Science

Once upon a time, I was a seven-year-old.

I played outside, a lot. I fiddled with things, a lot. I made messes, a lot. My speed was fast, a lot. My sound was loud, a lot. Ask my mother.

One hot summer's day, I was playing in the "Playroom." The playroom was a largish room full of chaos if you're an adult, or contentment if you're a seven-year-old, because you know where all the toys are. The 80's orange-brown speckled carpet was even more speckled by debris: a half-built fort, missing legos, plastic dinosaurs, crayons, socks, etc. It was late morning, the neighbors were mowing their lawn, my brothers were video-gaming, and frankly, I was a bit bored. I told my mom I was bored, a lot. She told me to go play with my toys or go play outside.

Well, that was boring too. "Thanks for nothing, mom," I thought. In hindsight, I know she thought she was doing the right thing, but she should've locked me up in my room at that point.

Bored and disgruntled, I rummaged around in my bedroom, found some crayons, and starting going through them to pick out my favorite colors. After sorting out my favorites, I decided I no longer needed the yellow crayons. After all, yellow was the worst color; it never showed up well on paper, walls, or my bedframe, and hence, I deemed it stupid. I collected all of the yellows and went into the playroom. I put them on the floor in the corner. Good work, I thought, and felt satisfied with the accomplishment. I looked around, bored, spotted the playroom closest, and crawled over to see what else I could rummage through.

The Playroom.

The toy closet was pretty sparse. Like I said before, most of the toys were already on the floor. How disappointing. But wait... on the corner of the bottom shelf ...(easy reaching distance, ha!) was a large, yellow flashlight. I fiddled with it, turning it on *click,* and off *click,* and on, and off, on, and into my eyes, onto the ceiling, and off *click.* I walked out with the flashlight. I turned it on and off, and on and off in the already bright playroom. Now, it was at this point that I started to think a little. I saw, in a cartoon, once, that a flashlight could melt ice cream.

If, I turned on the flashlight, *click,* and pointed it at the stupid, yellow crayons, *point,* would they also go away?

I tried propping up the flashlight on the floor with no avail. The 80's carpet wasn't stable enough. I moved the yellow crayons and flashlight to the windowsill. Engineering a stand with some legos and a sock, I propped the flashlight in a perfect pose right on the edge. I lined up the crayons accordingly.

And waited.

The yellow crayons did nothing.

I waited more.

Still... ....nothing.

I waited for what felt like eternity. Maybe I'd just go outside real quick to pet Heidi and Nicki (our dogs) and come back to check on the crayons. They probably wouldn't do anything anyway because they're stupid.

Then, in the middle of my heroic climb up the perilous mountain (swingset), to save the magical sabre (twig) for the village people (dogs), I heard my mother scream:

"WHO MELTED CRAYONS ALL OVER THE PLAYROOM FLOOR!?"

What? Wow! My mind racing. Did it really work?? I ran inside. My brothers were already there, shrugging their shoulders. I looked at my mom. She was furious. Yes... it must have worked. She waited for my response. I engaged the parrot maneuver and shrugged my shoulders like my brothers.

"NOW I DON'T KNOW WHICH ONE OF YOU DID IT, BUT SHINING A FLASHLIGHT..."

My mind was still racing. Man! I wish I could have seen them melt. I stole a quick glance to the playroom. The crayons weren't there! Did they acutally melt?

"...NOW WHY WOULD ONE OF YOU DO THIS?"

My brothers and I looked at her blankly. Her face was red. She couldn't fake this, I thought. They must have melted.

That evening, right before bedtime, I sneaked into the playroom. There was no evidence whatsoever of the stupid, yellow crayons. I sneaked back to my room.

Pondering, I realized that I had made an exquisite discovery that day. I felt like a powerful sorcerer.

Yellow flashlights make yellow crayons disappear. 

(c) Bill Watterson

Epilogue: As of June 2014, I have confessed about the crayon incident to my parents.

Creativity: It's Not Dead!

Every time I visit home in Oklahoma, I'm amazed by the creativity of my grandparents (unfortunately my grandmother's paintings aren't on there, but I can assure you, they're beautiful!).

Every time I visit, I forget how good it feels to make something. There's something a bit strange about a graduate program in a physical science. In my experience, it kills creativity. It kills art. It teaches you to think rationally, to consider each word carefully, and to substantiate each point with evidence. How can you let your imagination run wild in an environment like that? Why can't we all be allowed to be silly?

Every time I visit home, my imagination is given a free pass to run wild. It is bliss. I can create. I can make. It doesn't even have to be a real thing; abstract, and I'm not talking about the kind at the top of a scientific paper, is allowed! Intangible thoughts are encouraged. I really ought to thank my grandparents for giving me (and everyone in the family) the opportunity to make, create, play, and let their imaginations run wild.

Back to grad. school, committing to a PhD program is more than designing, executing, and completing a research project. You can't "run hot" and maintain your mental and physical health.

So how can I instill that openness of creating, making, imagining?

I've invested $100 into sculpting supplies, $50 into music supplies, and $25 into writing supplies. This time, grad. school won't take away my creativity.

Here's my Anhinga's first day:

For those of you who don't know what an Anhinga is. It's a silly bird: