Alice Yi-Li Yeh's Blog, page 3

Written Sound

I've been sorting through piles of papers as I pack up my apartment. Tonight, I came across the program from a Danilo Perez concert and found several pages covered in scribbled words. I've decided to post them here so I can go ahead and recycle this program. (Not sure where these words came from; I blame the music.)

#1

I will visit you one midnight
When minor swills will
Mask my feet but chill your heart, when
Fingers will stumble in the dark
Midst pitch bass and the wind

I will visit you one midnight
When trumpets cease to sound and
The carpet is silent
When fans will shake and
Steel will tremble

I will visit you and mar your soul
As I tap my feet to
No one.

#2

If twos and sevens could
Speak to your heart, then
Threes and sixes and eights
Could forthwith depart, and
You would know my pain and
You would know my dark, and
You would know what
Mallets and steel can say

#3: Cigarettes and Smokestacks

Green velvet? Black
Trump sinuous slide along
Red and gold,
Heartbeats on metal and skin
Crawling, symphonic madness
Asynchronous cacophony less discordant
than minds can spell
Black and white visitation
in rhythmic nowhereland
To hail elephantine brass and air

#4

The percussionist drives a primal rhythm, drums silent yet resounding in the mind as brass melodies fill the space, whining and intoning new thoughts while dead grasses whisper an end.

#5

An endless sliding motion
weaves its way across the sand
As rhythms break the silence cross the ocean
on a heart-pound, no sense stand
If hiss and whine can swallow
every ivory reprimand
Who will learn and who will follow
if "if" or "or" and "and"?

#6

Sometimes you have to
wonder if
it ever really mattered
or you
only thought
it did

Why?

Mother Duck

For roughly two and a half decades, every major decision has been treated as another step in the formula to whatever a "happily ever after" is supposed to be. No, not princes and sunsets and more children than the Earth could sustain, but rather this mysterious summit that will somehow justify the trek. School? Check. College? Check. Graduate school? Check. Job? Working on it. As I pitched flags at each milestone, it seemed like the ultimate goal was slowly coming within reach.

What I've discovered, however, is that what I'm actually trying for is life, in all its glossy glory. In the middle of a bar tonight, I came to the oddly-timed realization that life isn't something that comes later; life is what I am experiencing now. Surrounded by drums and cymbals and a heavy bass beat; drunken college seniors and the older men and women preying upon them; and more bare skin than a physician might see in a day,  the thought was a sobering one. No wonder we fashion shiny versions of what our futures will be, convincing ourselves that something better is coming. Without something more meaningful to hope for, strive for, the mundaneness of the present is suffocating.

Perhaps this explains my love of novels, plays, and fan fiction. For those precious hours, I can immerse myself in lives infinitely more fulfilling than my own, if only because these characters are saving the world, protecting the downtrodden, or discovering the importance of being earnest. They are not nearly as obsessed with getting all of their ducks in a row before striking out for the pond. Instead, they waddle to the water and jump in, buoyed by their faith that the others can and will take care of themselves. Therein lies their success at richly hued existences, imaginary though they may be.

For now, I will try to reconcile myself to the fact that there is no perfect future coming. No castles, nor picket fences, but rather more of my current experience. I think I'll go find myself a book now...

Mothering Sunday

The older I get, the more convinced I am of my mother's brilliance. When I was young, it was simply assumed that a) she knew what she was doing; and b) she could make bad things better. As an adult, I have come to realize that, like most of us, she was probably doing the best she could with what she had. Thankfully, she was blessed enough creativity to see the day-to-day possibilities.

I was struck with this thought while washing rice, of all things. Now anyone who has tried to wash brown rice knows that there are always a few pesky kernels that refuse to sink to the bottom of the bowl. Additionally, any dirt trapped beneath the ones that did sink just sit there while you pour the water off. After awhile, I began to wonder, "What's the point of washing it, then? What a pain in the..."

