I just returned home from the top of the hills to glorious sunshine, a gorgeous blue sky and just a few remnants of melty snow.
Do I pack first, or go over what I want to say during my exercise talk? It’s too late for both tonight; I’ll deal with packing in the morn.
I’m going to be spending the next few days in a place called Voksenåsen for a workshop on how to communicate research.
Oh no, my first class was cancelled. Oh well, time to get back to one of the hundred other things I need to do.
Her unborn sister
In the midst of a heart-to-heart, Cecille’s mother broke down and sobbingly admitted to her that she’d aborted Cecille’s unborn baby sister when Cecille was still a young girl. Now a grown woman, Cecille responded in the only way she knew fit — offer her mother some solace and quietly grieve the loss of a sister she never had.
Meanwhile, her sombre and supportive façade served to mask the only thought running through her head — I wish it were me instead.
It has to go up from there, right? (Besides, what do I have to lose?)
I haven’t ever made an investment, but if the DJI dips below 5000, I think I have to put a sizeable portion of my savings into the market!
I start my Norwegian classes in a few days. Perhaps I can soon go the nearby store and not look like a complete idiot. I have PhDs damn it!
If you’re looking to establish a research lab, the smartest thing you can do is to put up a whiteboard on every wall.
It’s kinda hard to write when you spend every waking moment of your days playing Elite Beat Agents. Agents are go!
Oil and water
It’s not too complicated to explain really, at the heart of things it’s just that I’m a lazy bum. Almost anything of significance, be it work-related or personal, requires a fair amount of effort on one’s part to create and sustain. Effort that I am not willing to put in—hence the lovely state of my life. But that’s old news, except that it isn’t.
Of late, I’ve seriously been contemplating one grand scheme after the next to stop working within a year (or so). I’ve “been working” now for what—six months?—since I completed my schooling and I’ve come to the conclusion that another year or so ought to do it for me. Really, I’m done with the whole “being a professional” scene and it’s about time I got back to what’s important: Lounging on a hammock somewhere sipping something.
It’s within this context that I wrote to my father hoping to rope him into my plans (or at least, inform my parents of my intentions).
Appa,
I have a basic question: Realistically, how much money should I save if I want to live (let’s assume in India, since it is cheaper to do so) for the rest of my life without working?
I don’t care about living fancily, I just want to live without responsibility. I want to be able to spend all my time doing whatever I want.
Me
Usually, my parents always get back to me instantly—like they’re perpetually waiting to talk to me. But it’s been a couple of weeks since I sent this, and I haven’t heard back from them. I’m sure my folks are sitting somewhere aghast, unable to fathom why their son is “throwing his life away on a whim.”
The truth is, I’ve been drifting away from them ever since I left home to pursue my studies. Even though I talk to them once every ten days or so, I almost do it perfunctorily. And it’s always they who initiate the conversation, never I. It’s like the more independent I’ve become over the years, the less I’ve deemed their utility. I know it’s a mean thing to say, but I’ve been self-reliant for so long, I don’t see the point in talking to them any more. I do respect and appreciate what they’ve done for me (while lamenting about how ineffectual their contributions often are); it’s just that over time, our lives have diverged.
In fact, I don’t even know why I wrote to my dad about my plans. I didn’t write to him for his advice on what I needed to do to achieve a life of doing nothing, I wrote to him for approval. Come to think of it, do I even care anymore?
Answering the question “Do you speak Norwegian?” with a “Not yet.” instead of a “No.” makes people a lot happier. Social engineering rocks!
I just stepped out of my first-ever Chinese film viewing experience. It was surprisingly beautiful.
As much as I enjoy taking an hour out of my day to help them up slopes, folks on wheelchairs oughtn’t to be outside right after it’s snowed.
Love sings
(When it transcends the bad things.)
I’ve come to believe there are essentially two kinds of people in this world: Ones whose first semi-serious relationship blossoms in to a continuous, positive influence in their lives, and the rest of us. Decades may pass since these first encounters, but I’m beginning to think that those whose fledgling first loves end up crashing and burning are forever doomed to wonder what-if, unable to appreciate what they have in their hands, nor able to look hopefully into the future. Scarier still, I think this only gets worse with time.
The trouble, you see, seems to stem from the fact that most memories—especially emotionally-charged ones—are infinitely malleable. They morph steadily as the days pass, seamlessly melding-in elements of fantasy and threads of what you once wished things were. Before long, they’ve ballooned to an unrealistic standard no future relationship can ever live up to, leaving one forever unfulfilled and unhappy.
While it’s quite depressing to think about things like this, the conclusions I have reached are nothing profound. It’s quite apparent that the gap between fantasy and reality in the public consciousness has been steadily growing over the years. What exacerbates the problem for me personally is that I don’t tend to fall for geeks. Sweet-sounding singers, expressive painters and petite pastry chefs maybe, but never the geek. And the more specialised I’ve become over the years, the less likely it’s become I meet anyone but. Which makes it hard not to reminisce about times when the pool was more eclectic.