actuality.log

I’ve been missing writing about my life, and my (lack-of-)visitor-access-logs seem to indicate you’ve missed it too.

Recently, I’ve begun talking to the higher-ups about slowly winding up (down?) my stint in grad school, and moving on with my life. I’ve often fantasised about this period of my life, wherein I’ve envisioned soaring happily toward wondrous new opportunities. But in actuality, all I am is petrified. School is all I’ve known—its warm confines having been cosy and cocooning for so long—I now find my self nearing a crossroad where little seems clear to me.

Do I work on this, or was it that which caught my fancy? Who is going to hire someone so vague? Do I attempt for a position in Europe, or hover around here? What about India? What do I really care about? What am I looking for? Should I take a break to figure it all out? … Already floundering, struggling to find my way, I now also have the pleasure of juggling the whole “It’s high time you found a nice girl and ‘got settled,’ young man” routine.

All of which can be a tad overwhelming for a kid whose most important decisions largely present themselves at vending machines: “Do I hit the Coke button, or do I crave the lemony-lime goodness of Sprite today? Oh deary me, so many cold, sugary choices… I can’t decide. Arrgh!”

Ever since I first heard about the possibility of an I, Robot movie a few years ago, I’d been pretty stoked. I wonder why it took so long for me to actually see it, but see it I did a couple of days ago.

And the verdict? It wasn’t a horrible movie.

Sure, they concocted their own stories loosely within the confines of Asimov’s universe and sure Dr. Calvin was a tad embellished,

but it was all right. It wasn’t horrible, and I dare say it was quite fun at points.

You see, I have a special attachment to I, Robot, as I am sure is true for countless other people, as it was the first Asimov book I’d read. Starting from this 9-short-story-long book in my eighth grade, I’d read just about everything the good doctor had written by the time I’d completed my eleventh. Just about everything I could get my hands on, anyway.

Asimov’s writing—certainly to the little outcast geek within me—was extraordinarily addictive. He was one of the most prolific writers of all time, and wrote all sorts of tales usually set within the realm of science fiction. While one may be quick to lump them all into this category, his works include tender romances, intriguing murder mysteries, expansive world building and so much more. Yes, of course, it takes a certain kind of reader to sigh when a woman admits her only ever love—or physical experiences in any case—to have been with a robot (or another extreme variation of the theme: The man who falls for and marries his protector though he suspects she’s a robot). But I am that sort of reader, and his words clicked with me. Very well.

Over those few years, I’d read hundreds of stories—ranging from the shortest of short stories to the most elaborate novels. From a birds-eye view, Asimov’s writing paints a sort of elaborate, pseudo-history of humanity’s future. Starting from our fledgling steps with humankind-changing technology a few years from now (as is the case of introduction of robots with I, Robot), to the rises and falls of humanity as they proceed to conquer the galaxy over the next tens of thousands of years.

As a kid, I read what I could get my hands on, reading things in the order in which I procured them and not closely following their intended chronology cataloguing his vision of our future. Over this semester, I’ve begun to fix that. Having forgotten most of what I read, I’ve been amassing and devouring everything from the very first (admittedly shoddy) short stories of robots through the grand finale of the Foundation Series,

including some reads I didn’t have access to as a kid. And this time, I’ve been reading them in order.

While the superficial import of these tales might seem like something cliched (Evil super-genius will stop at nothing to take over the entire galaxy.) it takes a little more than a cursory glance to realise their true essence (The story of a poor, neglected little boy who is desperate for attention). And, it’s the fact that I can relate to these tales set in a consistent universe so intensely that draws me so much to them.

During the course of navigating your way through life, you’ll be required to play numerous roles. The son, teacher, artist, plumber, lover, student, writer, preacher, judge, chauffeur, mother… the list is continuous. Admittedly, I may not know very much about life, but there is one bit of insight I’ve gathered which I’d like to share:

Seasons change, circumstances evolve, roles come and go, but at the heart of it all, the actress donning all those hats exists rather statically. You—the player of all your roles—are an atomic unit, so to speak. You have your own identity, your own state of mind, free will, … and exist entirely separate from your roles.

Please, never confuse who you are with the roles you play.

Such detachment is the key to contentment, enlightenment and inner-peace.

No, I don’t mean eternal happiness; I mean contentment, enlightenment and inner-peace.

I haven’t done this in ages.