Then came this past winter break. I went home to discover my mother placing the uncooked rice in a strainer and setting that in a bowl of water. When she lifted the cheap piece of plastic, all the unwanted filth stayed in said bowl while the rice remained clean. A few rinses later, (relatively) clean rice was dumped in the cooker. Hurray!

Another instance is the storm sheeting (plastic sheets) covering the kitchen table. On some level, I admit, it could be a bit tacky, and I would never use it in the dining room, but on a kitchen table that sees plenty of daily use? It makes complete sense, especially when some of your children *raises hand* went through a nasty phase of accidental cup spillage at least once every twenty-four hours. It's like a bib for the table!

Then there were the makeshift butterfly wings from bath towels for Halloween, and the plastic bag ponchos that seemed completely normal at a time when Reaganomics still seemed like a good idea. In retrospect, it should have been an indication of our financial state at the time, but all I knew was that I got to "dress up" to go out for candy, and I had something to keep me dry when it rained. Perhaps shielding a child from harsh reality was the greater achievement here, especially in suburban Long Island where income and status go hand-in-hand.

I often joke that "My mother doesn't push her birds out of the nest; she kicks them out." In all likelihood, this is less true than it sounds, but she knew that my siblings and I share an independent streak, and instead of suppressing it, she forced us to use it productively. Visits to the city (New York--is there any other?) had to planned out on our own. The same went for college visits, college applications, violin repairs, apartment-hunting, and learning how to keep house. Essentially, we were given the tools and left to our own devices, and for the three of us, that worked. The result? Adults who are able to confront new situations with the confidence that we will "figure it out"...eventually. In a naturally Type A super-planner, it seems a little contradictory, but even the most anal-retentive of us must admit that nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.

With the current thirst for online recognition and career achievement pervading through our society, these less recognizable victories have a tendency to get pooh poohed. Yet they require the same degree of creativity and practicality. We strive for efficiency and financial prudence in the workplace, so why not in the home? Why are these achievements any less noteworthy? Is it because the world at large doesn't see them, or because they won't help you land a job?

I've deviated from the main point per usual, and now that I'm back in the US, "Mothering Sunday" no longer applies, but I'll finish off by stating that however invisible to the resume-driven eye, good parenting can change a child's world, and brilliant parenting can empower them to make their own changes.

Poodle Splashing

During rotation last week, my preceptor mentioned that poodles were once used as hunting dogs. Apparently the oil on their fur helps water slick right off (as for ducks), and standard poodles (as opposed to miniature or toy poodles) actually have webbing between their toes for more efficient swimming. This prompted some online research of my own. What I found was fairly fascinating!

According to Poodle Place, this water retriever was once used to collect successful kills from ponds and the like. The fur keeps their bodies warm, while the odd shavings allows for improved mobility. It was functional before it was fashionable! Leave it to the aristocrats to seize the opportunity for personal expression by means of a live animal's trimmings.

Per the American Kennel Club, poodles originated in Germany, in spite of their status as the national dog of France. Also, the smaller breeds were once used to hunt for truffles. Funny, but when I think of truffle hunting, I think of pigs, not dogs. There is also something vaguely amusing about a wiry-furred animal hunting for mushrooms. It's a much messier operation than eating wet food off of a decorative plate or being hand-fed bits of cooked meat, as I have known one lady to do for her toy poodle. I swear, these pet owners are more attentive than many a parent!

Per Wikipedia, poodles fall between collies and German shepherds in terms of intelligence, which makes them relatively easy to train. Like most dogs with a wiry coat (such as my old Airedale terrier), the hair does not shed in the usual way; that is, it gets tangled with surrounding hair and mats instead of falling all over your furniture and carpeting. I suppose that this would be irrelevant for an outdoorsy animal, as vegetation would effectively pull those loose hairs out, but an indoor poodle would require grooming.

That's all I've gathered from a cursory search. Suddenly, I want a poodle of my own. I wonder how my cat feels about company...

