The stars are beautiful in Norwalk. Although an urban area, there must not be as much light pollution (there are more trees here; maybe they block the light?) because the stars are noticeably more visible. OK: they would be of course better in the rural country, but just being able to see them is sufficient. In the city, I'm only able to see a gray mass in the sky, and so going home and actually being able to identify Orion and the Pleiades of Taurus is treat enough for me.
Friday night, in the hot tub, I saw a quick streak of light moving quicker than an airplane. It lasted about five seconds, then stopped. I want to believe it was a shooting star - the first I ever saw. It's plausible - it was moving much quicker and not blinking, unlike the other air traffic in the area. It also disappeared, perhaps as a meteor would, burning in the atmosphere, but perhaps it traveled behind an unseen cloud. To find out it was only a plane would be be depressing - I've never seen a shooting star and want this to be authentic! But because I can't check flightpath, I'll never know (the idea crossed my mind!). So there will always be lingering doubt. It's very religious, in a sense...I'll never know if "it" was true, I certainly want it to be, and hope it is.
Incidentally, I did make a wish, but I can't tell you what it is or it won't come true...
I'll be ending the blog for at least three weeks; school requires my fullest attention. It's been fulfilling to record additional thoughts, stories, and moments. Perhaps I'll continue over winter break.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
The Return to Atlanta
Atlanta airport's intra-course hallway features a collection of African art. I was walked through the exhbit this afternoon on my return from Norwalk rather than the tram because (1) I like the walk and (2) I need to work off that pie I've been shoveling the last two days.
As I rode past on the Jetsons-style moving sidewalks, I watched an elderly lady viewing a piece of art while her grandson (I'm assuming) played in back of the sculpture The art itself: some Zimbabwean had carved a marble man complete with marble buttocks in the back where the little boy way playing. While the grandmother was admiring the sculpture from the front, the little boy was in the back fingering the marble man's marble buttcrack, poking at his marble butthole!
That's some pretty fucked up shit. I looked around expecting shocks of horrors or at least disapproving frowns, ideally from a group of nuns. However, the hall was empty - no one saw but me. That's how these things always go.
Sadly, my butt-themed afternoon didn't end there. Upon my return to the house, I found 20% remainder of dried poop on my floor, evidently someone did a halfhearted job of cleaning up. I really hope it was dog-poop but my landlord's sloppy Irish relatives are visiting, so who knows.
More sadly, after I cleaned up the dog poop, I changed into my older sneakers, and instantly felt a cool wet sensation as I put them on my feet. Yes, the dog/drunk relative had also peed in my closet, over my sneakers and bag of dirty laundry. So: Laundry time! I don't know if it's OK to put sneakers in the laundry machine, but I did it anyway.
As I rode past on the Jetsons-style moving sidewalks, I watched an elderly lady viewing a piece of art while her grandson (I'm assuming) played in back of the sculpture The art itself: some Zimbabwean had carved a marble man complete with marble buttocks in the back where the little boy way playing. While the grandmother was admiring the sculpture from the front, the little boy was in the back fingering the marble man's marble buttcrack, poking at his marble butthole!
That's some pretty fucked up shit. I looked around expecting shocks of horrors or at least disapproving frowns, ideally from a group of nuns. However, the hall was empty - no one saw but me. That's how these things always go.
Sadly, my butt-themed afternoon didn't end there. Upon my return to the house, I found 20% remainder of dried poop on my floor, evidently someone did a halfhearted job of cleaning up. I really hope it was dog-poop but my landlord's sloppy Irish relatives are visiting, so who knows.
More sadly, after I cleaned up the dog poop, I changed into my older sneakers, and instantly felt a cool wet sensation as I put them on my feet. Yes, the dog/drunk relative had also peed in my closet, over my sneakers and bag of dirty laundry. So: Laundry time! I don't know if it's OK to put sneakers in the laundry machine, but I did it anyway.
Friday, November 23, 2007
A Many and Varied Family Tree
Our ancestors number like the stars in the sky, and the grains of sand on the beach...
We have two parents, four grandparents, either great-grandparents, etc. Continue backwards twenty generations and the level is*1 million* people across (Actually, 1,048,576). This is a mathematical fact, 2^20. Assuming each generation is thirty years, this coexistence of T.J.-generators occurred circa 1400 A.D.
I informed a girl friend a small region of medieval Europe existed solely to create her and that it was a lovelier product than any renaissance art. I give you permission to use that one if you want.
I envision this city of 1 million strong, going about, weaving cotton, escaping Black Death, coming together to produce me as some sort of civic project. It really does shrink the world.
