A Map to the Refrigerator

The Purpose of Education: Tangential To The Overarching Theme, But Worthy Of A Post

2010-05-07T16:52:00.002-05:00

I've repeatedly failed, over the last twenty minutes, to write a sufficient lead-in for the following quote. My excellent professor (Alexander Shashko, for the curious) for Black Music in America concluded the class with these comments. Simply transcribing them can never recreate the passion with which he discussed them, nor his commentary accompanying each point; I am certain, though, that a solid education in anything* uniquely affords experiences such as this class, and, in particular, this last lecture. (Hence, the ridiculous title above.)

Final Thoughts

Remember that history is about change, but also continuity.
Remember that progress is not inevitable.
Remember that music is not produced in isolation.
Remember the functionality of music.
Remember the impulses [of Black Music: blue, jazz, and gospel].
Listen broadly
Challenge notions of authenticity—all art is authentic at some level
Be part of the call
Share what you know

* Remember, it is required here to complete at least three Ethnic Studies credits, so this class was filled with freshmen to seniors, studying everything from Textile Design to Accounting.

The Purpose of Education: A Prologue

2010-04-25T00:28:00.002-05:00

Today I mentioned to someone that my sister decided to attend the University of Wisconsin - Stevens Point, likely to study Creative Writing. He asked, skeptically, "what does she want to do with that?"

As my undergraduate (and, perhaps, entire academic) career dashes toward its conclusion, I've found myself thinking more about the purpose of an education—of my education. This question today got those wheels turning in earnest.

It's something I know I need to write about: something I need to flesh out, if only for my own sake. But what I know now, without any doubt is this: an education is not simply a means to a goddamned end.

Eh-heh

2010-01-06T01:02:00.000-06:00

Katie's prodding has led to most of the recent (ha!) entries; this, I'm afraid is no different. Someday I'll learn, and then Katie, and Ma, and Pa, and everyone—everyone!—will be so proud of me. I'll then be able to look back on my experiences—the troubled beginnings, the slow realization that writing begets more writing, and the triumphant conclusion of a blog free of cobwebs and dust.

But today, Snickers are on my mind. You see, we have a salad bowl full of candy sitting out (I believe this is considered optimal usage of the bowl). It started by piling our Christmas stocking candy together, then adding bags of mini holiday Snickers (somehow smaller than the mini-size) and Nestle Holiday Chocolate Bells to the mix. Then, while looking for blue cellophane, Stu noticed that post-Christmas price on these mini holiday Snickers was sensationally low. So begins Snicker escalation.

I see it playing out as follows. One afternoon I'll surreptitiously slip a mini-size Snickers or two in the bowl. James will notice, and, not wanting to be outdone, will supply the bowl with an entire bag of the candies.

This, however, is not enough. He will then purchase two boxes of standard-size Snickers, and when the bowl of now-mini size Snickers has fallen to unacceptable levels, he will triumphantly rip open the box of normal Snickers and cackle while the contents of the bowl spill over—it was never meant to contain this many Snickers, and of such size!

But the dance is not done. For I have, in the meantime, anticipated this move, and obtain two boxes of King Size Snickers bars. Casting aside all notions of caution and sensibility, I add every Snicker I've got to the pile, which has long escaped the salad bowl, and is a veritable swimming pool of packaged chocolate, peanut, nougat, and caramel. James and I feast, and when Stu returns, we lie dazed, covered in chocolate flakes, on the floor. A chocolatey afterglow; we are finished (and likely close to death); the escalation has come to a sighing stop.

'Tis Beautiful

2009-10-03T22:02:00.002-05:00

I rejoice that we live in a world of boundless, infinite possibilities, one in which with Blake we can see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wildflower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour. I rejoice that the sacred scriptures of our faith portray a God who listens to prayer, who loves us and longs to lead us. I rejoice that my chosen line of work, mathematics, has enabled me to bring into being new things that did not exist before, and to greet with wonder and awe many amazing inventions of my fellow workers. I rejoice that daily we live immersed in infinity, that we have the freedom not only to make choices but at times to be the agent, by will or by grace, to sing to the Lord a new song.

Quoth Edward Nelson, a professor at Princeton, in a paper that Professor Ellenberg linked and excerpted this morning on his blog, Quomodocumque. I read the paper this morning before setting out to do some mathematics of my own, and that first paragraph really grabbed me.

On a semi-related note, I really need to pay Jordan a visit. We could talk math. Or baseball. I'm thinking the latter.

September Comes And Goes

2009-09-28T15:14:00.001-05:00

There are no more eighty degree days in the forecast, and the sky today has been equal parts sunshine and dull grey. It's been windy, and the crows and geese are all over the neighborhood, making an endless racket. The trees on the street are still green for the most part, but they look ready to change quite soon—and in certain places downtown, it is impossible to walk without crunching a leaf on every third step.

