Existential Trash

I got blindsided by a minor existential crisis whilst putting my bins out this evening. I guess it's as valid a trigger as any. I've only just about regrouped with myself and the analyses & stats on the event are far from complete, so I would have to speculate that it was the reiterative nature of the task itself that triggered tonight's existentialist grand-mal. Call me Sisyphus.

I considered the possibility that my life had surreptitiously turned into one of those meaningless, uninspiring, repetitive chains of bin days, sleeping, cooking, working... and more bin days.

So, I sat myself down, shut my eyes, and dug deep into the grey/white matter archives to detect what string of events my life thusfar is made of. And suddenly there it was. The pattern!

- Pencil and paper schematics of "Pew's Pattern" -

Yes I know. T'is hardly a new pattern. Orbits and gravitation fields and velocity thrusts... But just hear me out.

So, basically, my life started off in "situation 1". That's me. And "situation 1" is surrounded by a few comfort-zone orbits inherent to my nature. I'm hovering around "situation 1" safely within my narrowest comfort zone and feeling pretty merry, when BAM... some cataclystic event yields a velocity thrust and suddenly I'm catapulted straight into the gravitational field of "experience 1" which just so happens to lie on the edge of my first comfort zone. "Experience 1" attracts me sufficiently to keep me there for a wee while, exploring the entire edge of my comfort zone and familiarising myself with it.

Then BAM. Another drama or cataclystic event takes place, which gives me another velocity thrust that violently throws me out of the gravitational orbit and onward to "experience 2" on the next level of my comfort zone. I'm drawn into its orbit by some attractive force, which slows me down and holds me captive in its gravitational orbit, right on the edge of my second comfort zone.

And so it goes on.




So basically, what I am saying is that I've had a couple of highly cataclystic events in the previous two years, which have catapulted me onto comfort zones thousand and thousand and 1, and that I am now slowely hovering around experience 1001 till I'm sufficiently acquainted with my latest comfort zone or get catapulted onto the next one.

I get restless when I'm in the consolidation phase. When I'm just hovering. In orbit. Because it's paradoxal in its appearance. Outwardly, those orbits seem to stand still. Circling on the same spot over and over again. Yet they are the most intense and life-altering moments of change and transformation. Whilst the cataclystic escapes from orbits appear ginormous leaps and make you feel like you're actually doing something, yet, only one actual transformation occurs.

I rather suspect I stopped making sense a long while ago. Goodnight!

Tights

I spent the whole day in a skirt. And that's not even the scary part. No, the scary part is that I actually felt reasonably comfortable! *gasp* Uhuh. Yeah, I can feel the concept of skirts growing on me. While this may get Jo all excited, I'm sure the people that have to work with me every day might be a little less so. I still haven't quite gotten the "elegant skirt-leg-seating position" down just yet.

Oh and also... I think I finally understand why so many women take aaaaaaaaages in the toilet. To hoist yerself in and out of those friggin' tights every time you need a wee... for chrissakes!!

Anyway, I think we're still far off getting me in a skirt on a daily basis. The proverbial road ahead is still lengthy and littered with comfi blue jeans.

Cold-blooded Continentals

Jo pointed out to me a while back that us continental types are quite stubborn at pretending it's warm. It's mid januari and I think she may have a point:

Scientific Integrity

I came across two articles just this last week which, yet again, run amok with the Peer-Review system: Sex Bias in Science and Ghost Management.

The latter was of particular interest to me.

"There are many reports of medical journal articles being researched and written by or on behalf of pharmaceutical companies, and then published under the name of academics who had played little role earlier in the research and writing process. In extreme cases, drug companies pay for trials by contract research organizations, analyze the data in-house, have professionals write manuscripts, ask academics to serve as authors of those manuscripts, and pay communication companies to shepherd them through publication in the best journals. The resulting articles affect the conclusions found in the medical literature, and are used in promoting drugs to doctors."

This is not a new given and hardly surprising. Pharmaceutical companies are first and foremost businesses. It is only natural then, that they would explore all venues possible, to promote their products. A well-run business also strives for cost-efficiency, which in this day and age, generally means you outsource certain tasks to specialised companies. Scientific copy-writing is a specialised skill. Any academic knows how labour-intensive the process of writing and submitting a journal paper can be. Whilst the article above talks about "extreme cases", I would dare suggest this approach is the norm rather than the exception.

The article goes on to state: "Ghost writing and honorary authorship are not in and of themselves scientific problems, though they become so when they shape science to meet particular interests."

