An Experiment

Now I'm not sure how many people I've told, or how many people have picked up on this, but my left is stubbornly refusing to admit it is the off-hand. From experiences and slowly noticing the habits that I have across various activities, a story that my mom told me of my childhood makes more and more sense.

My mother tells me of a time where when I was young, before I could speak. I would grab everything with my left hand, and swing it around, only using my right hand to perhaps hold onto something that did not quite capture my attention or that I wanted to "put away for later." Now growing up in the stereotypical Chinese family, where chopsticks are ALWAYS held (not so strict anymore, I guess) with the right hand, as I grew older, my mom said that I would slowly be "corrected" to prefer my right hand to my left.

To this end, I believe that I was truly ambidextrous at some point of my life. At some point, my right hand most have felt just as natural as my born-instinct to use my left hand. I think the tipping point of no return was when I entered pre-school, where we started to learn how to write the ABCs. I think that day I felt pretty good with my right hand, and thus the teachers taught me to write right-handed, and that was that.

Now there are certain aspects or habits that all point to why I am not naturally-right handed. The biggest indicator, is that I am completely left-foot dominant in soccer, where it is pretty hard to switch dominant feet. My penmanship with my left hand, is that of perhaps a 3rd grader, someone who just never really learned cursive (which leads to many additional questions). Whenever I'm drinking any beverage, I always reach out for it with my left hand, unless it's more convenient to take it from someone with my right. Finally, I may dribble with my right hand, but I am a left-handed shooter. At any rate, now as a 21-year old, I decided it was going to be fun to experience what it was like when I was little: to be left-handed.

I went to work today, and basically did everything that would normally be done with my right, with my left. To my pleasant surprise, most tasks, such as pipetting, sorting tubes, writing on plates, were just as easy, if not easier with my left-hand.

Coming home, I suppose the only task that was significantly challenging was pretty obvious: eating dinner with chopsticks. After getting my left hand locked into the chopstick hold, I felt like I was following the 1-2-3 step directions of how to use chopsticks seen on disposable chopstick sleeves. "Now you can pick up anything!" If only it were that easy, then I would have been tearing it up with my lefty chopsticks.

I found that today was a very enlightening experience, that within my day at the lab running experiments, I was running my own, personal experiment. Perhaps one day I can return to being truly ambidextrous, but that may have to wait until much later in the future.

Slow down...

…and smell the roses.

Despite knowing this little tidbit of wisdom, I rarely ever get the chance of put it into practice. This would not be the case tonight.

After a session of basketball with my high school friends, I found myself driving back home alone, since all of them head the other direction to their homes. With a cold AriZona Sweet Tea that I picked up from a BP, I noticed something. I wasn’t in a rush to get home, nor were there any cars on the road. The streetlights seem to line my path like those little LEDS on an airplane’s aisle. I turn off my radio, and listen to the sounds of the night. As the crickets play their maracas happily (they stole the spotlight from the birds in the daytime), I realize that I’m driving 15 miles per hour under the speed limit.

In the final stretch of my little cruise, I flicked off the headlights, just to get a feel of what the night looked like without me there, without the light pollution. The amount of fireflies that appeared after the pollution was removed is simply incredible. I could still see the road fully, but instead of a mechanically generated electric bulb, I’m being guided by the transient flickering of nature’s flashlight. By this point I’m driving at around 20 miles per hour, on a road that normally requires one to go 45.

As I’m rounding the corner before the subdivision, I see a group of four deer prancing across the road. Because my headlights are off, they danced so freely; one even stopped by my car, seemingly to ask me if I wanted to dance with them. Alas, the night grew darker, and I had to respectfully decline the generous offer; I rolled into my neighborhood, looking how each house had more lights than the next. With a sigh that marked the end of my little journey, I parked into the garage. As I was walking inside, I looked back at the wilderness, and smiled at the pleasant, albeit unexpected date I had tonight.

A Letter to the Moon

Dear Moon,

Normally I wouldn’t write you, because the postage would just be monumental. But I haven’t seen you out and about lately, so I almost feel obliged to talk with you. Is it because of those pesky clouds are always stealing the spotlight? Or is it that you’ve been pretty shy lately, waiting for the opportunity to really shine?

Speaking of shine, you look breathtakingly bright tonight. I would be stumbling and fumbling around, lost in the darkness, but with that aura, you can be my protector, my flashlight. The way that you look at me, I lose sight of all of the rest of the stars in the sky. Tonight, it’s just you and I, staring across a 240,000 mile canyon of emptiness between us.

