Aubade
by Louis Macneice
Having bitten on life like a sharp apple
Or, playing it like a fish, been happy,
Having felt with fingers that the sky is blue
What have we after that to look forward to?
Not the twilight of the gods by a precise dawn
Of sallow and grey bricks, and newsboys crying war.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
I climbed up the steps to the lab, boarded the elevator, and got off at the eleventh floor. Then I saw my boss, asked her if she had some time to talk, and told her everything about what’s happened to me these past couple of weeks. I really enjoyed working in the developmental mouse lab. It was worth the extra hours aside from school. There is so much I still want to do, to learn. I’ll find that too in the next lab, but I’ll really miss this one. It was the first time I worked with mammalian tissue, made histology sections, and saw, through the smooth reflective walls of a microscope tube, a mouse embryo beating its tiny little heart. The other day, the lab was closing and I stayed behind. The workers had gone home, and it was quiet and misty in the halls. I looked out the window into the black, shining night of Philadelphia, thinking about what I was leaving behind. The spotlights were searching and somewhere, a helicopter flew off, into the unlit recesses of the night. This is a vital and necessary step, but its never easy saying goodbye to something you loved.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Coda
I wrote this sometime last week, on bits of spare paper I gathered after my exams. I didn't have time to type it up until now:
Today I stepped outside and the campus was empty -- quiet, serene, almost eerie from the lack of noise. I walked slower, pattering my feet through the paved walkway. I had just taken my last exam that day, and as I left the building I couldn’t help but feel a great weight lifted from me. Gone were the days of staying up late, skipping meals, and cramming for exams I seemed to care less and less for. There I was, free, with nothing to prove to anyone but my own. “Free,” I kept repeating that word over and over in my mind. I reminded myself: learning is not a cage -- it never was -- but deadlines were, studying for exams was, and I never did learn to overcome that inherent fear of performance... I walked to the library and stared at its blank windows, dark now from the lack of activity. I spent hours in that place. It had been my second home. Now that it was dark and vacant, I could see my own reflection staring back at me. I didn’t like the feeling. I walked to the statue of Ben Franklin, and sat by his feet once more. Only one other time did I come here that sticks out in my mind. It was the beginning of September. I hadn’t resolved yet if Penn was right for me. I had fears, financial worries, and social insecurities. Somewhere in the midst of worrying for it all, I think I had forgotten what I was here for. The fundamental reasons were: to learn, to be educated, to specialize, and to make something better of myself. I fear that what it became instead was: relief, validation, a way out, freedom from what I thought was a mundane existence. Classes started, exams were scheduled, I sought out part-time jobs, and soon I had my own place in the world. I had a niche to call my own and a small voice to play in the grand organ of the university. The music was exquisite, beautiful, even intoxicating. It was the music of energy, the dance of innovation -- with ideas taking shape, hopes taking form, and dreams materializing into technologies, inventions, molecules, poetry, and works of art. It was also a play of constant movement: movement to finish tasks on time, movement to study presentations, to read books, meet with people, memorize equations, and take care of anything else that needed attending to when the time allowed. Somewhere along the way, the work became my life. It was the pattern and I could emulate it, crawl inside it, lie down, look back on it and say, "the Pattern is good." I would close my eyes and the sweet thought of completion would drift me off to sleep. Now, with the work done and ended, the hustle and bulk of ritual tasks is gone, and along with it, what I fear was my sense of meaning. I can almost stay still and listen to the tiny voice inside my head yearning for something more, as if there was a quiet but resolute pain of something missing. I feel like I didn’t make enough friends, let the semester pass by too quickly, didn’t get to explore the city enough, the world enough, and here I am, still aching for something more. I didn’t get to enjoy my time here without the pressing burden of work over my shoulders. I know that I did everything to try to prevent it, but these are the complaints I make silently to myself, knowing that a first experience can only occur once and never again. My time here was imperfect, but I can live with that. Perhaps it's as close to perfection, or happiness, as I could ever hope for, ...and I was happy here. The time I spent here was well spent. I'll cherish it for the rest of my lifetime. I just can’t help it. I love people. I love this place. I just don’t want to leave it. I want to go on thinking that my time here was meaningful.
Today I stepped outside and the campus was empty -- quiet, serene, almost eerie from the lack of noise. I walked slower, pattering my feet through the paved walkway. I had just taken my last exam that day, and as I left the building I couldn’t help but feel a great weight lifted from me. Gone were the days of staying up late, skipping meals, and cramming for exams I seemed to care less and less for. There I was, free, with nothing to prove to anyone but my own. “Free,” I kept repeating that word over and over in my mind. I reminded myself: learning is not a cage -- it never was -- but deadlines were, studying for exams was, and I never did learn to overcome that inherent fear of performance... I walked to the library and stared at its blank windows, dark now from the lack of activity. I spent hours in that place. It had been my second home. Now that it was dark and vacant, I could see my own reflection staring back at me. I didn’t like the feeling. I walked to the statue of Ben Franklin, and sat by his feet once more. Only one other time did I come here that sticks out in my mind. It was the beginning of September. I hadn’t resolved yet if Penn was right for me. I had fears, financial worries, and social insecurities. Somewhere in the midst of worrying for it all, I think I had forgotten what I was here for. The fundamental reasons were: to learn, to be educated, to specialize, and to make something better of myself. I fear that what it became instead was: relief, validation, a way out, freedom from what I thought was a mundane existence. Classes started, exams were scheduled, I sought out part-time jobs, and soon I had my own place in the world. I had a niche to call my own and a small voice to play in the grand organ of the university. The music was exquisite, beautiful, even intoxicating. It was the music of energy, the dance of innovation -- with ideas taking shape, hopes taking form, and dreams materializing into technologies, inventions, molecules, poetry, and works of art. It was also a play of constant movement: movement to finish tasks on time, movement to study presentations, to read books, meet with people, memorize equations, and take care of anything else that needed attending to when the time allowed. Somewhere along the way, the work became my life. It was the pattern and I could emulate it, crawl inside it, lie down, look back on it and say, "the Pattern is good." I would close my eyes and the sweet thought of completion would drift me off to sleep. Now, with the work done and ended, the hustle and bulk of ritual tasks is gone, and along with it, what I fear was my sense of meaning. I can almost stay still and listen to the tiny voice inside my head yearning for something more, as if there was a quiet but resolute pain of something missing. I feel like I didn’t make enough friends, let the semester pass by too quickly, didn’t get to explore the city enough, the world enough, and here I am, still aching for something more. I didn’t get to enjoy my time here without the pressing burden of work over my shoulders. I know that I did everything to try to prevent it, but these are the complaints I make silently to myself, knowing that a first experience can only occur once and never again. My time here was imperfect, but I can live with that. Perhaps it's as close to perfection, or happiness, as I could ever hope for, ...and I was happy here. The time I spent here was well spent. I'll cherish it for the rest of my lifetime. I just can’t help it. I love people. I love this place. I just don’t want to leave it. I want to go on thinking that my time here was meaningful.
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