A fair point. As a Scientific Management Consultant, I spend about a third of my professional time on copywriting. Whilst I do this within my function as a Management Consultant, I am first and foremost a Scientist, motivated to communicate science to a variety of target audiences. However, scientific copywriting is by nature, an arena where commerce aligns with science. After all, a client raises a purchase-order with you for a specific document and you create this document according to your client's specifications. The key here is to safe-guard your scientific integrity. Your briefing may include a focus on certain marketing messages, but in the end, your responsibility is to create a scientifically balanced document.

I can't help but feel that the focus of articles such as the above, point their arrows at the wrong target. The influence of pharmaceutical companies on the integrity of our research and publications, is but a symptom of the underlying disease. The pressures on the scientific world are rising. For centuries, scientists were protected by an Academic Bubble that was subject to few, if any, external pressures. Scientists were relatively free to research whatever topics they were interested in and publish however frequently they saw fit.

The last few decades, the business world has taken an active interest in science. And Academics increasingly seize opportunities to cash in on their reputation and research efforts. The Academic Bubble pretty much burst from both inside and out.

Inevitably, the pressures on scientists are rising. Modern academics are measured not only by the quality of their work, but equally by the rate of their publications and the amount of funding they can generate for their research institutions.

It should be no surprise then that these pressures gradually erode the scientific integrity. Most of us remember the downfall of MIT Professor Van Parijs, who regrettably falsified study data, most likely after caving in to internal pressures to perform.

I think the target question here is: how do we, scientists, maintain our scientific integrity when faced with external pressures whose interests are differently focused. Blaming pharmaceutical companies for the downfall of scientific integrity seems tantamount to blaming Maccy D's for the obesity epidemic.

Scientists too, are subject to evolutionary principles: when faced with changing external pressures, we need to evolve, select the best new approach and amplify the approach that works. We've been protected by the bubble for too long. It is time the scientific community as a whole scrutinizes its own approach to these new challenges. Much like the medical profession has its medical oath and ethics, scientists would do well to create a new integrity frame for themselves to abide by. It will be impossible to avoid rogues amongst the pack, but we need to re-design our institutions and processes such that the opportunities for these individuals are minimised.

We could start by giving the Peer-Review system an overhaul. By severing links between Publishing houses and copy-writing agencies (Such as Elsevier and Excerpta Medica), and by bringing back the independent status of our Journals. We should redefine the standards against which our researchers are judged, to ensure scientific integrity and freedom within the new science-business merger.

Science and Business interests CAN co-exist. But it requires an intensive effort from our end, to define the framework within which this can happen. In the end, this will serve the purpose of the business world best by raising the credibility of their public image, and it will serve our interest by safe-guarding our intellectual integrity. The opportunities are immense. The pitfalls, dangerous. Scapegoat-ing will do little in terms of constructive efforts to maximise this new environment. Perhaps its time we turn our scientific methods on ourselves at last.

Morbid

Spotted at the Brussels Airport bookshop:


Does this strike anyone else as a bit morbid!??

Relax-a-Faff

We all have our coping mechanisms to tackle stressfull moments in our lives. Mine are really quite simple. I hermit. I tinker. And I dance.

The minute I got into my car after work on Friday, I decided to:

- ignore my phone for the weekend

- pay a visit to the artstore to stock up on canvasses & paint

- digg up my headphones

- put on my sweats

and...

Relax-a-Faff.

You can philosophize about the soul-enhancing benefits of sports and gym work-outs all you want, but nothing can ever top the effects of dancing. When you feel every fiber in your body totally take over. It's the tap-tap of feet that you can't control which spreads to every nook of your soul and airs it all out.

And tinkering... well, it's pretty much like being a kid again. We used to have friday-afternoon arts & crafts sessions at school, where the teachers set us loose on scissors, glue, paints, crayons and on rare occasions, welding equipment. It was often the highlight of my week. And to this day, recreating those afternoons has an unparallelled healing effect on me.

I decided to overhaul the bedroom canvas for something a little more inspiring, and ended up stencilling this:

Then I decided my toilet needed an extra little something, so I painted on a layer of blue crayon-paint. From now on, visitors to my toilet can leave little messages on my crayon-wall. This weekend, I decided to adorn it with a poem by my favorite poet, Herman de Coninck.

In Dutch:
"What heb je vandaag gekocht, vroeg ik.
Een halsuitsnijding, zei je.
Trek ze eens aan, vroeg ik.
En je trok alles uit: dat is ze
helemaal, zei je, maar met de jurk
erbij komt ze tot hier -
en toen wees je midden op mijn handen."

