actuality.log

I am uncertain as to whether this entry has a central point. I’m writing it at few A.M. as a myriad of barely-discernable thoughts from my disturbed sleep just before hastily evanesce. The bed in my new flat isn’t to blame (it’s actually quite comfortable), it’s my nose that’s choosing to be difficult; it appears to be completely blocked, and I am not a happy mouth-breather.

Let me begin with my take on the U.S. political scene, since I followed it religiously (still do) for quite some time, but haven’t talked about it since the presidential election. Like many other people, I’m glad the contest was won by an intelligent man who speaks in complete, coherent sentences; I really am. But I’m not as optimistic as many others regarding the amount of substantive improvements he (or anyone else) can effect. Stylistically, things have already begun to get a lot better, but in realistic terms, how possible is it (for anyone) to break the hold of the corporate interests who make all the rules? I guess only time can answer that question. One can hope, but I amn’t one to.

While we’re on the topic, there is something I need to get off my chest. On the surface, the success of this man rides on the civil rights struggles of the past—the sacrifices of the likes of Martin Luther King. But unlike the Jesse Jacksons and the Al Sharptons or even the Michelle Obamas of the world, Barack Obama doesn’t share their history. He’s probably read about it in books or talked to people around him, but he isn’t a descendant of slaves. He’s the son of a foreigner who happened to impregnate a white woman while in the U.S. to study (and chose to leave her shortly after). If anything, his success answers one question that always nags me in the back of my mind: How well integrated and how far can a first-generation in-country born child of an immigrant go? Pretty far, apparently.

I don’t mean anything racist or negative by this observation, I just wonder why this distinction isn’t made clearer in the media. Especially when they show images of swarms of 106 year-old black ladies crying out in joy that one of them made it. He isn’t really one of you, is he? You guys had it a lot harder. Skin-colour apart, he’s got more in common with the sons and daughters of Mexicans (and Chinese people and Indians and … ) who’ve recently arrived there. I guess what I am trying to say is, he’s had his struggles too, they’re just not yours.

I’ll stop now. It turns out this entry did have something of a theme. I just didn’t plan on it being this one.

Most of the time, I’m in a phase where I feel remarkably self-centred; not particularly beneficial to anything bigger than myself. (Come to think of it, even whether I am beneficial to myself is debatable, but that’s a story for another day.) But on occasion, the news that I was actually responsible for something meaningful reaches my ears, and I’m gladdened. This happened a few days ago, when my parents sent me scans of recent letters chronicling the development of the kids I help support in my home town.

You must read these in the spirit they were intended and not mock their vocabulary, sentence-construction or spelling. There’s no need to be mean.

I keep working on these in-depth introspective pieces that don’t really go anywhere, and never seem to get done. I think it’s about time I tried something different.

My move to Scandinavia has been far more pleasant than I’d imagined. (Which isn’t really saying very much given my imagination, but you know what I mean.) I’ve gotten to spend far more time outdoors, the people are open, friendly and drag me into their fun, and recently, as the weather has turned unfriendlier and everyone’s spending more time indoors, work has begun to pick up as well.

No longer just a “lowly student,” I’ve taken it upon myself to expand the scope of my work and my responsibilities. I now split my work time roughly in thirds between new, challenging work (which is hard and takes a lot of effort for little payoff), expanding on stuff I worked on during my Ph.D. (which is easy, and involves little effort for sizeable payoff), and finally, helping lost kiddies around the lab who seem to gravitate toward me (which takes substantial effort and offers a reward of a very different kind). All in all, between the intelligent and friendly company, the nearly unlimited resources, and the heavily subsidised food, it’s been a very positive intellectual environment.

The only thing that has irked me thus far has been my ghetto living conditions. Actually, it hasn’t really irked me that much (or you would have heard me whine about it every day), but what really has bothered me is how hard it has been to find a decent replacement. How much ever I enjoy mocking and deriding the U.S. (doesn’t everybody?), things there were usually a lot more streamlined and systematic. If you were willing to pay for something, you usually received it without questions. Here, well, I don’t want to use words like racism, nepotism, and xenophobia (Hey, I just did!), but things are just a lot more convoluted and arbitrary (to my detriment). As a colleague remarked of my experiences, “It’s not surprising, but it’s regrettable.”

Even so, I’m relieved to report that through a recent sequence of events (fortunate or not I am yet to decide), I’ve found myself a nice place to move into. It’s a chic little flat in a quaint little neighbourhood at the heart of the city. It’s ridiculously expensive, but what the heck, I’m fairly certain I can afford it. (What could possibly go wrong with that kind of logic?)

But I know that still leaves some central questions in your minds: “Why aren’t you ecstatic? What is it about this mysterious ‘recent sequence of events’ you chose to mention but not elaborate upon?” You see loyal reader, the reason this flat even opened up in the first place is because a cute girl I know is moving in with someone else (who she’s known for even less time). And while I am delighted by the location, the view and the ambiance, I’m not particularly thrilled by the context.

Update: More real, god-fearing Americans.