Bath, UK

In terms of pharmacy, it's been strange knowing ahead of time that every prescription will go through the computer instead of getting blocked up by insurance. Equally bizarre, and welcome, is the idea of placing PPIs and acetaminophen/paracetamol behind the counter. I'd be interested to see what the difference is in liver failure statistics related to overuse of Tylenol. Does guaranteed counseling really make a difference?

Somewhat less welcome is the dispensing itself. I find that alert fatigue is common, and patients typically grab their medications and run out the door without any counseling at all. Then again, is that truly so different from the US system? People do it all the time there as well, so I guess that all of that is truly up to the individual pharmacist. Preventable adverse events just drive me batty. With all the knowledge that we've accumulated in terms of medical care and medications, why so we still fall so far short? Are people unwilling to listen, or are we unwilling to make time? Is it the fault of large corporations, breathing down our necks for higher script counts, or of hospitals trying to meet a bottom line?

In any case, I should get back to doing work. To end this on a random note, I have to say that I do love the UK, but their television programs are utter rubbish. We've been watching Friends reruns in order to stay sane.

Loosening Libations

"A drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts."

This "fortune" was taped to the cash register at Sweetwaters Café when I went in today, totally frazzled because my carbon monoxide detector kept beeping and maintenance wasn't calling me back. I'll venture to say that it is self-explanatory; in short, it says, "People self-censor."

This idea probably applies to more than drunkenness. Excessive sleep-deprivation has been compared to inebriation, and given some of the impulsive, foolish things that I have said and done after all-nighters, who am I to disagree? Still, it's scary to think that those regrettable words and actions are what we are really thinking of. I like to imagine that the loss of inhibition is actually the loss of higher thought processes. In other words, yes, we are thinking those things, when sober and awake, but we are also reasoning intelligently. The latter group of thoughts just tends to override the  former in the name of self-preservation.

At least, that's what I'll tell myself the next time that I say something stupid because I'm tired. Like now.

Inner Children

"IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO HAVE A GOOD CHILDHOOD."

So stated the back of a truck driving ahead of me this morning. (Had I not been at the wheel, I would have taken a picture!) For those brief seconds where the words stared me in the face, I found myself smiling at the departure from political rhetoric and "Proud parent of an honors student." Each of us carries the weight from some part of our childhood that went terribly wrong. Even so, the scars that I bare pale in comparison to the invisible marks from barbaric practices endured by far too many.

In 2007, almost six million children were involved in over three million child abuse reports and allegations. For those of you keeping track, the number of abused children is almost equal to the entire population of the state of Missouri. Never mind the 4.82 child deaths per day attributed to child abuse and neglect. Multiple that by 365.25, and you wind up with 1761 deaths per year. That's about the same as the number of college students who died from binge drinking in 2005. The difference? Dead children never get to graduate high school, or go to prom, or experience college. Their demise has little to do with anything they could have chosen for themselves, and everything to do with the situation into which they were born. So then, what happens to the millions who manage to make it out of these abusive homes alive?

Burdens. Trauma. Trust issues. The list goes on, but suffice it to say, their upbringing has left an indelible mark. That's why I love the message on the truck so much — you can't erase the old lines, but you can add colors and rainbows and little mice in overalls that like to eat cookies. It's never too late to experience something good. We may be the product of our circumstances, but we are defined by what we do within those constraints and how we break ourselves out of them.

"Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will."
- Mahatma Gandhi

It's never too late to have a good childhood. It's never too late to start a good life.

Statistics compiled from Childhelp, the National Institutes of Health, and the 2010 US Census.

You First

Over the course of the past few months, I've noticed some alarming acts of grammatical blasphemy: "me and Joe", "I and Maria", "me and you", etc.. What struck me most about this is the idea of putting me/I/myself first. Perhaps I'm reading too much into it, but it strikes me as a selfish mental shift, one in which others come second and the speaker always comes first.

