It wouldn’t be fair if I completely ignored the today’s date now, would it?
All the facts
“But do you feel she’s pretty?” I push on, knowing fully well I can’t implicitly trust her answer. My mother has this odd way of rating the attractiveness of women, and someone who’s a 9 in her eyes is realistically more like a 6. But I chose to ask anyway, for I’d decided to let such details factor into my life’s decisions.
You see, as slowly as things have been progressing, they’ve generally evolved positively and I now have few job options on hand—spanning Europe and the United States. I’ve even received official word from the Homeland Security-types that I am not evil and can legally pursue employment in this country.
But even so, my life has been relatively stagnant. The sticking point seems to be nothing in particular other than me circumspectly dragging my feet—hoping to carefully evaluate the pros and cons of every one of these opportunities, so as to make the one true right decision™.
Incorrectly reading this to be depression-driven sluggishness, my mother occasionally tries to help out by stepping in and helping with an other entirely different problem—mate selection. Not wanting to really exert herself however, she sticks to her tiny, close-knit grapevine and attempts to casually bring up in passing conversation her friends’ nieces and daughters. And since my work search is rather wide, geographically, there are times when it snags one of these women as well. At which point I push her for details, for I am evil like that.
Hey, if you’re going through so much rigour to make the one true right decision™, you might as well work all the angles with all the facts, right?
Tones of grey
Everything seemed so much simpler and clearer as a child. I saw the world in crisp black and white, through a pair of naïvely-curious eyes. Almost everything made perfect sense, and the little that didn’t was ripe for enquiry. I believed I could clearly distinguish between what’s right and what’s not; that I had a clear basis from which to form opinions and make decisions.
But somewhere along the line, I grew up.
A cloud descended on this view making things murky. Replacing the stark black-and-whites were vistas now filled with magnificent tones of grey. The view now a lot more intricate, possessing a degree of sophistication I can now barely begin to appreciate, much less clearly make sense of.
I yearn for that simpler past. I really wish I knew where I was going, or at least, where I want to.
In God we trust
The obvious question: Do I even want to immigrate to this country?
Respectable whores
Through a sequence of events that aren’t particularly significant in themselves, I’ve been pondering the following question: Is a feminist stance in favour of prostitution feasible?
Some reading-up on the matter has unearthed what appears to be a fairly contentious debate (see, e.g., [1]).
In summary, “radical feminists have tended to see prostitution as the ‘absolute embodiment of male patriarchal privilege’ and have called for its outright rejection,” while “pro-sex feminists, often drawing on the writing of sex-workers themselves, see prostitution as a form of erotic labour whose conditions require scrutiny, but which is not inherently incompatible with a feminist stance.”
While I form my own opinions on the matter, I thought it’d be interesting to open-up this topic for discussion.
Suppose the woman enters the profession of her own free will, and is comfortable in separating her private life from her work. Suppose she retains sovereignty in conducting her sexual interactions. Suppose she deems it a viable form of employment—preferable to the low-paid and unsatisfying jobs she’s otherwise found herself in the past.
How far would you need to push such conditionals to become in favour? Or would you stay staunchly against regardless?
[1] “‘Tis Pity She’s a Whore,” Dee Amy-Chinn, Feminist Media Studies 6 (2): pp. 175–190.
For geeks and stalkers
This isn’t something I wanted to bring up on the journal, but I’m going to anyway because I’ve been starved for content.
My computer behaved splendidly for the better part of the last year-and-a-half. Through the many drops and liquid spills and exposures to frigid colds, it’s been my steady workhorse allowing me to get a lot of work done. With it, I’ve actually managed to wrap up my grad school research and compose my entire dissertation over numerous tireless nights.
But recently, it’s all been going awry.
A couple of months ago, shortly after the release of Leopard (Mac OS X 10.5), I installed it on my laptop replacing the venerable OS that preceded it, Tiger. And that, as far as I can tell, was the beginning of the end. You see, one of the hallmarks of my computer was how stable it was. No matter how much abuse it was put through, I could go without rebooting it for weeks, and every time I closed its lid amidst working on something tedious, it would cleanly suspend and resume to exactly how it was when I later opened the lid prepared to continue working.