Remember my shiny Apple computer? It’s still pretty sweet, but after two-and-a-half years or so of abuse, it’s just not as shiny anymore. And I think that’s as good a reason as any other to justify an upgrade, don’t you?

I’ve just ordered myself one of these, and some tech specs follow for the geeks in the audience.

Apple Macbook Pro (15.4-inch)

• 2.8GHz Intel Core 2 Duo
• 4GB 1066MHz DDR3 SDRAM - 2×2GB
• 320GB Serial ATA @ 7200 rpm
• NVIDIA GeForce 9600M GT graphics processor with 512MB of GDDR3 memory
• SuperDrive 8x (DVD±R DL/DVD±RW/CD-RW)

So much for writing more regularly. You wouldn’t believe how many pieces of paper I’ve lost to random rants soon devolving into even more random doodles.

Anyway, you know you’ve become really old when you only remember its your own birthday after someone else wishes you. Fuck.

This is a forced entry. I haven’t had the remotest urge to write here (I blame µ), but I’m going to try to push myself back into the habit. Brace yourself for an immense drop in quality.

I’m still reeling from an exhausting day that was spent almost entirely in the cold rain outside. There was hiking, archery, climbing-related knot tying, tree climbing (which I shamelessly chickened out of), trivia-quizzing and feet sniffing (by cute little shot-dead-bird-retrieving dogs). I have the nagging feeling one of the activities ended with the penis of a bull, but there was too much cognac involved for me to be sure, and none of this is really central to today’s story.

I realised during the course of multiple conversations during the day that I have a certain style of speaking that leads people to respond to me in one of only two ways: (i) Either they get intimidated/bored (it doesn’t really matter which) and leave me alone, or (ii) they open up to me completely, looking upon me as an entirely sexless shoulder to lean on; both of which suck.

Part 1: Short selling.

1. Let’s say BigWig has 10,000 shares of Apple Corp. (worth, say, $150 each).
2. JoeWeasel approaches BigWig and requests to “rent” these shares for a week, for say $50,000.
3. BigWig sees this as a good deal, for once JoeWeasel returns his shares, in effect, he’s received $50,000 “for free.” So he says OK, and gives his shares over to JoeWeasel.
4. JoeWeasel then immediately sells these shares (at $150 each) and receives $1,500,000 for it.
5. JoeWeasel then writes a blog entry about how Steve Job’s cancer has resurfaced (or he had a heart attack or whatever). Once the media picks up on this, there is mass hysteria and panic—and the perceived value of Apple Corp. drops. Consequently, a drop in its share prices follows; so it’s now, say, $100 per share.
6. JoeWeasel then quickly buys back 10,000 shares at this new lowered price of $1,000,000 using the $1,500,000 he pocketed a couple of days prior; netting him $500,000.
7. At the end of the week, JoeWeasel returns the shares and $50,000 as a renting fee to BigWig.
8. JoeWeasel walks away with $450,000 for a week’s hard work.
9. In a few days, people realise that JoeWeasel was lying about Steve Job’s cancer, and the Apple Corp.’s share prices correct themselves—returning again to $150 per share. So BigWig didn’t really lose either.

This sort of thing really hurts my brain.

I’ve been paying way too much attention to U.S. politics; even more so I think than when I was in America. It’s just that the presidential race has been way too much fun to ignore. And here’s what I think is going to happen:

At least, until the rumours that Barack Obama fathered a white baby out of wedlock begin to circulate.

I spent all of last week in Germany—my maiden trip out exploring Europe since I first moved here. I am pleased to report that my EU visa works, and I was freely able to country hop. About three-quarters of my time was spent in a teeny-tiny town called Oberwolfach (at the MFO, a fairly renowned mathematics institute) and the last two nights were with a good friend of mine from grad school.

All in all, I had a wonderful time.

After flying into Germany, I got to experience first-hand their ultra-efficient train system, which allowed me to systematically (and quickly, like 250+ km/h quickly!) get from Frankfurt to the teeny town without needing any hand-holding. I got to try out some of my broken German from language courses so long a go. I was also lucky to see their countryside and experience small town charm at its finest.

The institute was a remarkably serene place; purposefully built in the middle of nowhere to avoid being bombed during the Second World War. I got to meet a lot of interesting people in my field as well as my former boss. The food was authentic, rich and varied. The discussion just varied. Having no TVs or Internet access (or even locks!), the spartan (but fully functional) rooms at the institute encouraged people to be out interacting. The meeting itself was informal and free form—exemplified by one session running late into the night causing a ruckus from the sleepy crowd.

While my work obligations were to keep me at the MFO until yesterday, I skipped out a little earlier to head out to Stuttgart to be with a friend—who too had decided on a post-doc in Europe after finishing her stint at the uni. It was a blast being with her again, and we were able to explore the town, sampling some of the finer things it had to offer—courtesy of a (very elaborate and crowded) wine festival!

Now, after a surprisingly exhausting week of arguing with older Italian gentlemen about select terms in obscure equations, figuring out the German transport system, extremely fun and eventful evenings running late into their subsequent morns, I am finally flying back home. Relaxed and rejuvenated, with a definite plan forward and some neat research ideas to pursue.