Judging from the relatively static appearance of this web site (emphaticallystatic.org, remember?), you’re probably under the incorrect assumption that things have stagnated under the hood as well. Perhaps this list of recent going-ons will change your mind. I’ve emphasised tasks that I’ve completed.

1. Made the “favicon” (the little icon in the URL bar) transparent.
2. Upgraded an ancient WordPress to something current.
3. Correspondingly upgraded all plugins and modified them to suit my needs.
4. Tuned caching to improve site responsiveness.
5. Prevented spam comments from messing too much with “most popular posts” calculations.
6. Cleaned up code to look-up the database less often, further improving site responsiveness.
7. Updated XHTML 1.0 Transitional pages to XHTML 1.1 pages.
8. Completely remove styling from XHTML pages; perhaps even images?
9. Clean up CSS and get it to validate.
10. Ran over source with Emacs to indent it better.

I normally stay clear of the yapping about current affairs on this journal because it gets in the way of the customary highly-self-centered content. But this article on the daily hits too close to home not to comment about: (American) Students struggle to get (Indian) visas.

The first (and currently only) comment on their web site sums things up nicely:

“What a cry-baby piece!

Given that the USA operates one of the nastiest and [most] unaccountable visa regimes it is hardly a surprise that other countries have taken to treating American citizens as the Americans treat them.”

This is it people; this is what I’ve been waiting for.

Not very different from that abused little kid who spends fifteen hours a day in front of the TV hoping to escape from it all, I’ve wiled away the past five years of my life in graduate school. Sure, I’ve learnt a thing or two, and have a few pieces of paper making my stay seem legit, but you and I both know it’s about time I stepped into the real world and faced it like a man. Or mouse—which seems more likely—but face it nonetheless.

I don’t intend on stalling under fear of the unknown anymore, nor do I intend on wasting my time on trivial pursuits. I am finally motivated, and I’ve formulated a plan; a real plan with a realistic timeline.

And I fully intend on carrying it through.

(I better get something useful done before this caffeine buzz wears off.)

Fuelled perhaps by events I’ve disclosed recently, I’ve been persuaded to “put myself out there” and “see more people,” before it’s “too late.” Sadly, this has been the source of some heartache, as I am a stranger to being turned down.

You see, I’ve always managed to avoid rejection, just like how I’ve always prevented my slaves from staging a violent and bloody uprising: not keeping slaves.

Perhaps I should be more discerning as to who I ask out. It’s just, though her beauty was only skin deep, being size 0, she seemed beautiful all the way through.

You know the conversation is taking a really wrong turn when your mother—somewhat formally—prefixes a discussion with, “And, on a more personal note… ” The queasiness that such an innocuous string of words can arouse in the pit of my tummy will be apparent to anyone who knows my situation as well as I do; for you see, you then know exactly what’s coming next.

It is quite customary where I come from, that, when one is regarded to be “of marriageable age,” their parents assist them in finding them a life partner. And by “assist,” I mean they force you into marrying whoever it is they deem “right” for you. Somewhat sneakily—and quite successfully—over the past half-decade, I’ve been evading this sensitive issue with my parents under the guise of being “entirely engrossed with my PhD work.” It’s not surprising in the least that you see right through the pretence, and soon figure out that this is merely a smokescreen to buy me some time; time to explore, experiment and mature enough to make up my own mind on such matters. But what is odd, is that my parents seemed to realise this is a blatant lie too, yet willingly played along with it.

Luckily for yours truly, his little fib provided them in turn with a watertight excuse when solicited by people whose only job seems to be disposing daughters they’ve grown tired of. The blanket excuse of their son being in school—doused in the connotation of his immaturity—almost made them seem earnest when they harped about how ready he was not, how his studying occupied him entirely, and even, how he’s just plain incapable of supporting their daughter at the moment. This made it incredibly simple for them to mercilessly decline any and all who approached; and not seem conceited.

This ensured life was good. As good as it could be, anyway.

And in this time, I’ve grown quite accustomed to my independence. Yes, I’ve fallen once or twice (or eight times), but for the most part I’ve gotten to do interesting, fun things for which I otherwise wouldn’t have had the opportunity. But, as you obviously realise, I still don’t have a lot figured out in my life. I don’t know what I want. I honestly don’t know what I am going to do, or where I am going to do it at. I don’t know what makes me happy; in fact, I am quite certain I am not emotionally, financially, or in any other regard, entirely capable of keeping myself satisfied, let alone another.

