Gross anatomy

A requirement in learning O-level Biology is that candidates should be able to describe the gross structure of the eye. In the paragraphs that follow, I shall attempt to do precisely that.

The eye is a gross and slimy, albeit useful, receptor organ in man which plays a significant part in co-ordination and response.

It is enclosed by the eye socket, which looks weird without an eye, and the eye is attached to the socket by six stubby rectus muscles, which can also roll the eye around maniacally (so really, if you have a glass eye, don't pretend like it can move, because it ain't got no rectus muscles).

The rectus musles are attached to the sclera of the eye, which is the thing that keeps all the eye-goo in place. The sclera is tough, yellowish, fibrous and a little bit slimy to the touch, and the exposed part of the sclera (the part which you can see, and which people commonly call the whites of your eyes) is covered by a thin membrane, the conjunctiva, which looks a little like a GATSBY oil absorber stretched too tightly over a finger, only it's transparent and continuous with your eyelids.

There's a little bulge where the lens of your eye is, and it is highlysquishable, thanks to the aqueous humour which fills it - like a water balloon just waiting to be popped. It's where the sclera becomes the cornea, and also becomes transparent, allowing light to shine through to the retina at the back of the eye. That's also where the iris is, and the iris is what gives your eye its color. The iris is an extension of the choroid.

The choroid is the grossest part of the eye and is the second layer after the sclera. It's pigmented black, to prevent total internal reflection, and black fluidoozes out when you dissect it. It also contains a network of blood capillaries. Also connected to the choroid are the ciliary muscles and suspensory ligamets. The muscles are pretty firm and elastic, to allow the eye to focus on both near and distant objects. The suspensory ligaments, on the other hand, areteensy little buggers which probably look a lot like dental floss with plenty of plaque.

The lens may be the best bit yet. It's hard, a little squoogy, and supposedly a little stretchy as well. It can become more or less convex, depending on whether the object viewed is near or far.

Just behind the lens is what makes up the bulk of the eye - the vitreous humour (which I hear is not as funny as the aqueous humour, and decidely more morbid. It's jelly-like, and clear. Altogether disgusting, really.

Behind that, which is incidentally, the third layer of the eye, is the retina. It consists of photoreceptors called rods and cones, and if I had to hazard a guess, it's probably pretty rough, like goosebumps. I believe it's kind of shiny, like an oil spill on the sea. The retina is also connected to the optic nerve at the blind spot - smooth going there, I bet, with no photoreceptors to speak of. You can see it if you pluck out someone's eye. It's that strand still connected to the head, I think.

Q.E.D. the eye is pretty darn gross.

Tangled web of simplicity

It's a tangled web of simplicity,
those thoughts buried deep in my mind;
strand by strand I attempt to unravel,
but to no avail.
Little wisps of memories,
by longer yarns entwined;
can you tell the difference?
they end where they begin.
Peering through the confusion,
I see simplicity in those
thoughts buried deep in my mind,
although sometimes its hard to find.

Simplicity, the secret
at the heart of every complexity
Someday, perhaps, everything will be
simple.

Pitching for the tone-deaf

For people like me who are practically tone deaf, the eleven different pitches of Western music are like identical twins, except that there are eleven little buggers, not just two.

The difference between these eleven siblings is noticeable enough when all eleven are there, lined up and ready for your inspection - one has a few more freckles than the other (an allusion to Blyton's Sullivan twins), one has slightly different way of talking, and so on. But when they're separate... You can't tell who's who.

Of course, those who know the illusive eleven (yes, I'm feeling rather Enid Blyton-ish today) well enough will be able to tell the difference. In other words, those with perfect pitch can see who's who even without another note to compare with.

But the near-to-tone-deaf? They just can't.

The little girl in the secret chamber

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived in a beautiful land of great diversity. She was given lots of freedom to explore. She could go to the forest, go to the village, go anywhere she wanted. She could climb trees, hide in burrows, do anything she wanted. So, she was happy.

But slowly, the confines of her world became smaller. She didn't even notice it at first. But gradually, she started to notice how there was less forest to explore, less village to frolic in, less people to talk to. It discomfited her vaguely, but she didn't think much of it.

Then one day, she noticed she could not even unlock the door of her room, the grandest room at the top of the highest tower of that most-beautiful palace. She tried, and tried, but to no avail. She burst into tears, and fell asleep.

She slept for a long time.

She woke up to find herself in a small, dark prison. No light could enter, naught but a mere ray of weak light through a slit in the wall.

At first, she thought she was imagining it all, and pinched herself. Then, she thought her eyes were deceiving her, and rubbed them. But nothing changed.

She got up to explore the place, and fumbling, began to feel her way around. She discovered that it was furnished exactly the same as her old room, the one in the high tower.