It's getting cold, but making a warm mug of coffee or tea, and opening some windows to let the cool breeze fly in inspires me to sit down and focus—be it on writing, mathematics, or what have you. On Sunday I drove with Kalie out to the country to visit my sister at the orchard where she works, and we picked apples, and drank fresh cider. I think we're going to pick pumpkins this weekend.

People complain about our winters, but man, I'll gladly take the snow, the ice, and the sleet if I have this season to throw open the windows, wear my favorite jeans, wool socks, and a sweater, and enjoy some piping hot chai.

Saturday Morning

2009-08-22T09:32:00.000-05:00

It is chilly for August in my (new) room this morning, with the windows open from last night, and a breeze entering through my two windows; and on waking up, I am reminded of Sundays spent in Janesville and Beloit during the autumn months of my high school years, where we played baseball in a small league established to take advantage of the best baseball weather the Midwest has to offer. Every Sunday brought another double-header, and between games we'd take a short break to picnic just outside the ball diamond with our families before playing a quick game of catch and taking the field once again.

These seasons had no playoffs, no tournaments, and they punctuated the beginning and the middle of football season. Thusly, we played the game with cheerful abandon, experimenting within the framework of baseball, and for the simple pleasure playing a beautiful game on a beautiful day. We'd try for tricky double-plays, dive for balls questionably in reach, try to stretch singles into doubles, and doubles into triples; we'd steal bases at every opportunity, squeeze in runners, and go up to the plate swinging away.

I wish there still existed such a thing for the world post-high school—even the high school league has been disbanded for a couple of years now for one reason or another. I've said before that baseball is meant to be played in the afternoons of mid-summer days, but thinking back to these games reminds me of an equally fine time to play, when Summer makes its slow exit, and Autumn's golden-brown sets in.

Perfection

2009-07-31T11:10:00.000-05:00

I started this post immediately after Mark Buehrle's perfect game, then had to put it aside while life took precedence. In the meantime, I saw an article (which I now predictably cannot find) that went significantly more in-depth than I had planned, but I still think this rough analysis gives even the most out-of-touch-with-baseball folk an idea of the sheer improbability of a perfect game. I'm currently waiting for a database at work to come back online (sigh), so I figure I'll finish this out.

First, we'll break the game down into at-bats for the other team, and assume that each at-bat is an independent event (the outcome of one has no effect on the outcomes of others). We'll also assume, very optimistically, that each batter has a batting average (BA) of .300, and an on-base percentage (OBP) of .400*. Setting aside fielding percentage entirely, the probability of holding 27 consecutive batters hitless is:

(.700)²⁷ = 6.57123624 × 10^-5 ≈ .0066%

And the probability of simply keeping those men off the basepaths, whether by hit, by walk, or by fielding error is:

(.600)²⁷ = 1.02349037 × 10^-6 ≈ .0001%

Again, this is a shamefully rough calculation. Batting averages and on-base percentages vary from player-to-player, pitchers tire over the course of the game, lowering the probability of getting subsequent batters out, and fielders make mistakes. A more accurate analysis would dampen the probability of getting each consecutive batter out based on the number of pitches thrown that inning, as well as pitches thrown that game, the number of outs made by fielders (batters are hitting the ball, just not to the right places), the probability of a walk, and some tiring coefficient, due to normal fatigue experienced when hurling a baseball at around 90 miles-per-hour. We would also want to, for each batter, factor in the probability of a fielding error conditioned on a ball hit to the field. And there are a zillion other things that could influence a given at-bat, so even that analysis would miss something.

I've been reading about Orel Hershiser, who used to say that he'd set out to throw a perfect game. If he gave up a walk, he was throwing a no-hitter. A hit? One-hit shutout. A run? That will be the only run. And so on, and so forth. It's the mentality any professional pitcher should have, and the fact that only eighteen in the history of major league baseball have seen the mentality of the first pitch to the final out is enough justification (though there is no shortage thereof) as to why baseball is the game of failure. Achieving true success—perfection—in baseball is no trivial task, and is a rare, beautiful, and precious thing.

* In 2009 to-date, the league BA is .261 and the league OBP is .332

From Lake Wobegon

2009-07-22T22:12:00.004-05:00

Every kid in the Midwest ought to grow up with a healthy diet of AM radio; healthy, as in major league baseball and A Prairie Home Companion. Baseball is best served on the radio, and the caliber of commentary by radio broadcasters far surpasses the tripe of the vast majority of television commentators, with the duo of John Miller and Joe Morgan being a rare exception. It's a shame that I cannot pick up 720 AM from my clock-radio in my bedroom, and I hope that moving away from central downtown solves this problem.

