actuality.log

With work taking up more and more of my time of late, I’m finding it exceedingly hard to concentrate on other things—including writing. However, being the brave soul that I am, I’ve decided to force myself to try this evening.

I have some good and some bad news to share, and I’m going to begin with the bad news.

Over the past week, I’ve been a victim of several counts of credit-card fraud, which has resulted in me losing around $1000 to the ether. What’s worse, this soon escalated to more of an identity-theft when random services I did not request for started showing up at my door—like that bright orange box with the Vonage phone registered to akgbc99dbq3 I stumbled over as I returned home from work yesterday. I am still in the midst of sorting out this crisis, though no one need worry; most of my money has been retrieved, and everybody I’ve spoken to has been very helpful.

I do have to deal with getting by without one of my cards for a few weeks though; it is being replaced with a newer—hopefully more secure—one.

Another scary happening—also stemming from cyber-space—was a serious-sounding letter I received from my ISP accusing me of some evil activity. I nearly cracked under the presumption that their stern notice was a precursor to some sort of lawsuit. You see, when you’re a poor student, whether or not you’re innocent won’t matter in court. You’re never going to be able to afford that fancy lawyer. Anyway, it’s been some time since this happened, and since nothing’s come of it, I’m going to assume it was some sort of cruel prank; and slowly step away.

Now, on to the good news.

After being ensured funding for a couple of years to pursue my post-doctoral research work at Cambridge, I went ahead and formally accepted the offer. I plan to finish-up my work here late Fall this year, and begin my life there early next year. I must say I am extremely excited, as the work promises to be fun and is right up my alley, and what little I’ve experienced of Cambridge in my travels has been wonderful. In general, the atmosphere is just so much more scholarly than here. And scholarly is good.

I think it will be a pleasant change to go somewhere else and do something different for the next few years of my life—before I have to pause and take stock of where my life is once more.

The prestigious nature of it all, the thought of being able to speak and write in real English again, the grand plans of using the U.K. as a base to launch many travels around Europe… everything excites me tremendously. But even so, amidst the goosebumpey skin, a part of me can’t help but wish for a completely different life path. One that’s firmly rooted in the familiarity of the same place for eternity. One where I’d never have to leave, abandoning love.

I know I’ve not been saying very much lately, but things have been going on.

For instance—over coffee earlier this morning—I was offered a research position at Cambridge. Not Cambridge, Mass, the University of Cambridge, UK.

Perhaps I will start pondering interesting things over there sometime early next year. Perhaps.

The software that I use to maintain this journal has a feature that supposedly allows some entries to be labeled as “private,” hiding them behind a password.

Somehow, using something like this seems to me to be defeating the very purpose of this journal’s existence. But at the same time, not using something like it makes me feel thoroughly exposed, making it hard for me to say some things I really want to; defeating the purpose of this journal, yet again.

You lose some, you lose some.

I’m so confused, but I’m contemplating trying it out. I plan to mark certain entries as private—probably revealing a tiny blurb letting everyone know what they’re about. And then, if someone’s really curious to know more, they can ask me. I’ll grant you access if I am OK with you reading the entry. Otherwise, tough.

What do you do in such situations?

It turns out, like most people, I’m hyper-sensitive to rejection. So when I was turned down, not once, but twice (thrice, if you count another minor sub-story) for something as innocuous as lunch, I began to panic, hyper-ventilate, and seriously doubt my abilities as a human being.

You know, standard fare.

Yes, the rational part of me could vaguely grasp the notion that she genuinely might be too busy to hang out—or whatever it is her excuse was—but as always, that logic was soon drowned by the emotionally-underdeveloped side which just had to make it all about me. All about my inadequacies… ones that ensured I wasn’t even enjoyable enough to grab a bite with.

Given how innocuous the whole affair was, I didn’t know this would get to me so much. But it did. Usually, I’m left to myself thinking, “If I do make a move right now, something will definitely happen. Nothing’s happening only because I choose to do nothing.” But incidents like these seem to tell a different tale: Nothing’s going to happen even if I make a move; for I am who I am.

I really wanted to write about something entirely different today, but I suppose this is what has been playing prominently on my mind all day. The thoughts returned when I ran into her at a time when she said we couldn’t meet.

She looked haggard and was rushing between arduous tasks—tired and spent. It turns out she really was insanely occupied after all. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself so I can go to sleep now.

Good night.