I’ve always wondered this though. You must have been asked to play the messenger between two people who love each other, but are separated by distance. Do you actually relay their thoughts the other person, or are you there to merely reflect them like you do sunlight? When I am talking to someone on the phone, I always feel closer to a person if I’m gazing at you at the same time. How do you do it? I’m mystified by how if two people are looking at you, you bring them closer together.

I hope you will divulge me some of your tricks; I'll be here, watching you, admiring you.

Sincerely,

Steve

Long Unanswered Question

People often ask me why I stay up so late, or how I am so energetic in the day, despite getting 4-6 hours of sleep on average per day. The surface level answer is that I practically intake caffeine intravenously, be it coffee, various soft drinks, or sips turned gulps of Full Throttle. But to be perfectly honest, caffeine is usually my answer and solution only when I have to get work done, and there happens to be not enough hours in the day to accomplish it. I am often guilty to over-committing myself to different things, to the point that I might as well be that fabled headless chicken running around aimlessly. On a deeper level, I simply like the naturally reflective nature of the night, and being a person who likes thinking, there is that fundamental affinity to stay up those extra hours to really let my soul wander. Of course, my vessel of choice is the keyboard, for both music and writing endeavors.

The piano is like the perfect fast-food employee (for the most part), doing precisely what the customer wants (usually); after all, “the customer is always right” (sometimes). The strings are my easel, the keys are my brushes, and the notes are my paints. The only difference, is that if the painter were to perform in the same environment that I am in, he or she would need color-tuned night vision goggles (wouldn’t that be amazing?).

Similar to how I like to practice and improvise on the piano in the dark, I do my best writing when it is late at night, away from all the busy, hectic schedules and appointments that soak up and frolic in the daylight. During the day, my mind is cluttered and my attention is forcibly spread across multiple fronts. However, like Jekyll turns to Hyde in the night, I become calm and collected when the moonbeams shine through the clouds, and the stars invite me out to play. It is during this time, in my conversations with the stars, that I can adapt other people’s styles into one of my own: much like a remix artist records his own version of a well-known song. Something about the clear black sky is so soothing, that my mind simply cannot help but emulate it.

So, why is it that I stay up so late? Because the best part of the day has yet to start when others are heading to bed.

The Mash-Up

This is something I've wanted to explain for a long time. The respect I have for Eminem as a rapper is something beyond just being a fan of his music. So without further ado, here goes:

I am not partial to the rap genre. The glaring reason for this is the lyrics. After all, what is mainstream rap without rhymes lined up to a bass and rhythm? Granted, I’ll tolerate, even enjoy many rap songs purely for the amazing instrumental flow they have in the background. If I could, I’d just lose myself in the music (Lose Yourself), and never find myself again. But you can’t go into the Louvre, and say you enjoy a piece of artwork and call it priceless when all you liked was the frame. The lyrics, be it spoken clearly and recited or slurred into incomprehensible slang, are, nine times out of ten, derogatory, offensive and unoriginal. They say that music can alter moods and talk to you (Sing it For the Moment), but what’s talking to you in rap?

There is one exception to this broad yet sadly true generalization, and that is Eminem. Not being African American means he was alone in the rap genre; he’s had to stick out his neck for respect (Soldier) just in his own industry. It just so happens that Eminem’s lyrics actually do mean something, not just talking about having money, guns and women. Talking about the rough life he’s had, the struggles he’s had raising his daughter while rising to fame, just gets on the mic and spits it (The Real Slim Shady) about his life; after all, food stamps don’t buy diapers (Lose Yourself). Now, blind and ignorant haters that make up most of the rap lovers come strutting their stuff, getting all up in my grill with their Gs and homedogs about how I should back my punk ass off before I get a cap popped in me. I just want to say that I am beyond confident that none of you haters that who defend those rappers are anywhere near gutsy enough to run with an actual gang that your rappers roll with, so don’t try to call me a poser when you guys are the biggest of them all. You guys can claim to be thugs for life; that’s alright, because I love the way you lie (Love the Way You Lie): your personal delusion of grandeur is nothing but amusing for me.

Truth be told, I’m not afraid to take a stand (Not Afraid), because nothing you say is founded on truth or realism. You just depend on swagger and a mob mentality to keep this dream alive; it’s just another way of saying that you’re nothing but weak-minded and a bandwagon groupie. I’ve had to deal with people like you Saturday through Sunday, Monday, Monday through Sunday (Superman).

I’m done trying to reason with you.

The Pianist's Letter

The lights are off. A young man is alone, in a soundproof room, sitting calmly in front of a grand piano. Everything is silent now. It didn't used to be this way. There used to be music pouring out from the piano. There used to be someone who sat with him. As he tries to hum a tune to himself, he keeps time with his heartbeat. His hands reach out to play something, but his mind tells them otherwise. As he pulls the rebellious pair back, he looks around the room again. On the side of the varnished wooden piano bench, there sits a little chair. As he reminiscences, a soft sigh is all that is heard echoing through the room.