Baseball on the radio occupies a significant portion of my childhood memories, but that's a long discussion for another time (George F. Will talks of this a fair bit in Bunts, which I just finished, thoroughly enjoyed, and highly recommend to anyone who's ever seen a baseball). A Prairie Home Companion lays claim to fewer memories, but fond memories nonetheless.

For whatever reason, I associate with the show the cold nights of late October and November, at the dinner table eating my mother's chicken pot pie; and I associate the smack middle of summer, when school seems to have been out for a decade, and won't resume for a few more years at the least, after a day spent outside playing oddly-crafted games with our neighbors. Strange how memories organize themselves.

Of recent note, I was over at my friend—and brilliant math companion—Laura's house not too long ago when she offered to heat up some left over rhubarb pie (which was delicious, I should add). Immediately in my head was the jingle for the sponsor Be-Bop-A-Re-Bop Rhubarb Pie: One little thing can revive a guy, and that is a piece of rhubarb pie / Serve it up, nice and hot / Maybe things aren't as bad as you thought. Momma's little baby loves rhubarb rhubarb, Be-Bop-A-Re-Bop Rhubarb Pie. And every mention of Ketchup (or Catsup) reminds me of advertisements for "Catchup". These little side notes in my brain, and the appreciation thereof by people who remember listening to the show—and perhaps still listen—never fail to brighten my day.

Though I haven't listened to the whole show in years, the News From Lake Wobegon, my favorite segment, is available in podcast form, and so I've taken to listening to one every once in a while. Most recently, I heard the June 6th edition (iTunes Store link—it's free, download it) while at work, and the in the last few minutes, I found that I had stopped working to focus all of my attention on Garrison Keillor's words. They're always well-crafted, and always worth a good listen; those last few minutes, though (from 13:48 onward), had me, and I transcribed below the last 1:18, talking of recent high-school graduates looking to escape the monotony of Lake Wobegon for cities of strangers, like Los Angeles.

We wish them well on these summer nights in Lake Wobegon. The honeysuckles smell but all through town; the lilacs, the green grass, the sound of water sprinklers in the evening. We wish them all well, walking around town: young people, young lovers, holding hands, grabbing onto each other—they just have to touch each other, all the time. Email does not work for this; a chat box does not work—Facebook does not work, they want to hold onto each other. They want to…bury my face in your neck, and smell your hair, and hold your hand to my heart.

It's a treacherous world out there—so treacherous. Cliffs everywhere; danger everywhere. But we brave it—we brave it—if we can be with the one we love; and hang on, hang on, tight.

The Cities

2009-07-19T23:51:00.002-05:00

Driving back from Minneapolis, the sun behind me cast golden hues of a summer's evening on both sides of the highway, illuminating the rolling pastures and farms of Wisconsin's countryside. As the evening wore on and shadows across the highway crept longer, the sky turned first a deep blue, and then a soft lavender canopy with an orange sunset just on the horizon. The air was sweet and thick with those wonderful and indescribable summer scents—and the occasional draft of cow shit: simply a sign that I was returning home. If there ever was a golden day of summer, today was that day.

It was a fitting closing to a fantastic weekend, beginning with Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and continuing with a Saturday morning drive to the Twin Cities to visit one of my best friends and meet her roommate, with whom I knew I'd get along as soon as I saw her tattoo: an ampersand on her foot. Typography brings people together. We made a delicious pasta dish, listened to all sorts of music, and had both memorable and hilarious conversations. I gained a much greater appreciation for that city, with its old buildings and neighborhoods, its interesting eateries and shops, and its incredible radio station, The Current.

I wish I could have spent another day there, or perhaps another week. A little over a day will have to suffice, however, and so I can only look forward to the next time I visit. Calvin and Hobbes tend to say it best: "If good things lasted forever, would we appreciate how precious they are?"

Sometimes you win

2009-07-14T12:00:00.003-05:00

In the words of Ebby Calvin "Nuke" LaLoosh, A good friend of mine used to say, "This is a very simple game. You throw the ball, you catch the ball, you hit the ball. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains." Think about that for a while.

Sometimes, though, it feels like a little more than a win. Maybe, sometimes, you get shut-out through six innings, facing an agonizingly slow fastball and a curveball that just…slows a bit more, and spins slowly into the mitt. Maybe you come up to bat down by four in the seventh, only to score a run on a fielder's choice, then load the bases, and have your catcher—0-3 by this point—punish a ball over the scoreboard in left-center for the go-ahead grand slam. And maybe sometimes—sometimes—your ace walks back up to the hill in the bottom of the seventh and puts his weary arm to the task of fanning the side to win the game.