The only difference was the Darkness. The way the thick inky blackness of It seemed to press round menacingly, waiting only for just the right chance to eat her. It was a fearsome combination of beasts. In the Darkness, of course she could not see It, but she could feel It. She could sense It.

So she felt Its velvety skin coiling around her like a black cat around at a witch's ankles. She smelt scent of want, of desire. She smelt also a deep loathing. A certain jealousy, even. She tasted fear on her tongue, and although she could not see, she felt as though Its jaws were always opened, about to sever her in two. She felt also, Its cool breath, as chilly as the drafts that occasionally entered the castle. And sometimes, she thought she could even see Its teeth glinting eerily in strange glimmers.

Yes, the little girl was very afraid. At first, She pounded against the heavy door. It felt almost like she was pounding on a wall, it was so stubborn and thick. It didn't rattle like the other doors did.

She was angry, and determined. But most of all, she was scared. So she screamed and shouted. And pounded. And again. Over and over and over, but, she couldn't get out.

She passed the days of her miserable existence in despair. Every so often, she would try to get out. Sometimes, when she pushed with all her might against the door, it seemed as if it moved a bit, once or twice she managed to get it so far ajar that she could slip her hand through, but the door was closed as quickly as she opened it.

She lives there still, deep down in each of our hearts, waiting to get out. Waiting for the iron will of Self-Control to weaken and give in to her, the child we all once were, and pure untamed - emotion.

And when you feel sheer anguish, or joy, you know it's her. For she almost managed to escape from that little room you keep her in.

Family Mah Jong

Playing Mah Jong with my parents is a hoot.

Not because their playing is bad. It really is because it's funny. Seriously.

For instance, today, my mum asked, "Has everybody poot fart (she meant bou fa or bu3 hua1) already?".

Then, I have this obsession with keeping the wall straight. I use my tile rack to straighten it while waiting my turn; a pastime my dad has also taken up.

When we play Mah Jong together, you can easily see the family resemblance. We are all really clumsy (and needless to say, really eccentric).

In our excitement to get tiles, we have: pushed over the wall, revealed our hand, shook the table, pushed over our chairs, etc etc.

In our reluctance to give our chips to the winner, we have: thrown the chips out the window, tore the bag we keep the chips in, narrowly missed injuring a fellow family member.

We also do this weird head-bobbing, finger-drumming thing while we play (to the accompaniment of Chinese New Year music).

I don't suppose anyone would care to join us for a game?

When I fall in love, it will be...with dance

Every once in a while, when I throw myself into dancing completely, what I experience reminds me why I love dance so much. It doesn't matter any more that I'm not that good a dancer.

While I am dancing, my whole conciousness is just fixed on getting the steps (not just getting the right steps, but understanding them in the deepest fibres of your being). I don't think about how I will look to other people. I don't think about anything else, except the dance. You don't actually think about it conciously while you dance, but you get the feeling that you're just a girl; just dancing.

You feel happy.

Despite what people say about happy being an over-used word, I have to say, happy is just the right word to use here. Simple, succint and powerful. I can't call it euphoria, because that gives you a sense of losing control. I feel completely in control.

It doesn't matter to me what I actually look like while I dance. I most probably look like a baboon trying to attract a mate. Somehow, though, I just don't care. Plenty of time after the dance to listen to any corrections.

My inhibitions and self-conciousness just slip away as I become the dance.

After the dance, I don't feel weary at all. True, I will feel a little exerted, but I also feel completely alert, awake, ready to try again. After a while, sure, I feel the pain of friction burns and pressure bruises, but it fades when you get into the dance again.

I won't say that there are no words to describe it, becuase I always get annoyed when other people say that. It's like, what's the point of trying if you know that there aren't (any words to descirbe it, I mean)? But it really does require you to experience it before you understand why it all becomes worthwhile.

I wanted to write about love,
But I have no one.

I wanted to write about happiness,
But I am lonely.

I wanted to write about life,
But it is empty in words.

Therefore I can only dance.

I dance for sunshine,
I dance for rain,
I dance for joy,
I dance for sadness,
when there are none of these things.

In dance you can live another life.
In dance you can live life.

---

I learned something interesting this weekend. At my singing lesson, my voice teacher remarked that the most important thing for a singer is his/her ears. It's what you use to tell whether you're singing right, or not. It's what other peole use to judge you. It's how she knows whether I'm singing right or not.

I realised that the same principle can be applied to dancing, only this time, it'd be the eyes. Without them, you wouldn't be able to learn new steps, dance in sync with the rest of the class, see if you're using the correct technique, and so much more.

It's all very well to say that, and feel blessed to have a pair of eyes and ears. But really, the thing about it is not whether you can see or hear, but whether you can discern and observe. You may be short-sighted, or long-sighted, or half-deaf, or colour-blind, but it isn't mere clarity of vision and hearing that I'm referring to. It's really the ability to pick out the nuances in what you hear and see and learn from them (although acuity of the senses is definitely helpful when it comes to this).