Loosely translated in English:
"What did you buy today, I asked.
Cleavage, you said.
Why don't you put it on, I asked.
And you took everything off: this is it
in its entirety, you said, but with the dress on it comes to just about here - and then you pointed to the middle of my hands."

There must be a kadzillion jobs out there that we never even consider as a career because we've either never heard of it, or are too uncreative to imagine them existing in the first place.

I mean, how many of us ever considered becoming a Fortune Cookie Writer, Snake Milker, Rodeo Clown, Gum Buster, Pet Psychologist or Human Canonball? I dare bet, few. It's quite refreshing to take a step back every now and then and ponder the possibilities.

Society has a way of making us feel that there are only so many paths one can follow. We should fight that doctrine, because although the classical paths have been trodden so often because they work, they are not the begin all and end all. There are so many alternatives out there. Not just in lifestyle, but in profession too. You have to at all times believe in yourself and in that fact that you are unusual enough to take a different path and make it work, should you ever choose or need to do so.

The realisation that things can be done differently, has been one of the more liberating realisations for me, personally. I remember thinking it on an almost daily basis whilst I was off travelling. How easy it was to slip out of that "western" mindset, and how light and fluid life suddenly felt. On the road, you meet scores of people more creative than yourself. People who've had the inspiration and balls to do things differently. Some fail, some succeed, but they feel free because they make different choices. Choices that are entirely their own.

In case you were wondering, this blogrant was in fact, quite curiously, inspired by Babes 'n Horny. Bare with me for a second here. Anyone who's ever bought a Diva magazine (as most british lesbians will have), will most likely be familiar with Babes 'n Horny, as their ads are splattered all over the magazine.

For those of you hesitant to check out the links, it's pretty safe to do so, because this is a company who's managed to take the cheap sleaze out of adult funtertainment and gave it a funky, accessible twist. Most products in their catalogue are handmade in their London office. And that is what made me think about this whole "unusual job" thing. There are people on staff at Babes 'n Horny, who spend their days designing and crafting naughty toys. And funky, ergonomic ones at that.


Surely their profession is a craft. And that made me wonder. How does one end up in a job like that? I mean, do you wake up one morning and think: "I want to make butt-plugs for a living?" and then just do it? I find it fascinating and liberating to think that there are soooo many options out there, you just have to dare consider them. I'm slightly jealous. And, I admit, also a little sad, because whilst I would probably have a fab time as a dildo-artist, I happen to love my current job, even if it just so happens to be... a more classically trodden path.

Inevitable

There comes a point in every relationship, where you have to introduce your friends & family to your lover. Or vice versa. And quite often, these introductions go hand-in-hand with a pre-meet briefing. You know, where you try to bring both parties up to speed on the other, so that the event can take place with minimal awkwardness and maximal avoidance of embarassing questions/comments.

When Jo met my friends from uni however, I felt there was very little briefing needed. They're an easy-going lot, polite and sociably well-adjusted, so there was little in the way of comfortable evening of acquaintance. I reassured Jo that while they are all passionate physicists, they are far from geeky and the evening would not be monopolised by abstract sciencey topics.

Barely TEN MINUTES through the door however, they're all gathered around one of my spray-paint attempts, discussing whether the equation I've sprayed upon it, is mathematically correct. Excitedly debating whether the "dimensions" were off or whether I've simply missed out a "summation over one of the indices".

Trust your friends to live down the geek label.

Maths Solution

Your vulnerability sank
into our embrace
and weighed my heart down
Your body shivered
to cast off its worries
but resonated with mine

My hands
stripped the layers
off you
My mouth
traced the bare facts
along the curves of your hips
My fingers
tapped a silent lament
on the keys of your spine

Your legs
formed a protective barricade
around me
as if to reinforce my attempts
to shut out the world

Your arms
sealed the distance
between us
whilst my lips found your warmth
and spread it like a fever

Our bodies subtracted all worries
and calculated the plural of happiness

Update2: Paris

The most indulgent thing one can do is to treat one's self when there's really no particular reason to do so. It's my absolute favorite form of treat. Birthday gifts, christmas gifts, valentine prezzies... it's all so very much... expected. It's too justifiable to be enjoyable.

Sometimes you really just want to walk into a shop on a blue Tuesday morning and walk out with a stack of books under your arm that you didn't really deserve. Or to buy a birthday cake when really, it's not your birthday. Or, in our case, to book a romantic weekend when really, there's no need for romance-focussed breaks just yet.