On Bunts

2009-07-09T22:53:00.000-05:00

I've been steadily reading through George F. Will's Bunts, a compilation of articles on baseball, and I've had an immensely difficult time placing my bookmark and stepping off the bus for work in the morning. The book is simply too enjoyable—after all, what better way to spend a morning than by reading philosophy on the designated hitter, astro-turf, "stadiums" vs. "ballparks", and the Chicago Cubs' depressingly perpetual gift for losing? Short of playing baseball, or at the very least, sitting at the ballpark watching a game, a bag of sunflower seeds close by, the answer is: not much.

Goodbye, June

2009-06-30T21:27:00.001-05:00

I've been meaning to write something—anything—for a while now, but then Katie prodded me earlier today, so here we are.

Though, in my defense, the fact that it is summer would hopefully lead me away from my computer screen, to the outdoors, or to my living room, accompanied by a book. "Somewhere else," generally, feels better after a day spent working at a screen. A movie screen, despite technically being a screen, is a good alternative, too, especially when at movies like Up or Away We Go, both of which I very much enjoyed.

Baseball's been going well. We've improved considerably over the past few games, and if we can continue to score runs as we have in our past few games, I think we've got a legitimate shot at making the final playoff round at the end of July. Having said that, and being overly superstitious, I encourage you to knock on the nearest piece of wood. We can't take too many chances.

Superstition aside, it's been a fun season so far. I've transitioned more or less smoothly to center field, and as of yesterday I started to hit the ball with some sort of authority. Now begins the task of redeeming myself for my many, many feeble strikeouts and grounders from the first half of the season.

There's not much more to say. I've been able to ride my bicycle a fair bit, though still not as often nor as far as I'd like. Work is steady, and Thursday will mark the end of the first half of the internship. It's been interesting, and if nothing else, I can say that my appreciation for the difficulty of table tennis has never been higher.

After a Victory

2009-06-15T22:11:00.003-05:00

Baseball means what those of us who hold it in our hearts need it to mean. It can be a pastime, or it can be something by which we measure the seasons of our lives, or it can be something that serves metaphorically for the battles, the triumphs, and the tragedies of any form of human content. I prefer it to be a game—and I think, more than anything else, it tells me that there’s something in the world that I can count on—and it’s never going to let me down. If there is a magic in baseball, I’m sure that’s what it is.

Ken Burns, from Baseball

Chains of Days

2009-06-13T18:37:00.000-05:00

Summer simply glides* along, and somehow it's mid-June. I ran into a friend on the sidewalk a little while ago, and we came to this conclusion after spending a few minutes determining whether it was last Thursday or the Thursday before that when we last ran into each other. It was last Thursday, for the record.

We've played three games so far, unfortunately with only one win to our name, but I can think of no better way to wind down the day than with seven innings of honest baseball. We line up for catch and shout bad jokes back and forth before the game, then pick up a bat and take some swings before the first pitch. The game's underway, and every struggle and success for the next seven innings is somehow contained in the ballpark, set aside from any sort of reality. It's absolutely perfect, and I wish I could do it justice.

I've been enamored with Neko Case's music for the past few months, and yet only recently stumbled upon the genius of her song At Last. It's almost a shame that it's so short; then again, I suppose it's just as long as it needs to be.

I can say that I've lived here in honor and danger
But I'm just an animal and cannot explain a life

Down this chain of days
I wished to stay among my people
Relation now means nothing
Having chosen so defined

And if death should smell my breathing
As it passes beneath my window
Let it lead me trembling, trembling

I own every bell that tolls me

* In David Copperfield one of my favorite chapters, if not my most favorite, XVIII. A Retrospect, begins, "My schooldays! The silent gliding on of my existence—the unseen, unfelt progress of my life—from childhood up to youth!" and I think that "gliding" describes it so, so well.

Open Windows

2009-05-30T15:12:00.003-05:00

I spent the majority of my second week of summer working to finish up a project for the Brazen Dropouts, which entailed sitting at my desk, writing code for most of the week. But it is summer, and summer entails open windows, which brings a nice breeze, or the sound of cars driving over wet roads, or the thumping of obnoxious cars playing bad music louder than necessary (although I did hear a couple great songs blasting from the intersection below: selections from Aerosmith, Third Eye Blind, and classic Green Day being the most notable). Summer brings baseball, too, and I watched baseball, talked baseball, held a baseball, and in two days I'll once again be playing baseball. I rode my bike as much as I'd like, and my Farmer's Tan is looking quite nice.

I've been reading Great Expectations again, and I've been noting my favorite passages. Here's one of them.