In grade school, we were taught grammatical structure with this basic rule of thumb: other people come first, and you come last. It's an altruistic mentality, one wrapped into something so basic as the way in which we speak. It is horrifying, then, to think that it is becoming increasingly acceptable to look out for "Number One". If language is a sign of the times, then we are truly becoming egocentric and slovenly, with short attention spans to boot.

Many have capitalized on this, turning writing from an art form to a cold, impersonal, but efficient means of communication. Undoubtedly, this form does have its place — user manuals and scientific journal articles, for instance — but seeing it in novels and the like has been nothing short of depressing. Character development has been sacrificed for fast-moving plots for an increasingly desensitized readership. Personally, it seems as if one must maintain that breakneck pace, or else said readers may discover that there is no substance to these imaginary people, and as such, we really don't care what happens to them.

It occurs to me that this attitude may be cynical at best, and excessively critical at worst. Still, it's hard to deny when I see book reviews denouncing Orwell's 1984 as boring and pointless, while touting Da Vinci Code as a classic. (This was a real book review written by a teenager. Yes, we all read 1984 in high school, but I don't remember commentary on socialism being quite so dull.) In any case, I'm keeping my fingers crossed and hoping for an upswing in literary appreciation and selfless thought. Goodness knows we need it.

Hands Off

Approximately a year ago, the New York Times published an article in their Health section entitled "Evidence That Little Touches Do Mean So Much." The argument? That physical contact improves performance. Oh, and it also contributes to our own sense of well-being.

I find it interesting that this sort of article came out at a time when the pundits were already declaiming the decline of face-to-face contact due to electronic media and a perverse need to keep ourselves at the point of burnout.  What it fails to address (except in passing) is the importance of emotional attachment to the source of the so-called "little touch." Any yuppie worth his salt can tell you that it is easy to get one's fix at a bar or a club, though the chances of forming a lasting attachment from that sort of encounter  remain remarkably slim. Will that contact suffice in terms of protecting one's mental health? Does it contribute to one's emotional well-being? Maybe, maybe not.


Perhaps, then, contact with those close to you is a Dom Perignon, while a pat on the back from a coworker is a lesser Moët et Chandon champagne. I suppose that leaves the random bump-and-grind as a post-1994  bottle of Asti. All of them are capable of causing inebriation (if taken in sufficient amounts), but the degree of fulfillment from the experience is what leads to vastly different price points — and varying quantities of libation that must be consumed to reach any real satisfaction.

Then there is the argument of love languages and those who are more uncomfortable than not with physical contact. Are they an anomaly, or is this source of affection or support so foreign that they know not what to do with it? Is it a deficit, really, or just a divergence of opinion, much in the same way that I find cooking relaxing while a friend of mine thinks it unnecessarily stressful? Where am I going with this? Hell if I know — I seem to have taken a tangent and ridden it over the horizon to the Land of the Lost. Quite a confusing locale, to be sure, full of odd objects and an even odder populace — as good a place as any to get off, I guess. Please excuse me while I alight from my invisible steed.

Problem Solving

I spent the better part of yesterday redesigning Stimulated Outlet Book Reviews to make it seem less visually busy. After scouring the internet for templates, I soon discovered that there was no perfect fit. Either there were not enough tabs in the navigation area for the number of pages I require (five), or the column spacing distorted my entries, my widgets, or both. So what's a girl to do? Code.

Let's address issues one at a time. The first: navigation. Some of the templates out there will list your pages vertically when what you really need is a horizontal menu. After messing about with the Join Coffee template for a while, I gave it up as a lost cause and replaced the whole widget with one of Blogger's link lists, which worked out quite nicely. Unfortunately, the truncated posts still looked too spaced out for my tastes, so I scrapped that for the Grunge template, which resulted in an entirely new navigation problem. As frustrating as it may be to work with widgets, it's worse when there are no widgets involved, only straight HTML. Into the code I went!