The plan was, quite simply, to check into a nice little hotel, indulge in lazy bed-days, hip shopping-sprees, artsy-fartsy exhibits and gourmet meals.

What we really got was, phlegm, snot and feverish sleep (Jo was ill) with a side order of rain, frosbite winds, full wallets, empty shopping bags and very few vegetarian gourmet meals.


Having said that, we managed to haul ass to the Moulin Rouge (seediest street imaginable), strolled around the Montmartre (got shouted at by a particularly rude Francaise), loitered at the Dali-exhibit, queued at the Louvre, played a few rounds of "spot-the-poof" at Le Marais , had far too much sushi at a conveyer belt and watched an ever so sexy Meryl Streep in the lousiest film of the year (Lions for Lambs).

Othe than that, two moments in particular stick to mind.

Memorable Moment #1:
We've just sat down in an almost empty cinema. We make ourselves comfortable and marvel at the fact that it's so quiet, when in comes Mister Blob. Mister Blob is in his late twenties, studenty-looking and clearly struggles to keep his shirt in his far-too-tight XXL pair of trousers. He detects the available seat in front of us and slouches into it. Within seconds, Mister Blob is making rather obscene leg motions, which has even my not-so-prudish girlfriend raising an eyebrow or two. I sink further back into my seat so as to put more distance between Mister Blob and myself, but the motions continue unabated. I avert my eyes to the screen for a while, till my girrel gives me a rather indiscrete nudge. My eyes now drift from the screen to her index finger to the object its pointing at and find... Mister Blob picking his nose and alternatingly eating it then rubbing it off on his still obscenely motive legs. After a couple of minutes, we decide to pack up and move to different seats. We've only just relocated when Mister Blob turns around to give us a very indignant, almost upset, look. Which begs the question. Did he seriously feel the excessive nose-picking and obscene movements were acceptable? Or have Jo and I just become massively intolerant?

Memorable Moment #2:
We're queueing for tickets for the Paris Underground when, one after the other, tourists with oversized bags get stuck between the ticket-barriers. One guys was unfortunate enough to get his daypack stuck and actually needed to wait till someone pushed him through from the other end, to get loose.

So, I start to giggle and Jo turns to face me and says:

-"That's a Health & Safety hazard! You could totally lose a minor limb there!"
-"You mean, as opposed to losing a major limb?"
-"Well, you know what I mean, you could easily lose a left arm in there!"
-"Ahhh. And that's ever so slightly less major a limb, why... exactly?"
-"Well, it is if you're right-handed."
-"I wonder how many people died of ticket-barrier deaths."
-"You've got really morbid tendencies, you know that?"
-"Maybe I should look it up for my next blog-post."
-"You totally should."

Rollercoasters

I've never been a big fan of rollercoasters. They make your stomach feel like it's dropping right out from underneath you. You can't control where they take you and you somehow never quite manage to gauge correctly how long you've been in them for or how much longer it will take until they come to a halt...

Last week, we've inadvertently boarded a rollercoaster. There isn't all that much that I can say about it on a public forum for the time being and the posts relating to this part of my life will, for now, have to remain a tad cryptic. That will hopefully change in the near future and at any rate, it's nothing too dramatic. Just a tad out of kielter.

After the last few days on board this particular ride, I can only conclude that my dislike for them appears to be innate. But I've also discovered that, given the right circumstances, even the most phobic of individuals can find a way to sit out the ride. Whether that's with ample provision of sick-bags or... an equally shaky familiar hand to hold onto as the cart dashes onward to the next abyss.

Update1: Glasgow

This is a hugely delayed update, but considering december consisted of a trip to Glasgow for Jo's 30th, a romantic trip to Paris and Jo's two-week visit in Ghent, I'd say I've got a valid excuse for the delay. I was actually living life for a change, rather than writing about it ;-)

So let's begin with the beginning: Glasgay.

It was a bit of a Blitz-visit, what with flying out after work on Friday and coming back on the Sunday afternoon, but there's no way I would've missed my girrel's 30th. Jo's dad had rallied up the family, her brother was flying in from Denmark and a couple of Jo's friends were driving up from York for the weekend.

It was past midnight when Jo picked me up at the gate and we doubted anyone would still be up by the time we got home. The minute I walked through the door however, I realised I'd underestimated Jo's genepool, just a tad.