I walked away at a good pace, thinking it was easier to go than I had supposed it would be, and reflecting that it would never have done to have an old shoe thrown after the coach, in sight of all the High-street. I whistled and made nothing of going. But the village was very peaceful and quiet, and the light mists were solemnly rising, as if to show me the world, and I had been so innocent and little there, and all beyond was so unknown and great, that in a moment with a strong heave and sob I broke into tears. It was by the finger-post at the end of the village, and I laid my hand upon it, and said 'Good-bye, O my dear, dear friend!'

Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are the rain upon the blinding dust of the earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle. If I had cried before, I should have had Joe with me then.

Up Street and Down

2009-05-20T22:22:00.000-05:00

One truth in Wisconsin is that when the pleasant weather and stiff lake breezes of late Spring roll into town, so too do numerous contingents of construction companies, urban planners, and lawn care companies to inconvenience an entire city for a grueling four months.

The downtown area is in shambles, and is seemingly covered in dust and sand. Take a drive from the Capitol building down Gorham and onto University and you'll see road construction limiting four lanes to two, apartment complexes rising beside state-of-the-art laboratory facilities, and utility work down Randall and Charter, all in the span of less than five miles. An observatory and the drive on which it sits are both under heavy construction until August, and I wouldn't be surprised if, one day, I were to happen upon some maniac with a jackhammer defiling the streets and sidewalks on a whim.

Although, when I was twelve(ish), construction on a main county highway adjacent to our street made for great entertainment over the summer. The intersection of the highway and our street closed, and since our street is the first connecting street between this highway and another main county highway—and despite several signs indicating road closure ahead—it caused all sorts of problems for drivers attempting to cross over. One day my sister and I witnessed a school bus driving up one side of the street, and after a minute or so, saw the bus driver casually pilot the vehicle in reverse back down the hill to find another route. I could tell the same story for countless other drivers, as well. I wonder if they missed the signs…

And as the summer wore on, travelers became accustomed to finding other roads to get between these two highways, and this made it possible, for the only time in our lives, to play in streets with virtually no consequences. This made for some incredible wiffle ball games, as well as street-long matches of Capture the Flag, Hide And Go Seek, and all sorts of invented games that took advantage of the utter lack of cars on the road.

So, to some, at a certain age, construction is a blessing. To me, faced with a harrowing commute to work tomorrow, it is—well, I do not enjoy it at all.

5.13.2009

2009-05-13T12:52:00.002-05:00

A couple quick bits for the road. I need a break between working and studying.

For no particular reason, I remembered last night something I used to do fairly often when I was a kid. I owned a lot of stuffed animals—enough, at least, for me to think that by piling them up under my sheets and curling myself around them, I could lie undetected, disguised against the blob of stuffed animals. I'm laughing to myself now, because there is absolutely no way I fooled anyone, and I have to give my parents credit for humoring me and pretending to not know where I was.

My friend Bess sent me a link to a This American Life episode, which at the very end features Tobias Wolff reading the aforementioned Bullet in the Brain. It's worth the thirteen-minutes it runs, despite minor censorship of a few unfavorable words. One of my favorite parts of my Creative Writing course was hearing other students read their own work, because there always seemed to be interesting discrepancies in how it sounded in my head versus how they read it out loud.

Briefly

2009-05-07T08:34:00.001-05:00

Yesterday started out ordinarily enough. Up early for work, a shower, some oatmeal, a good—no, great—deal of coffee, then off to my beloved basement. Even so, a handful of emails, a nice lunch meeting with a friend just back from a semester in Italy, a great phone call, and a brief respite from studying by way of the annual Housing bowling event made the day quite special, and reminded me just how damn good I have it.

From Bullet in the Brain

2009-04-23T22:08:00.003-05:00

Following what I last wrote, Laura sent me a link to Tobias Wolff's excellent Bullet in the Brain—which, as I had forgotten, was part of the literature for my Introductory Creative Writing course during the Spring of 2007.

In short, a man named Anders is shot in the head during a bank robbery, and we see a glimpse of the life he has lived as the bullet whips through his skull. I particularly love the last paragraph.

The bullet is already in the brain; it won’t be outrun forever, or charmed to a halt. In the end it will do its work and leave the troubled skull behind, dragging its comet’s tail of memory and hope and talent and love into the marble hall of commerce. That can’t be helped. But for now Anders can still make time. Time for the shadows to lengthen on the grass, time for the tethered dog to bark at the flying ball, time for the boy in right field to smack his sweat-blackened mitt and softly chant, They is, they is, they is.

Tuesday Thoughts

2009-04-21T22:46:00.003-05:00

I raced my bicycle on both days of this past weekend. Two races, two crashes—and yet I would chalk it up as one of the better weekends of 2009 to-date.