Now, if you haven't discovered the awesomeness that is Ctrl + F, you are wasting a lot of unnecessary time. The first thing I did was search for "RSS Feed," as it was one of the built-in menu items. That led me to a section of <li class="x"><a href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/alice-..." title="PageTitle">Page Title</a></li>. That's right — these menus are usually lists. Hallelujah, something easy! All I had to do then was replace the text in red with my contact page, my giveaways page, et cetera, using one list item for each option. Of course, they only started off with three, soI went ahead and replicated the same code to add in the links for other pages. Hurray! One problem solved.

This led to another set of issues involving mini-posts. I tend to favor them, as they give my book blog an organized look. Unfortunately, the Grunge template had its own script for automatically truncating,:

<script type='text/javascript'>createSummaryAndThumb
('summary<data:post.id/>';);</script>

Oh, goodie. Not only did it mess up the cut-off points I had already made, but it turned bulleted lists into regular text! Well that just wouldn't do...After discovering the reason for this  irritation, I went in and took the whole thing out. Ta-da! Good as new.

Well, almost. Blogger automatically generates a "Read more" link, which would be fine except a) it didn't look right with the template, and b) the template already had its own "Continue" button. Thankfully, the solution for this is actually incredibly simple! Using Ctrl + F again, I went into the Main portion of the code, where classes are defined, and added in .jump-link {display:none}. Theoretically, that code should work no matter where it's placed; I chose the main section for organizational purposes. See? Simple.

Now for one last finishing touch: getting the "Continue" button to go away when it isn't needed. Not knowing the code myself, I did a search for "jump-link" as that's what Blogger normally uses. Its appearance may be suppressed, but its code is still in there somewhere. You'll have to expand widgets in your template to find it! You end up with a section that looks like this:

<b:if cond='data:post.hasJumpLink'>
      <div class='jump-link'>
        <a expr:href='data:post.url + &quot;#more&quot;' expr:title='data:post.title'><data:post.jumpText/></a> 
      </div>
    </b:if>

Lovely. In layman's terms, that first line says that if there is a jump-link (i.e. the entry is truncated), then — and only then — does the rest of the code kick in. Sweet! Now what you'll discover is that the sections in text are the portions that you won't need. It may be easier just to copy the whole thing and delete it later, though. Anyway, I ran a quick search for the "continue" code in the template and started mixing my own code in right below <data:post.body/>.

<b:if cond='data:post.hasJumpLink'>
<span class='readmore'><a expr:href='data:post.url + &quot;#more&quot;' expr:title='data:post.title'><img src='url'/></a></span></b:if>

Note that the instead of keeping <div class='jump-link'>, I chose to use the <span class='readmore'> that the template was already using. Why? For appearances sake. I want this button to look like Grunge but function like basic Blogger. The same goes for using the button image instead of <data:post.jumpText/>.

Something unique about the Grunge template is that instead of letting you replace the title text with your blog's name, it has the word "Grunge" at the top with no way of adjusting it. Sort of. You can't fix it through Page Elements, but you can change it through HTML. I tried to search for "Grunge," but nothing came up, suggesting that this was actually an image and not text. I right-clicked on the page, and sure enough, it was a gif, so all I had to do was copy the image address, then search for it in the HTML. After that, it was pretty straightforward: I deleted the imaging code for the logo and replaced it with my own text, sized and colored to my liking. A few minor tweaks were done for the width of that container versus the width of the top navigation menu, but overall, it was a relatively easy fix.

There was the usual rearrangement and renaming of widgets in the Page Elements section of the Design tab, which is not really worth explaining as it's more or less clicking and dragging.

So what are the lessons to be learned from this? Number one: you can't find a solution to a problem via Google if nobody has posted a fix. Number two: A template probably won't be perfect as-is, but you can tweak it to make it work for you. Number three: You don't a background in web design (or  even a functional understanding of javascript) to change things around in your blog's source code.

Speaking of coding, I removed the random script that was slowing down this blog. From what I can tell, it served no actual purpose, so hopefully it wasn't included in the template with malicious intent. If it was, then that's one more reason to be thankful that it's gone.