Even more mind-blowing: On an educational adventure to The Fernbank Science Museum a month ago, I learned that mammals evolved from reptiles (specifically, "synapsids"). Creationists have enough problems with "Jesus was not a monkey"....but a lizard? It would make their head explode.
I find it fully plausible that humans evolved from an apelike ancestor, but I've always stopped there in my mind. I realized reading that diorama caption that I've never mentally gone further down the evolutionary history trail. We've been shown illustrations of tiny rodents scurrying around in the shadow of dinosaurs, but in childrens' books this is treated as if they sprung from the dirt. It makes sense we'd come from reptiles...what else is there?
The worst movie ever, Super Mario Brothers: The Movie, had it right. Humans evolved from dinosaurs.
We have two parents, four grandparents, either great-grandparents, etc. Continue backwards twenty generations and the level is*1 million* people across (Actually, 1,048,576). This is a mathematical fact, 2^20. Assuming each generation is thirty years, this coexistence of T.J.-generators occurred circa 1400 A.D.
I informed a girl friend a small region of medieval Europe existed solely to create her and that it was a lovelier product than any renaissance art. I give you permission to use that one if you want.
I envision this city of 1 million strong, going about, weaving cotton, escaping Black Death, coming together to produce me as some sort of civic project. It really does shrink the world.
Even more mind-blowing: On an educational adventure to The Fernbank Science Museum a month ago, I learned that mammals evolved from reptiles (specifically, "synapsids"). Creationists have enough problems with "Jesus was not a monkey"....but a lizard? It would make their head explode.
I find it fully plausible that humans evolved from an apelike ancestor, but I've always stopped there in my mind. I realized reading that diorama caption that I've never mentally gone further down the evolutionary history trail. We've been shown illustrations of tiny rodents scurrying around in the shadow of dinosaurs, but in childrens' books this is treated as if they sprung from the dirt. It makes sense we'd come from reptiles...what else is there?
The worst movie ever, Super Mario Brothers: The Movie, had it right. Humans evolved from dinosaurs.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Giving Thanks, 2007
This past year, 2007, was likely the worst year of my life, and today I'm asked to give pause and thanks for all that I have received, to recognize how blessed I am. It's like: Thank you sir, may I have another?
Yet I think about the first Thanksgiving, where the Pilgrim fathers were literally thankful just to have survived! Just living another year was cause for celebration.
I am surrounded by everyday conveniences the pilgrims would have considered miracles: grocery stores, central heat, and modern medicine. What was November 22nd, 1657 like for Norwalk's residents? They weren't watching the Macy'd Thanksgiving Day parade, shuffling to the Norwalk High-McMahon football game, or planning tomorrow's shopping spree. They were likely out in the cold, starving and hoping to come across a wild turkey just to be able to eat - nothing was promised to them that evening. Goodman Bettswood was likely stalking game on the very spot I'll sit down to eat my fattened bird, or which disposing of leftovers will be a problem (ha! That's our problem!...leftovers!). I'm not sure if my Bettswood image is accurate, but in my fantasy his hat has a buckle on it. "Pilgrim style".
Perhaps I'm naive for expecting a world where eighteen year-old brothers don't die, girlfriends don't dump you for matters superficial, money never creates a worry, and graduate school studies never get off-track. As bad as this year has been, it has certainty jerked me to reexamine my priorities. And that, perhaps more than anything, is what I should be thankful for. I'm twenty-six now, and the sooner the better I realize what is really important.
Yet I think about the first Thanksgiving, where the Pilgrim fathers were literally thankful just to have survived! Just living another year was cause for celebration.
I am surrounded by everyday conveniences the pilgrims would have considered miracles: grocery stores, central heat, and modern medicine. What was November 22nd, 1657 like for Norwalk's residents? They weren't watching the Macy'd Thanksgiving Day parade, shuffling to the Norwalk High-McMahon football game, or planning tomorrow's shopping spree. They were likely out in the cold, starving and hoping to come across a wild turkey just to be able to eat - nothing was promised to them that evening. Goodman Bettswood was likely stalking game on the very spot I'll sit down to eat my fattened bird, or which disposing of leftovers will be a problem (ha! That's our problem!...leftovers!). I'm not sure if my Bettswood image is accurate, but in my fantasy his hat has a buckle on it. "Pilgrim style".
Perhaps I'm naive for expecting a world where eighteen year-old brothers don't die, girlfriends don't dump you for matters superficial, money never creates a worry, and graduate school studies never get off-track. As bad as this year has been, it has certainty jerked me to reexamine my priorities. And that, perhaps more than anything, is what I should be thankful for. I'm twenty-six now, and the sooner the better I realize what is really important.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Bank Irony
I received a notification from Citibank this afternoon via the United States Postal Service altering me that my paper-less bank statement is available for viewing online.