The moon watches a nose-digger

Moonie, if you are reading this, this entry is a response to your blog entry about how you are disdainful of nose-diggers.

You settle yourself down and prepare for the long wait. Maybe, you should take out a book to read. Nah. You decide to look out the window instead.

Suddenly, you feel this prickle in your nostril. You blow harshly through your nose, hoping to dislodge it. It only gets itchier.

And itchier.

You rummage around your bag desperately, searching for soemthing to distract yourself. 

You decide to take out that book you were thinking of reading.

Page 1. It isn't working. If anything, the itch just becomes more prominent in your mind. You know what you want to do.

You look around. Nobody's watching. Surreptitiously, you bring a finger to your face, and begin to dig.

Aaaah. That feels good. Now for the other nostril.

Suddenly the bus lurches forward (you didn't even realise you stopped). As you pitch forward, you're brought back to reality, and you accidentally catch the eye of someone watching your. Embarrassed, you look away, but it's too late.

For it's then you realise you still have your finger up your nose.

Movie Review: Phantom of the Opera

In a word, the Phantom of the Opera (poto) is sublime. Although I've never watched the musical, and some people say that the movie is just a way of bringing the musical over to the poor underprivilidged Asia (and I don't dispute that), the movie is an undoubtable, absolute sucess. Anyway, I don't think I could have sat down and watched Sarah Brightman parade around posturing like a pengiun. Poto holds the distinctiong of being one of the few shows that I (and my friends) actually watched more than once on big screen.

They say that the devil is in the details. If so, the show really is the devil incarnate. The details were amazing. They were clearly well thought-out. For instance, in the Masquerade ball, Christine wore a light pink dress that contrasted with the rest of the set (who were wearing shades of white and black), depicting how she was still under the influence of the Phantom (who was wearing crimson).

These small details contributed to the dramatic and vibrant atmosphere - some amazing directing on Schumacher's part. Particularly, the beginning sticks out in my mind. The atmosphere backstage (I mean in the film) had exactly the feel you would have backstage at a full-dress rehearsal.

Instead of plunging headlong into the story, the show begins and carries through a touching sub-plot depicting events occuring after the story (shown in black-and-white). It is a nice touch, and the ending leaves a slight cliffhanger. The show thus alternates between a black-and-white film depicting the present and the rich, technicolour depicting the main story (the past). The transitions fall into place naturally, without an unpleasant jolt, although sometimes with a fair amount of drama.

Although the plot leaves much to be desired - it is merely a love story for the hopeless romantics (like me), it can't really be helped, can it, seeing as how the original story was a love story anyway. However, the director still manages to create enough tension and action (both aurally and visually), to keep the audience on its seat.

Christine was played wonderfully by Emmy Rossum. Her singing is sweet and clear - to be cliched, the voice of an angel. The chemistry between Gerard Butler, who plays the Phantom, and Emmy Rossum really sizzles. You can taste the sexual tension. The chemistry between Emmy Rossum and Patrick Wilson, Raoul, is bland, but appropriate, given their relationship.

Of course, Andrew Lloyd Webber's score was amazing. It was Andrew Lloyd Webber, 'nuff said. The tunes are still stuck in my head days after I watched the movie.

Perhaps my one complaint would be that Butler could have been less arrogant, to help arouse the audience's sympathy.

Above all, I knew it was great, because every time I experience something beautiful or good or true, I get a tingly feeling, as if my skin is contracting into me. When I watched poto, I got that.

Integrating complexity for simplicity

I was musing the other day that, chaotic though the world may seem, a sort of guideline - rules, if you will - governs the world. It's just that we're too much a part of the world to recognise them easily. If we could only get out of ourselves to see things the way God might, and find out what they were, everything would fall into place.

These rules would be alarmingly simple - complicatingly so. Perhaps it isn't even plural, it's just a rule.

The pure and simple truth.

Like a curved graph. The basis of a curved graph is straight lines. You see, a curve can be viewed as an infinite amount of straight lines that join up together to form the curve (i.e. the tangents of a curve). These straight lines are plain as Jane and twice as simple, and they wouldn't be able to tell the direction the other tangents were heading; only the direction they were heading themselves. To them, every other line (or perhaps even their own gradient) would be directionally random. Yet viewed from a higher perspective, they come together to form something totally magnificent (lets just assume we find curves appealing). To the straight lines, the thought of straight lines actually curving must be quite mind-mogglingly complex and beyond comprehension.

In the same way, the rules that govern this Earth probably are plain and simple - from up there (I mean Heaven). We're just too close to them to realise it.

[Edit: vertical integration with secondary four differentiation gives y=x^2, d(y) = x]