His hands finally take over while his mind is distracted, and a slow, somber melody leaks out. It may have been from some romance movie, or perhaps it was some top 40 song 10 years ago. At this point, it doesn't matter. His mind is a blank, trying to find an image of that someone. Suddenly, he stops playing. He pulls out a sheet of blank paper and scribbles something down, and leaves it on the piano stand. Upon closer examination, it reads:

Hello there, friend.

By the time you read this, I may have gone far, far away. In that case, I am sorry that I will probably never get to say this to you in person. Do you know how much I think about, worry about, care about you? You may be aware or unaware, but it's true. I am a coward; I hide behind my music. What I don't tell you when I am with you, I pour into my music, in this little sound proof room. What is sad now, is that my piano doesn't want to be the messenger anymore. It refuses to play what I mean to say to you. Perhaps another time, where I can spend all the time in the world with you, I'll muster up whatever courage I need to tell you how I really feel. Circumstance has prevented this from happening sooner, and I guess the cowardice continues by me writing you this letter.

I am happy that you are picking up piano again, since that is probably the only way you'll ever get to see this letter. When you play, this piano will spill all of its secrets, my secrets, to you. You'll be able to see what I see; my world will become yours. You probably won't ever be able to return or share the feelings I've stored in this piano, but that's perfectly fine. I am more than happy to take a backseat, and lend a secret helping hand, behind the scenes, like the set crew of a musical production, of which you are the star.

Take care, friend. You should know where and how to find me.

Yours,

The Pianist

The Mirror

Josh woke up this morning, slightly shivering with a stuffy nose. Somewhere in the middle of the night, he kicked off his comforter, and was barely covered by a light blanket. As he glances over at the clock, he realized that he woke up 5 minutes before his three alarms were timed to go off. Reluctant to try and steal a couple minutes of extra sleep, Josh slithers out of bed, resets all the alarms, and trudges into the bathroom to freshen up.

As he walks in, he's greeted by a familiar face. Josh picks up his toothbrush, and right before he starts brushing his teeth, his reflection starts talking to him.

"Hello Josh. Good morning."

"Whoa, who are you?"

"I'm you, silly, is that how you greet yourself everyday?"

"I guess I haven't really thought about how to greet myself."

"Well, don't you have to deal with yourself the most? Why haven't you thought of this?"

"Hmm..."

"Honestly, I'd think my other half would have more smarts than to ignor--"

The reflection's conversation was cut short by Josh starting to brush his teeth. Not only did he silence his reflection, he gained some valuable quiet thinking time on what the reflection had to say. How do I greet myself everyday? Do I really know myself? Do I change from day to day? These things bothered Josh, but he couldn't risk stopping, where the reflection could start yapping again. As he swished out the toothpaste and wiped his face with a warm towel, Josh's reflection cried out, "Remember to be true to yourse--"

Josh already turned and walked away, out of sight of the mirror. One thought ran through his mind: Do I really know myself well enough to know how to greet myself?

Things recorded in a little black book...

...are usually secrets.

Not mine.

I sit down in a cafe, order a medium mocha, double shot of espresso. I pull out the little black book from my back pocket, and start writing into it with the black pen in my pocket. Scribbling away, I look around, seeing if anyone is looking at me, trying to figure out what I'm writing down. Perhaps doing this in a relatively crowded cafe wasn't the brightest of ideas, but at this point, I don't mind. The looking around feels almost obligatory, even if what I'm writing down isn't some secret worth 80 billion dollars, or what not.

A friend of mine walks into the same cafe, recognizes me, and comes to sit down next to me. As she is sitting down, I coincidentally finish what I was scratching into the book, and put it back into my backpocket. She glances at me, and after ordering her coffee, asks me, "What do you write in that thing?" "Reflections, thoughts, prayers." I reply almost immediately, sipping my mocha.

The more I think about it, I realize that even my answer to her was strangely secretive for something that was completely and utterly truthful. Ironically, none of the three kinds of things that I told her, are actually secretive. My reflections are usually applied to what I do, and seen in how I act. My thoughts are shared with those who have the ear to listen to them, and those close enough to know what kinds of things I think about. My prayers are heard and answered by the Lord, and there's nothing secretive or shameful about them to hide.

My friend gets her coffee, and simply responds with a "Ok, cool." She follows up with the question, "Are you feeling okay? Anything we need to talk about?" I look from the window view outside back to her. "I'm alright. Nothing in particular that's bothering me. What's up?" We sit there, and talk pleasantly over coffee.

Things recorded in a little black book are usually secrets.

Not mine.