I woke early on Saturday morning after a few hours of restless sleep and made the trip to Greenbush, WI with Jessie, Brian, and Tyler. I must note that I really have come to enjoy car trips of this nature. The drives to and from North Carolina over the past two years were considerably longer, but on both occasions we listened to great music and had great conversation the entire way; and our comparatively short trip on Saturday deviated little from that standard.

On arrival, I registered, dressed, and sat ready at the Start line. The race then started and—for me—abruptly ended twenty or so minutes later when I locked my front wheel with another rider's skewer/rear derailleur, crashed, and flatted my front tire. I hitched a ride back with a cyclist from Milwaukee who coincidentally knows one of my best friends from high school. After cleaning up my scrapes and changing out of my cycling garb, I enjoyed the rest of the day getting sunburned and watching the rest of the races.

Sunday brought cool weather and cloudy skies, but I headed to the Capitol Square nonetheless to ride in that day's criterium. From what I recall, the race went fairly uneventfully. I managed to crash going around a corner about two-thirds of the way through, but was able to get up and finish the race. Consequently, though, my front wheel is quite out of true, and I have yet to inspect anything else.

I'm glad I decided to race, though I have to admit that after the short-lived race on Saturday, I questioned my decision to partake in what seemed like such a pointless sport at the time. However, road rash and scrapes will heal. It was a good weekend.

Cycling aside, baseball has been on my mind in ever-increasing quantities as of late, as is usual when the days about which I last wrote roll around*. Many of my favorite memories took place on a baseball diamond.

Fort Atkinson, WI is home to, perhaps, the most beautiful ballpark in Wisconsin. There's an old wooden grandstand directly behind home plate, and on either foul line, bleachers sit close to the dugouts. There are no fences beyond the foul-lines, and not a hundred feet from the Left Field foul line, a local family—who later comes into the story—sits in lawn chairs watching, in my memory, every game played.

The infield is beautiful. Through some connection, the city is able to use the same dirt mixture used in Major League ballparks, and they keep it in pristine condition. It feels brash and criminally wrong to sully the freshly-dragged infield dirt, or to step on a newly-chalked foul line.

The outfield fares just as well, with smartly-clipped grass and a sturdy fence marking the end of the park. Lights shoot up from the wall in four places, and a standard scoreboard sits in the left-center Power Alley.

I think back to playing Left Field here when I was nearly fifteen. Several families and other spectators sit underneath massive oak trees just beyond the foul line. One family in particular was notorious for heckling anyone in Left Field, and so for much of the game, I endured comments about my mother, my poor eyesight, my poor judgment, and my lousy team.

This is baseball as it should be. Played in the afternoons and early evenings during the heart of the summer months, with spectators ambling up to the fence with a beer in one hand and a hot dog in the other; and with the local families who sit under big oak trees to enjoy lazy summer afternoons and to heckle the opposing Left Fielder.

* Though at least for today and yesterday, the cruel mistress Wisconsin had the last laugh.

Blue Skies

2009-04-15T19:08:00.002-05:00

Despite the occasional wind and the chilly mornings, the past two days have reminded me that we endure the seemingly endless winter months so that the coming of Spring is doubly refreshing. It's a tradeoff I'm willing to make for gems like today, where I have my bedroom window open—yes, to the sound of rush-hour traffic, but the outside air feels fresh—after returning from the park, where I just spent the last hour or so throwing the frisbee and the baseball around with a good friend.

I am done with exams until finals week, which implicitly means that finals are closer than I'd like, and the results of my most recent exams could very well amplify this sense of impending doom. Until I see the results, though, I'm going to put those worries out of my mind, and enjoy this pleasant evening quiet.

We return once more

2009-04-05T10:36:00.001-05:00

Faster than I would have liked, the brief respite from exams has passed, and the second round draws inescapably close. I am sure I wouldn't be so apprehensive if it didn't seem as though my professors conspired to make this coming Tuesday as trying as possible—two seventy-five minute exams and a skit performance in the span of five hours seems rather harsh, especially with the ordinary demands of school unyielding.

But, for better or for worse, by four o'clock on Tuesday, I will have but one true exam [French exams are more "quests," as my high-school Algebra teacher Mr. Nelson used to say (a meeting halfway between a quiz and a test)]* before the hell of finals. This gap, as I calculated yesterday in an impressively long streak of procrastination, comes to be roughly fifty-five class hours—seventy-five, if I suddenly feel compelled to attend my Economics discussion. And now that I return to the figure, a handful of cancelled classes will reduce this number to around fifty. The end is almost close enough to taste.

* This doubly nested parenthetical inspired by one lovely peanut.

The Final Days

2009-03-27T23:33:00.001-05:00

My time to write dwindled as break wore on, and so I write now to summarize the final four days of break as accurately and in as much detail as my jotted notes and shaky memory will allow.