Given all that, and given the general state of confusion my life is in, I am not entirely certain this topic is appropriate to bring up any time soon, but with the PhD phase of my life coming to an end (hopefully), my beloved argument is failing to hold water. Today, I found out that my mother is not going to mass-decline any and all requests for her son’s hand, and furthermore, will gleefully proceed to do things in order to set me up. I’ve fought long and hard, but being that I don’t have the energy to fight anymore, or even explain things candidly, I put my arms up in the air and told her to go ahead and do whatever. As in, if someone comes up and keeps advertising their little girl to her, I asked her not to think about me and proceed to do whatever makes her happy.

As long as her measures don’t bind me to follow through in any way.

The following just a random collection of responses I’d scanned but didn’t use in the article:

I told you the article was complete a while ago, why are you still here?

Well, not really.

So I’ll leave you with one that was particularly useful.

Happy Whateveritisyoucelebrateordont!

This article has concluded, stop clicking!

… they loved me!

Some more than others, yes, but there was much love. And this wasn’t just in the open-ended questionnaires, the “objective” rating schemes hinted at the same thing too!

But, with the sycophantish nature of the exercise, was I really going to get tips to improve?

Oh, the nail-biting suspense builds!

… words thrown out of context.

The sheer number of students involved—well over 200—ensured a wide variety in points of view, and the artificial sense of anonymity they enjoyed resulted in a degree of candidness I was surprised to see; sometimes brutally so. It’s like they’d forgotten I’ve spent a dozen or so hours with them each week, and they’re really not nameless to me. Perhaps, their extremely-alike and hard to discern handwritings,

lured them into this fictitious sense of security. Oh, the poor, misguided young’uns. And, in case you’re wondering, GSI stands for Graduate Student Instructor.

Some of the responses were verbose,

while others were more wordy still,

some were terse,

a few, extremely so,

but the verdict was clear…

Another inopportune pause. Patience is a virtue.

… making sense of the cacophony.

Emanating merely from a fortuitous alignment of the stars—or an assiduously calculated scheme driven by my desperation to pay for grad school (one can never be too sure about this sort of thing)—I had, in the fall of 2006, a most fascinating and enjoyable experience helping teach a junior level material mechanics course: ME 382. The quasi-teacher’s hat that I’d just donned (apart from legitimising my absence from the lab) allowed me to interact with curious, eager young minds full of energy, and it was such a gratifying experience helping mould them in my little way.

(In actuality, the experience mostly involved walking the young’uns through their weekly homework and I was rather engulfed in its soul-destroying monotony, but this is my story and I intend on fully embellishing it. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you write your own story; one that’s filled with your precious facts.)

As is customary here at the university, toward the end of the semester, the students are given an opportunity to provide feedback on (and to) their instructors. Designed to help the teacher improve, this feedback is solicited in the form of a pseudo-objective poll and a more traditional questionnaire. Being that these evaluations were carried out a few months ago, and in the interim I’d moved on to other remarkably fun and stimulating tasks (there are a ton of those going around when you’re camped in graduate school), they had slipped my mind. That is, until I received an innocuous looking e-mail a short while earlier.

The importance placed on this feedback oozes from that last line.

“Who responds to these? I certainly don’t,” I muttered to myself as I began to tear open the large orange envelopes half-expecting them to be nearly empty. Much to my surprise, it turns out everyone responds to these things and don’t just treat filling them out as 15–20 minutes of freedom from their regular lecture. As I began reading through the copious brazen commentary, I decided it’d be a swell idea to offer the world a totally random (yeah, right) sample from this overwhelming pool. Why? I don’t know, I just did.

There is, however, the little matter of this:

Obviously, when questioned, I’m going to inform them that I didn’t know it was to be confidential even after I’d procured the envelope. And, with that out of the way, I think it’s high time we turned to the actual responses.

The amusement will proceed after this disruptive pause.

All the pretty girls I saw around town were walking around with the prettiest of flowers.

Ugly girls didn’t even deserve ugly flowers.

Then I became poorer.

Update: In case you were wondering, I believe that buying the lens will one day allow me to take candid portraits such as the following:

Because, you know, the scrumptiousness of a meal is purely determined by the pots and pans used.