Let me say that again: I got a letter, a snailmail letter, telling me that I could view my paper-less statement online...the service I requested to cut down on paper!
They might as well have just sent me the fuckin' statement...
My head hurts...
Let me say that again: I got a letter, a snailmail letter, telling me that I could view my paper-less statement online...the service I requested to cut down on paper!
They might as well have just sent me the fuckin' statement...
My head hurts...
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Breaking Rule 1: (Talking about "Fight Club")
Freshman year of college, my homosexual, sandal-and-sock-wearing English course classmate suggested I see Fight Club for an interesting discussion in modern male gender identity. It took eight years, but this morning I finally caught up to the movie.
It started out pretty rockin'. The last half of it was of this weird cult involvement, but I still have it four stars on Netflix.
I especially liked the commentary on how formulaic our lives have become. Go to college. Get a job. Get married. Buy Ikea. Drink Starbucks. None of this has anything to do with hunter gatherer instincts, as the movie points out. Fighting for the disconnected men was a way to reclaim something primal and basic.
Starting a fight club is only one solution; there are others. Much better would be Thoreau's suggestion to simplify our lives. If we no longer believe the advertiser's claim that we need "X", we won't need to work the extra hour required to generate additional wages sufficient to buy "X", and then we have reclaimed that hour's labor time in leisure. With that hour, then, Thoreau would suggest a walk in the woods, but there are other possibilities. Social interaction would be mine (and Epicurius's).
Maybe I was a bit drawn in, though. watching the fighting made me want to knock heads a bit. But my ideal was the safety of a wrestling mat. The movie ultimately made me realize I was a wimp. I'd pull every punch, afraid I'd break my hand. I'd quit as soon as my nose was broken. Could I pull out a tooth and then shrug it off?
I feel like such a momma's boy. But it's the timing: I'm home for holidays and I'm getting a babied-treatment I never had even when I lived here. It's not that I'm feminized: or am I rationalizing?
It started out pretty rockin'. The last half of it was of this weird cult involvement, but I still have it four stars on Netflix.
I especially liked the commentary on how formulaic our lives have become. Go to college. Get a job. Get married. Buy Ikea. Drink Starbucks. None of this has anything to do with hunter gatherer instincts, as the movie points out. Fighting for the disconnected men was a way to reclaim something primal and basic.
Starting a fight club is only one solution; there are others. Much better would be Thoreau's suggestion to simplify our lives. If we no longer believe the advertiser's claim that we need "X", we won't need to work the extra hour required to generate additional wages sufficient to buy "X", and then we have reclaimed that hour's labor time in leisure. With that hour, then, Thoreau would suggest a walk in the woods, but there are other possibilities. Social interaction would be mine (and Epicurius's).
Maybe I was a bit drawn in, though. watching the fighting made me want to knock heads a bit. But my ideal was the safety of a wrestling mat. The movie ultimately made me realize I was a wimp. I'd pull every punch, afraid I'd break my hand. I'd quit as soon as my nose was broken. Could I pull out a tooth and then shrug it off?
I feel like such a momma's boy. But it's the timing: I'm home for holidays and I'm getting a babied-treatment I never had even when I lived here. It's not that I'm feminized: or am I rationalizing?
Monday, November 19, 2007
Pareto's (Term Paper) Principle
Vilfredo Pareto observed that eighty percent of Italy's wealth was owned by twenty percent of the population. Various 80-20 regularities became umbrellaed under what is known as the Pareto Principle. Stew Leonard, Sr. applied business policy: when eighty percent of profits originates from twenty percent of your items, you should only sell those items. Tangentially, let me add that Pareto was a fascist and Stew Leonard was crooked tax cheat.
I can bang out the bulk of a term paper in one day, then I always spend a month tweaking it. This might supersede the Pareto Principle; I think it might actually be closer to a 90-10 ratio (90% of the time on the last 10% of the paper). As I rearrange paragraphs, and move a third page section to page five, suddenly page four doesn't make sense anymore. And so more rearranging is required as the composition dominios into non-chronological nonsense.
Returns are diminishing. I'm at the point of spending an entire afternoon to only accomplish a two paragraphs rewrite . But it has to be done; it's just a slow process to chisel raw conscious thought of the first day's effort into something can can be passed as a graduate school term paper.