Tuesday

The famed Jolly Trolley departed the NOC on Tuesday, and wove its way to Stecoah Gap, where we lingered at 3,165 feet above sea-level before descending down for the trek home.

I am sad to say that this year's Jolly Trolley could not match the jolliness of last year's—but really, what can? Songs were still sung, and mountains were again scaled. Despite two near-accidents, we all returned safe and sound, and so I officially label the ride a success.

Wednesday

Cherohala Skyway beckoned and we answered the call. By various paths, all sixty-two of us wound our way up the thirteen mile climb, lingered for at least few moments and then made our descent back down in weather not nearly as unpleasant as last year.

I found my rhythm alongside Jason and we made remarkable time up the mountain—though not without our fair share of pain. There isn't much to say about the descent. I wore too much clothing, anticipating much colder temperatures and sweat a great deal.

At night, we drove into Bryson City to feast at Guayabitos Mexican restaurant and to swap stories of the day. I cannot recount what transpired afterward—to do so would be to dishonor all that is sacred about UW Cycling, and would break the strong bonds of trust formed during a week of hardship and snacking. I am no fool.

All Else

Thursday passed quietly, designated for many as a day of rest and study, and Friday had us driving to Blue Ridge Parkway where some riders set out to tackle a grueling century, while others—including myself— set out to wear ridiculous cycling garb and ride for a little over an hour before packing the bike up for the remainder of the trip.

We then left the NOC for Madison early Saturday morning and made remarkable enough time through Tennessee, Kentucky, and Indiana to stop in Chicago for a delicious meal and still make it back before nine.

In the days prior to this break, I felt the same sense of apprehension as I did last year around the same time. I thought that my lack of riding through the winter months would handicap me relative to other riders, and most of my riding companions from last year were knee-deep in life post-graduation. I had some more personal misgivings, too, that I feared would turn the trip from a fun jaunt in the mountains to a week of uncomfortable situations—but I am happy to say that this was not at all the case. Even in the rain, I enjoyed my time on the bike and forged new acquaintances, and my quiet fears were entirely unfounded.

It was a nice break, but I am now subject once again to the merciless toil of school and everything else.

Second Day*

2009-03-17T15:20:00.000-05:00

I suddenly remember the utility of training for Spring Break, by way of my tender underside. Too graphic, perhaps, for the casual reader, but it is a remark that must be made.

I am sitting in my bedroom right now, listening to the rowdiest of our three cabins prematurely celebrating St. Patrick's Day—one consequence of an inescapably large climb on Wednesday. My legs are tired, more so than yesterday, after our ride today proved to be an exercise in false hopes and poorly-given directions.

We set out to undertake a moderate climb to the entrance to an old fire road, named "711" (seven-eleven), which we would ascend, briefly descend, and then descend down a better-paved road winding down the mountain. Unfortunately, the directions we followed failed to mention one crucial turn, which led us to first climb the mountain, then climb the other side of 711, and finally descend down a twisting, largely unpaved stretch which we had intended to climb from the outset.

Rain fell occasionally during the ride, but hardest during our final stretch down Highway 19 on the way back to the cabin. Nevertheless, and despite leg fatigue much greater than anticipated, we adopted a strong pace through the pelting rain and made it back in a timely fashion to shower and devour a late lunch.

Tomorrow will be a relaxed ride: the original Jolly Trolley, which will make its merry way along fifty miles of rolling hills and only a couple of short climbs; and will see our group singing songs and enjoying the forecasted 68°F sunny weather. I hear that the weather in Wisconsin has trumped our dismal days here—but it would appear the tables have turned.

* Written on the sixteenth of March.

First Day*

2009-03-16T18:34:00.001-05:00

Although yesterday was technically my first day here, a harrowing drive through the steady rain and fog during the earliest of hours, compounded with little sleep over the last twenty-four, saw my Saturday spent napping, eating, and mingling. And so I woke this morning right around sunrise, ate breakfast with my fellow cyclists, and embarked on the Junaluska ride.

It certainly could have been worse; and in retrospect, the toughest mountain to climb my own trepidation regarding riding up mountain and down: a four-month break from the bike does nothing to instill self-confidence.

But ride I did. We began in the drizzle, and set about navigating the now-familiar eight-mile stretch of rolling hills which lead to numerous routes commonly took by the club. Upon reaching the gas station, I felt as though my legs were jelly and my lungs iron. Unable to procure a passable excuse for turning around, I continued onward.

Amazingly, the ensuing descent bolstered my confidence, and steadied my legs, and I was able to navigate to the base of Junaluska, and stick more or less with the pack for all but the two large climbs, which exposed my lack of fitness all too well. And when the day was done, we returned wet and tired, took hot showers, and ate greasy food at a café down the road, while we checked our emails, and worked on our homework.