That was the story with Tiger.
With Leopard, these uptimes dropped from weeks to hours, and suspend-and-resume was now about as pleasant as tugging in the wrong direction after getting a pube stuck on your foreskin. At one point, I became so paranoid about losing work that I stopped suspending it entirely. This might not seem like a big deal to some people, but it’s a huge deal for me, as I like to work when I want to work—not when my computer intends on cooperating with me.
But hey, its web-cam still works wonders!
There is a lot more to this story, which does get worse—like the primary programs I need for research don’t compile or work on it for esoteric reasons—but I shan’t bore you with the details. I’ll just leave you with my forced realisation that moving to Leopard was a dumb move.
That little town
In a little town far far away, I once tipped a waitress more than what my clique’s dinner cost me. Quite plainly, she really was breathtaking and I absolutely could not resist the urge to do so. Perhaps it was just my imagination running amok, but I believe my act elicited one of the warmest smiles I have ever seen. I don’t think I was alone in feeling that way, for the men in the group I was with for dinner kept insisting we return to the same table at the same restaurant three times that evening. And quite certainly, they couldn’t have been that famished.
But this was a long time ago. So why am I recounting the tale now?
Being the kind of person that I am, I rarely remember the specifics of any event, and instead only carry with me a vague notion of how the event made me feel. It’s experiences such as this that leave me feeling warm and fuzzy every time I think of that little town so far away. And, it’s perhaps why I’m actually looking forward to a research position that’s slowly coming my way.
I get to move to that little town.
The muddy waters
Ever since the end of December, I’ve done little but laze around the house—eating like a pig and catching up on months of lost TV time. The funny (or is it sad?) thing here is that all this wasting away is shamelessly occurring not at my own home, but at my Aunt’s.
Not having a job or a regular means of income, I’ve given up my apartment in Ann Arbor and moved bag and baggage to their home in a town nearby. I am not particularly pleased with this scenario, but I am not exactly perturbed by it either. At least, not perturbed enough to do very much about it. But, just so you don’t come to the conclusion that I’m completely hopeless, I have to let you know that I’ve sent out some (a couple of) letters of application to other bigwigs in the field, and I’ve also had the chance to meet one in person for quite a while as he was touring these parts. From what I can tell, it appears as though people in general are impressed by my credentials, and something ought to materialise soon enough.
It’s just, I’m still wrestling with my existential crises (as always), and I’m unable to firmly put my foot into any door; which isn’t much of a surprise given I’m not certain I want to enter any of the doors before me. Either way, to add to the generally muddled state of affairs, I’ve been seriously contemplating a couple of things. Firstly, I really do want to take a proper break from all of this. I know that my state right now could be easily confused with a break in itself, but it’s not what I would deem a proper break. To this end, I’ve been looking up the usual relaxation hot spots (I seem to be particularly fixated on Hawaii right now) and trying to plan something which ought to help clear my mind.
And secondly, even if my offers materialise sooner rather than later, I don’t want to begin my academic work right now. I want to spend some quality time away from all of this and do something real with my life.
Now, all I need to do is figure out just what that is.
The myth of normalcy
This might seem strange coming from someone who claims to be a scientist, but I’m fairly convinced that there is no such thing as objective reality. After numerous conversations with people around, I’m beginning to realise that everyone’s perception of reality is just that—it’s simply their own. No amount of arguing or attempts at homogenising their outlooks can change that; everybody just lives in the world they concoct for themselves.
Normalcy, morality, sanity, … are just figments of our imaginations. They’re illusions concocted by a dominant few who arrive at a vaguely consistent view of the world, and attempt to impose their perspectives on the masses.
I’ve been analysing some of my more-bitter tirades over these past weeks, and I now see what I’d been wrestling with: I don’t enjoy being told how I ought to perceive my life. I just want to be allowed to perceive my life.