The music was pumping (as much as 1950s anthems can) and Papa Jo was dancing, all by himself, in the middle of the living room. And suddenly, the mystery of Jo's dance-moves was solved. Genes account for more than even she would care to admit ;-) Shortly after, Jo's uncle started belting along to the tunes with what can only be described as a very cheeky Weegie-Italian aria-style tenor. The girls were all giggly and merily tipsy, and Jo eyed me up appologetically. It was downright the warmest welcome a girl could hope for.

Perhaps the nicest surprise that weekend, was the fact that Jo's childhood bedroom had been magically transformed into a grown-up room, double bed included. Not matter how in love you are, sharing a single bed takes it out of you once you pass the age of 25 and we were both grateful for the comfort.

The Saturday was spent shopping. Or rather, trailing along whilst others did the shopping, because neither Jo nor myself bought anything much. It's the curse of many a lesbian: straight girlie friends who still insist on your reluctant company during girlie shopping sprees. I guess that's one thing lesbians have in common with men. I marvel at how excited women can get over a Chanel lipstick or a set of shiny earrings and am thankful I lack the genes to do so, because I am sure I would be officially poor if I did.

Thankfully, the girlie girls in question happen to be endowed with a sound sense of humour and the afternoon was surprisingly enjoyable, despite the shopping.

The highlight of the weekend, by far, was Jo's birthday dinner. Jo'd selected a lovely restaurant in Glasgow and some 22 of us descended upon it towards the early evening. There were balloons, candles, gifts, german breadslices, haggis aaaaand... a kick ass birthday cake. Now, I'm not big on cake, but I was actually jealous. It was topped with a very accurate cartoon version of Jo on her bike... in ICING! Spikes included.

It was nice to see my girrel surrounded by her loved ones. It helps add the missing pieces to the puzzle. You can trace the love she carries out into the world right back to her family and friends. It all comes full circle...

Navigation

I woke up of my own accord this morning. No cathedral-bells, no construction-work drilling, no alarm-clock. Sheer bliss. This weekend is my time-out from the world. I've got nothing planned and nothing urgent on the agenda (apart from maybe ordering my prescription glasses, so I can drive my car more safely in 2008).

It's a grey and wet day, perfect for lying back and taking stock.

We all bitch about how stereotypical it is to reminisce about the previous year and to make resolutions for the New Year around this time. But I'm starting to accept that it's innately human to need a few re-set points from time to time. Those moments where you can indulge in nostalgia, close a few boxes and grab hold of a "fresh" start.

I kept diaries as a child, which I religiously burned the minute they were full. Like a cleansing ritual. And then I have shoe-boxes under my bed, full of memories relating to specific moments in time, neatly closed-off and stored away for when the Alzheimer days kick in. A library of re-set points. And today, I feel like I've come to another yet another. One that just so happens to coincide with the Hogmanay season.

I'm closing off a period in which I transitioned from persistent dreamer to appropriate realist, from incessant planner to increasingly frequent do-er, from hesitant loner to confident-enough-to-backpack-the-world-alone-without-feeling-lonely, from academic intelligentsia to private-sector consultant, from smugly homeless to slightly-nervous homeowner, from happily single to ecstatically coupled, from curiosity-driven expat to coincidental local, from TV-addict to not-even-owning-one, from illegal downloader to reluctant purchaser, from squandersome spender to conscientious saver, from laid-back gradstudent to ambitious employee, from economics-unsavvy to ecomically-interested, from salmonella-avoider to sushi-enthusiast, from walk-to-jobber to extreme commuter, from mononucleotically challenged to relatively-stable-if-not-very-healthy-yet, ...

It's been two and a half long, intense years of searching. Most of the ride exciting me as much as it terrified me.

I've found lots of answers. Added quite a few more questions to the list. And while the puzzle is continuously growing, I feel I have found enough fitting pieces to make out a vague image of what the puzzle will end up looking like once it is complete. If ever it will be.

So today, and tomorrow, I am taking stock. Selecting the right boxes to store the memories in and defining the key messages to take-away. Clearing space in my head for the next approaching batch of life-experiences.

Hunched over my own internal map, I won't resist an attempt to set out my next course, and will mentally prepare for that fact the error-margin on the destination is less than scientifically acceptable.

Forfeiting the kick-start

I had reserved tonight as a blog-night, but then I got settled on the sofa and realised my brain wanted another lazy night before kick-starting 2008. There's just something inherently permissable about new-year's dopeyness, so I'm grabbing onto it with both hands whilst I'm still entitled to it ;-)

To compensate, a few hors d'oeuvres. The main course shall be served shortly...