poised and friendly. It was funny, because I am such a crummy interviewer when I have a microphone in front of me. I just feel really rude and like I’m invading people’s space. But, of course, this girl has a lot of practice talking to strangers and making them feel comfortable, and she’s probably been in front of dozens of mics. So, of course, I was completely nervous and awkward, and by contrast this teen was totally cool.

At the end of the interview, I went to shake her hand, and she said “Naw, how about a hug.” It was really sweet, because I just don’t get very many hugs these days, especially since I left Austin (except from Scott of course), and I needed a bit of TLC from this precociously maternal teenage girl.

Only when I got on the subway did I realize that of course the hugging thing was part of the message. It wasn’t just because I looked like I needed a hug. They wanted everyone to be comfortable with the disease and understand that hugging is safe, etc. The funny part is that I had spent the entire afternoon obsessively washing my hands because this one guy with a cold shook my hand earlier and I didn’t want his cold. It didn’t even occur to me to fear getting HIV, but I was freaking out about the cold germs. Of course, that’s the way it should be because you can get a cold from a handshake and not HIV.

The point of this rambling soliloquy: This is proof that AIDS awareness activists have actually gotten somewhere in the last 20 years. I wouldn’t have felt this way when I was a kid, back when every one was freaking out about HIV, and somewhere along the way a transition occurred that I didn’t even notice.

Here’s the link to my story.

[Image from: http://www.aids.hacettepe.edu.tr/]

Autocannibalization Needs Salt

I had a dream last night in which it was the future and politicians had made a law that de-stigmatized cannibalism, as long as no one was suffering, however that works. Anyway, everyone immediately thought eating human meat was okay and not creepy or wrong, just because it was no longer against the law. But, I still had this feeling it was wrong. To add to the weirdness, someone also had just invented a kind of human cloning that allowed you to cultivate a full-grown clone of yourself in just a few weeks. So, maybe you can see where this is going… Someone made a clone of me, my clone died, and then for some reason I was coerced into making a stew out of my clone self and then eating it.

I tasted bland.

Self Psychoanalyst: Geez, could I be any more transparent?

[Image from: http://www.suegregg.com/recipes/soups/splitpeasoup/splitpeasoup640x480.htm]

Garden Dreams

I miss the smell of good soil, finding plump earthworms in your garden bed, planning the layout of the veggies and spice plants, scoring and soaking seeds, checking on the lil’ sprouts, the satisfaction of composting, buying six-packs of baby plants, purchasing and orchestrating hi-tech irrigation systems, shopping for funky pots, pulling apart delicate root balls, and dreaming of tomato season. I also miss redbud trees and agave plants.

From a recent trip to Austin, where spring is now:

Colour Me Cowardly

As part of an application for a summer internship, I completed a writing test today for New Scientist, a prominent British science magazine that has a bureau here in Boston. The editor gave me the assignment last Friday, and I had exactly one week to find a news story, interview scientists, and write a 600 word article about it. No problem, I’ve been doing this every week or two for a couple of my classes. I thought that the biggest challenge would be making sure that I used the British spellings of words (e.g. analyse, colour, nanometer, etc.). But, apparently, when it comes to timed writing, I crack under pressure. I could barely keep it together.

For some reason, though I usually have a plethora of story ideas, I couldn’t get excited about a single one this week. I ended up reluctantly choosing a story about comets because I’ve been doing so many astronomy pieces of late that I thought I would at least feel comfortable with the topic and had a good relationship with enough sources that I wouldn’t get bogged down by a lack of information. Also, though I usually procrastinate on assignments, for this one, I started right away. Yet, even with these two things going for me, I almost bombed.

Two things happened. First, I didn’t make the connection until Thursday, that they made this announcement about comets at a comet conference in Houston, and thus, all the reliable comet scientists were unreachable because they were all, well, in Houston. (DUH!)

The other thing that happened was that I totally psyched myself out. I couldn’t stand the idea that whether or not I would get this great job all hinged on how I did with just 600 words. I couldn’t concentrate, got a terrible case of writer’s block, and basically left myself no time to edit my submission because I finished it at 5:45 pm—15 minutes before the deadline.

The sad part is that the very people who can relate to this painful drama are my competitors. All of my classmates are going through the same thing, though only one of them also had this particular writing test. I never know if they want to commiserate about how hard this is or whether they are secretly resenting me for any of my meager successes. It may be all in my head, but usually we share such warm camaraderie and lately I haven't felt it. I guess it’s odd that, until now, I’ve managed to avoid the whole cutthroat academic atmosphere that is usually inherent to graduate programs. I suppose it was unavoidable.

The good thing is that even though I didn’t do the best writing I could have, I at least finished the damn thing (barely in time), it had some sort of a point (though meager), and it fleshed out a semi-newsy topic (however unimportant). My victory: I didn’t completely embarrass myself. If for some crazy reason I do get the job, it will in spite of this writing test and not because of it.

Wild-2, My Favourite Comet of Late : )

[Image from: http://science.nasa.gov/headlines/y2004/16jan_stardust.htm]

I ain’t got the blues.

Sorry for the long absence; t’was a ferocious week of term papers and then spring break, which I took as a break from all writing, including blogging.

Today I bombed a guitar test. I got a B-, which sounds like a good grade, but really it’s not. The funny thing is that I really was better prepared than I sounded. It’s just the performance that I suck at, and with a guitar test that’s all that really matters. Basically, I couldn’t keep up with the professor’s strumming, so even though I could play every note of Norwegian Wood, I just couldn’t play it at the same pace as him. Then, to top it all off, he asked me to bust out with an extemporaneous blues riff. Good lord. Not only do I not have rhythm, but I have no soul. Thanks for pointing that out so officially Professor Warren.

Poor Professor Warren. Today, he had to listen to at least 30 students play the same tired Beatles song…and badly at that.

[Image from: http://www.balboafeet.com/articles/gypsyswing.php]