Stars among us
Emerging from the south of my country, moreover so from a city and community rife with anti-Hindi sentiment, it’s not surprising that I hadn’t seen a single Hindi movie during the course of my entire life. All that changed a couple of days ago, when my kin dragged me along to a screening of Taare Zameen Par, a quaint little feature with a moving social message.
It’s because of this heartwarming message and the wonderful acting all across the board that I’m willing to overlook the fairytale ending, the needless random breakouts into song and dance, and the overly colour-saturated cinematography, to proclaim that it was a very moving and delightful experience; something which I had least expected.
I can heartily recommend this movie to anyone who’s curious about what Indian cinema has to offer (it screens here complete with well-written English subtitles) though I recognise that it isn’t even remotely representative of the standard fare, to anyone who knows someone with a learning disability or mental handicap, or to anyone who’s experienced a certain very third world mentality I try hard to rally against: That if you’re not the absolute best at what you do, be it anything from not scoring at the top of your class in an inconsequential test in first grade, to not earning the most amongst your peers upon completing your education, you’re an utter failure.
In summary, if you belong to any of those groups, please try it. You won’t be disappointed.
Crazy hippie talk
Why doesn’t he talk to us anymore? Does he no longer love us? Doesn’t he even care that we miss him?
A sad state of affairs this, but only over the past fortnight did I realise that writing on my journal had, for the most part, entirely substituted my need for actual conversations with real people.
My quarter-life crisis induced meandering coinciding with the Christmas holidays have resulted in me spending a lot of quality time with my family. The whole lot of us—my mom, brother and I, my cousins, uncle and aunt—have all been huddled together eating heartily, talking openly and having a blast shopping, gifting and re-gifting.
The whole affair has been intensely therapeutic for me, and while I still haven’t a clue about anything—professionally or personally—it doesn’t bother me nearly as much. It’s comforting to have people around who are understanding and supportive, be it whether you’re yearning for a heart-to-heart, or just a buddy to trounce in Mario Kart. Things have been so positive, in fact, that I’ve (after consultation with the doctor-like shrink) weaned myself off my medication. Moreover, I’m now relaxed, rejuvenated and itching to return to the sciences, math and other geeky pursuits. I’m not quite as concerned where I get to do it nor with whom, but the important thing in my mind is that I’ve realised being a geek is a fundamental aspect of my existence. It is not something that I can abandon under the guise of lusting after trivial pursuits. And believe me, in the lowest of my lows, I was quite settled on abandoning the sciences and other scholarly pursuits entirely, to quest for other avenues that might lead me to being happy.
There you have it. Things are going rather well, and I’m even contemplating a break from this break, to somewhere warm like Hawaii, before I get sucked into the rigmarole of the next stages of my life. Let’s wait and see.
So don’t you worry about me not caring enough about you to report-in here. I still love you all dearly, even if you’re the kinds who abscond for a couple of months only to re-emerge married to someone else.
To the future
I have a feeling that the next year will turn out better than the current one.
But that’s probably just because I can’t yet see how it could be any worse.
I know you’re glad that you’re not I.
Days of yore
Spending time with the family doesn’t just mean lengthy conversations about life, the universe and everything; it also means cooing over ancient pictures of tots!
What sustained you
now makes you weary.
I’m disappointed to report that the group funding my Cambridge gig has decided to pull their support, leaving me a “freshly”-minted doctor without a job. (Is there any other kind?) It’s not so much the science I am going to miss, as I am the opportunities to travel and meet new people.
As I’d expected, even prior to the arrival of this news, my mom had noticed my generally mopey behaviour and talked to me about it; repeatedly. After arguing about it for a while, I eventually said something along the lines of “I’ll start moping less when happier things transpire around me.”
Thankfully, my cheerless demeanour has little to fear from this incident.
Women don’t snore
Do they? [~276 KB, MP3]
Life becomes more amusing once you’ve reconciled to dying alone.