Or it could be a matter of work filling time allotted. I should just put the paper down and print it out. Most likely the professor won't marvel at the beauty of my prose, just skim it and give me a B. But I wonder if one day I'll be forced to resurrect the paper, and I won't want to be embarrassed when someone else reads it more carefully - I alone have to answer for what I write.
Yet, there's always time to revise down the road; certainly I'll become a more mature, experienced writer. And so, as I think about getting my papers out to work over the Thanksgiving holiday, I'll be reluctant to give eighty percent of my vacation to something which is ultimately below twenty percent of my life's importance.
I can bang out the bulk of a term paper in one day, then I always spend a month tweaking it. This might supersede the Pareto Principle; I think it might actually be closer to a 90-10 ratio (90% of the time on the last 10% of the paper). As I rearrange paragraphs, and move a third page section to page five, suddenly page four doesn't make sense anymore. And so more rearranging is required as the composition dominios into non-chronological nonsense.
Returns are diminishing. I'm at the point of spending an entire afternoon to only accomplish a two paragraphs rewrite . But it has to be done; it's just a slow process to chisel raw conscious thought of the first day's effort into something can can be passed as a graduate school term paper.
Or it could be a matter of work filling time allotted. I should just put the paper down and print it out. Most likely the professor won't marvel at the beauty of my prose, just skim it and give me a B. But I wonder if one day I'll be forced to resurrect the paper, and I won't want to be embarrassed when someone else reads it more carefully - I alone have to answer for what I write.
Yet, there's always time to revise down the road; certainly I'll become a more mature, experienced writer. And so, as I think about getting my papers out to work over the Thanksgiving holiday, I'll be reluctant to give eighty percent of my vacation to something which is ultimately below twenty percent of my life's importance.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Blogging: A Fall First
...And I'm back, by the way. I promised I would be. Let's say yesterday through next Saturday. Unless time is Norwalk strips motivations so much that I don't bother to turn on the computer.
But enough of that, let me catch you up: when I left you it was 75 in Atlanta, tomorrow it will be 72. Not much has changed.
I had visions of having the dissertation drafted by now; I'm still working on ideas. Other professors are always floored to hear I don't have an advisor yet, who they say would help me develop an idea. The problem is I don't have an idea to approach them with - I wouldn't want to go into their office and just sort of stare at them. It's this tricky catch-22 that they haven't thought through: no professor, no idea; no idea, no professor.
I haven't been mugged yet in my neighborhood. But I'm walking home a new way to aid that.
UConn football is a Top 25 team this year; was a Bottom 25 most previous years. Eric is probably kicking himself for leaving.
But enough of that, let me catch you up: when I left you it was 75 in Atlanta, tomorrow it will be 72. Not much has changed.
I had visions of having the dissertation drafted by now; I'm still working on ideas. Other professors are always floored to hear I don't have an advisor yet, who they say would help me develop an idea. The problem is I don't have an idea to approach them with - I wouldn't want to go into their office and just sort of stare at them. It's this tricky catch-22 that they haven't thought through: no professor, no idea; no idea, no professor.
I haven't been mugged yet in my neighborhood. But I'm walking home a new way to aid that.
UConn football is a Top 25 team this year; was a Bottom 25 most previous years. Eric is probably kicking himself for leaving.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
A Family Visit and a City Explored
I love my Uncle Jim and Aunt Ann. They came down to visit today on the way to visit Jennifer in Florida. With them today a did bunch of things I might otherwise never would have:
-Your Nephew.
- Did the CNN Studio Tour - Total rip-off. It was the weekend and no live news was taking place. But at least I can now say I did it.
- Max Lager's American Grill & Brewery - I'm 26 years old and tonight is the first night I sat down at a bar. I felt so adult to "sit at the bar". They had Budweisers; I had a Coke.
- Ray's in the City seafood - The Parmesan-crusted scallops are excellent if you ever visit. The dinner was absolutely delicious. Uncle Jim confused mouthwash in the bathroom with hand soap and provided a continually humorous story for the course of the evening (and a minty-fresh smell). In his defense, why the hell was there mouthwash in the bathroom?
- Hilton Lounge - Provided beautiful views of the city. I asked for a hot chocolate. The waitress asked how old I was. I asked what type of hot chocolate she was serving me (actually, I needed to be 18 to enter the lounge). We talked about their taking me on my first and only casino trip, trips to Riverside (now Six Flags New England), mentioned memories with Scott (although this made me depressed at the loss, rather than joy in recalling a fond memory). Ultimately, it made me understand how important family is to me, how lucky I am to have people in my life so supportive and nonjudgmental (yes, we talked about Becca earlier that afternoon). A lovely end to an amazing day.
-Your Nephew.
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