Often times, I wonder why we’re so reluctant to casually float down the stream of life. Why we’re so insistent on struggling against the current, lusting after bits of algae glued to rocks on the stream’s bed. We believe we know how delicious these morsels are, but all we have to go by is what we see from above the water’s glistening surface. Are we sure the grubs here are so much more gratifying than the ones downstream?

It’s sadder still to realise how territorial we are, squawking grotesquely as we wrestle to stake our claim on places we can’t hold; for the stream forever flows.

Panic becomes apparent.

Is that something new?

There is this kid from my part of the world who entered graduate school here at the same time as I did. He’s from my home town in fact, and I got to know him in my first few weeks here. We kept running into each other in the corridors of the department as we were out begging for financial support. You know, to stay in graduate school, now that we’d entered it.

I don’t usually get to talk to him very much because we lead entirely disparate lives, but I ran into him during a seminar this morning and we decided to meet a little later in the afternoon. To chat about things.

By now, you ought to be able to guess what happened next.

As is all the rage these days, he informed me he was getting married in a couple of months.

But in a strange twist of fate, this news didn’t even remotely bother me. Instead, I listened patiently as he described the situation to me in some detail.

He’d been introduced to her last August by his parents. And by introduced, I mean provided an e-mail address. He’d then proceeded to get in touch, and over the course of the e-mails, and pictures, decided by December that “She was the one.” At this point they were e-engaged, or something. He then flew down over in March (yes, like few weeks ago), got to meet her in person and “Got engaged for real.” He’ll fly back in a couple of months and “Marry her for real.”

He then went on to talk a bit about her. Her name. Where she was studying. About how she had no professional plans of her own, so she could leave at a moment’s notice and follow him anywhere his work took him. How she was “more than adequate.” You know, standard things.

Under normal circumstances, when the “Did I tell you I’m getting married?” spiel begins to drop, I break down into this hysterical mess of sappiness and fail to listen to the real story. But this time, having calmly listened to the entire tale, I have to say I am not distressed. In fact, I almost feel sorry for the guy.

It was pitiful when he began trying to convince me how e-mail and a web-cam are a valid substitute for the real thing.

It was most pitiful when I noted that it wasn’t me he was trying to convince, it was himself.

(I know your heart must’ve skipped a beat when you read the title of this post. I know, admit it!)

Yes, I could have loaded the dishwasher and forgotten to turn it on.
No, I didn’t “Not turn it on to spite you.” Perhaps I’m just scatterbrained?

One thing that women—including moms—don’t understand is that it’s not always about something specific. And more importantly, it’s not always about them. Another person could just like or dislike or love or hate or whatever them purely independent of who they are as a person. Really, they can.

I don’t have reasons for feeling a certain way, or not, toward anyone. I just do. That’s why they’re called feelings and if they were as rational as thoughts, then I’d have clear, valid reasons. Don’t you think?

I wish the world would let me be. Let me feel like I want to feel, whatever that might mean. I just want to feel unconstricted. I don’t want another’s life intimately tied to my emotions or thoughts or decisions; that’s just too much pressure. Is that so wrong?

I feel backed into a corner. I feel trapped and choked. There, I said it.

It’s hilarious (actually, it’s not at all) how I’ve even become so troubled about saying anything here for fear of who I would inadvertently hurt. Between the stalkers, friends, relatives, lovers, exs… it becomes too hard to actually form, let alone express, a real sentiment. I long for a time when this was an untethered forum, where I could speak my mind. Where I could yell and scream and curse and no one would know.

Who am I kidding? I long for a time when I wouldn’t need to yell or scream or curse.

I’ve spent most of this weekend glued to the computer. Unfortunately for you, this does not mean I made the time to write something interesting down here. Here is what went on instead.

Starting with little more than the following drawing,

I’ve initiated a process of bringing my work web-site out of the dark ages.

Clicking the image above will take you to an evolving site where I test different elements which frequent my work web-site. The plan is to make sure it looks presentable in recent browsers before I migrate the older content over.

I think I’ve captured the essence of the original site quite nicely. What do you feel?

Wearing black makes you look slim. If you’re thin.

Toward the onset of fall, I take an unnatural delight in the stark change of fashion; a change which ushers in everything from the stylish wool turtlenecks, to the provocatively form-hugging hoodies. I believe the grounds for this titillation stems from how much fall and winter wear leave to the imagination.

The less you see, the easier it is to fill in the blanks with dreamy morsels.

But then, six-to-eight months roll by and fantasising doesn’t cut it anymore.

Boy am I glad it’s getting warmer.

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.