I was rudely awakened from a horrific nightmare a few minutes ago to the even more horrible sound of a terrified woman wailing. This was accompanied by the banging of doors, heavy stomping and other unabashed signs of an argument. This, however, isn’t a particularly new experience for me as my luck with neighbours follows a distinct pattern. But what was grating though was the woman’s annoying voice.

Even though her distress was obvious, I couldn’t once get myself to feel sorry for her or even have my usual (tainted) good Samaritan aspiration—where I contemplate knocking on their door to find out if all is well, despite the distinct possibility of getting beaten up (or worse), under the grand illusions of the payoffs accompanying rescuing a damsel in distress.

But her frickin’ whiny voice. Arggh! She’s causing my ears to bleed.

Oh, it’s suddenly gotten all quiet now.

And it’s been that way for a few minutes. Oh good, she must have run away or he must’ve killed her. Thank goodness. Now I can peacefully return to battling my own inner demons.

A programming note: Since the introduction of µ, a micro-journal featuring extremely small entries, my writing skills have gone further south.

I’m quite convinced the problem with my brain is that it’s not dead—it’s actually capable of thought.

As I lie there exhausted, my heavy eyelids slowly descending over my tired eyes, I feel her snuggle up even closer to me with a contended sigh. That’s when it happens—right when I’m on the brink of actually experiencing a moment of true happiness—my brain begins to race in a frenzied panic:

“But she’s not petite enough. Shouldn’t she be younger? She doesn’t look anything like what you’ve always longed for. Does she have to be such a tomboy all the time? I wish she were more of a girly-girl; it wouldn’t hurt for her to pay more attention to herself…”

How much I adore her, or how good we’ve been together, or how much fun I have when she’s around, or how liberating it’s been to openly share things with her… all of this, every single positive facet, quickly fades into the distant background. My brain has decreed she doesn’t look like she “ought to,” and its own voice is the only one it’s willing to hear.

The sad part is, I’m not able to convince it that it’s wrong. Superficial? Of course. Acting idiotically to our detriment? Hell yes!

But… wrong?

Or at least, what’s left of it.

What do you think it means when a woman tells you she’s “not sure” if she’s single? Does it make a difference that she brought up the topic and volunteered this information to me? (We all know I’m too chicken to speak my mind on the matter.)

What am I then supposed to do?

• Do I go, “OK, that’s uhh… good to know.” (Not how I feel.)
• Do I probe for more information? (Scary, and the thought of what I’ll find out puts my tummy in knots.)
• Should I speak my mind? (Potentially too forward.)
• Must I sit back and wait until she figures things out for herself? (Might blow my opening while I wait.)

Life ought to come with some sort of instruction manual; one with really pretty and colourful pictures, so it has a prayer of being read.

I have no better words to explain things than to say, “I’ve fallen into a sort of anti-routine.” Much of how my life goes on now seems to be entirely contrary to how things were when I was in grad school. For starters, I’m spending a lot more time outdoors—socialising, hiking, playing, shooting pictures.

Crazier still, much of my time at work also seems to be spent socialising and laying down plans for further fun after work and on the weekends! The only times I’ve seemed to have gotten any real work done are the few days I’ve forcibly isolated myself at home. And this has been necessary from time to time, for the world has gone entirely topsy-turvy: Work stuff isn’t trivial anymore. Much of what I’m looking at right now I haven’t delved into before, requiring quite a bit of catching up.

Either way, what I guess I started off trying to say is that I’ve fallen into a routine here. And even if it the specifics of this routine starkly contrast how things were before, constancy is not the best inspiration for me to write—explaining the recent silence.

May be I should just get irked enough about the ghetto neighbourhood I’m temporarily domiciled in, so I can entertain you better. Or at least, try to with greater frequency.

you wouldn’t dress like that.

I’ve been wanting to pen this for a while now, but I’ve been too busy… having fun!

I arrived here expecting things to be cold. And by that, I don’t mean the temperature outside (that I can handle, given my training over these past years)—I expected the people to be very cold. I thought I was going to be isolated and end up lonely and miserable. Truth be told, I almost wanted things to be that way, so that it would hasten my move to England.

But alas, it wasn’t to be.

I really like this place and it’s people. Everybody is warm and helpful, and they make it a point to drag you into whatever shenanigans they’re aiming to pull. Consequently, I too have begun leaving work early, and most of my evenings and all of my weekends have been packed with fun activities. In fact, I probably didn’t go to sleep at all last weekend, choosing instead to attend one party late Saturday, which sort of lasted until late Sunday… around which time the next one began!

There are definitely some perks to the sun not setting.

(Not getting yelled at by the cops for disorderly conduct at 4 a.m. is not one of them.)

I need to get going now. I’m joining a group of people for the awesome does of fun that is frisbee golf; an ingenious sport that replaces the dullness of golf with the hilarity of athletically-challenged science dorks trying to throw things over long distances!