I plan to retire for the evening soon, but I was able to start Hard-Boiled Wonderland And The End Of The World—which, despite possessing an odd plot, has thus far entertained me—and had some nice conversations with a handful of people regarding math, post-modern literature and art, sculpting, and cycling—to name but a few topics.

Written on the fifteenth of March.

Partitions of Unity*

2009-03-11T23:38:00.005-05:00

As promised to the ever-wonderful—and temporarily-Brazillian—Katie, tonight I pick up my pen of zeroes and ones to write of majesty and wonder—and embellishment of claims, as I do not think I'll write of either, nor did I have any intention of writing of such things from my first keystroke down to the following period. In fact, I am presently asking myself about what should I write?, and I do not hear a reply.

As a matter of fact, I have a digital Sticky Note of topics about which I'd like to write in my other workspace on my laptop. I am sad to say that this post does not originate from one of my several jotted ideas. During a time of greater leisure, I intend to write more than necessary, perhaps, about each and every topic.

But these are busy times. In my immediate future, a trip to North Carolina** looms. In my recent past, a hurricane of work rages, and a seemingly perpetual state of movement displaces my sense of time. Has it been ten days since I last wrote? Do not ask me.

* This title originates from the topic we've just started in Analysis, which will pave the way, in part, to Stokes's Theorem. The topic itself is fascinating, but its utility as a band name is also remarkable.

** The same trip as last year, though different in unfathomable ways. I'll be forced to tote my laptop this time; perhaps I'll share the experience as it happens.

Odd Reports

2009-03-01T23:17:00.002-06:00

I suppose I should apologize for the unsightly math that, up until this point, graced—or cursed, I suppose—the top of the page. Rumors indicate that the frightening juxtaposition of those two theorems caused a few hemorrhaging eye-sockets, one brain aneurysm, and a great deal of scorn for my thoughtlessness and apparent free-time during the mornings prior to my exams. Of course, these rumors could be entirely unfounded, but there's no harm in caution. What follows should at least serve as a buffer between you and the evil statements below.

The past week's flurry of exams made for limited sleep, intense studying, and numerous coffee binges; occasionally spread throughout the day. Fortunately, there will only be two more comparable weeks, one of which is the week of final exams, and the other being the second gamut of midterms. I feel satisfied with my most recent exams, though; and I feel satisfied with the effort I gave in preparing for the exams. If I manage to scrape together some decent grades, all the better.

I've got it down.

2009-02-24T08:26:00.010-06:00

I have three exams today, and for Analysis, there's a possibility we'll have to recite either the Inverse Function Theorem or the Implicit Function Theorem.

Inverse Function Theorem

Suppose f is continuously differentiable over U, some subset of Rⁿ, for f: Rⁿ → Rⁿ. Also suppose that, for some a in E, f'(a) is invertible, and that b = f(a). Then:

There exist U, V open in Rⁿ such that a is in U, b is in V, f is one-to-one on U, and f(U) = V
If g = f^-1(V) = f^-1(f(U)), then g is continuously differentiable over V

Implicit Function Theorem

Suppose that for f:R^n + m → Rⁿ, and for E an open subset of R^n + m, f is continuously differentiable over E. Suppose also that for some (a, b) in E, f(a, b) = 0. Let A = f'(a, b) = (A_x A_y), and assume that A_x is invertible.

Then there exist U in R^n + m, and W in R^m, both of which are open, so that (a, b) is in R^n + m, and b is in R^m. In fact, for every y in W, there exists a unique x such that f(x, y) = 0.

If we let this x = g(y), then f(g(y), y) = 0, g:W → Rⁿ is continuously differentiable, and g'(b) = -A_x^-1 · A_y.

Weekend Wonderings

2009-02-15T23:26:00.000-06:00

As has become habit while mulling over (mathematical) morsels upstairs, I turn my mind to other matters. This weekend — and I'm a little surprised I hadn't considered this sort of thing before — I thought it would be interesting to measure a couple of things:

The first two relate to coffee: how much time will I have passed in a coffee shop when I have gone as far as my education will take me (for the sake of optimism, let's suppose I end up completing a PhD), and, more generally, how many gallons of coffee (and tea — I love chai) will I have consumed by this point?

When I first posed this question to myself, I tried to make a few rough extrapolative estimates, using my current affinity for coffee and my average number of trips to Espresso Royale as guides, but I quickly lost my mental sense of scale, and I haven't yet put forth the energy into punching a few buttons on my calculator.

I can tell you, though, that the numbers will be quite large, indeed. Embarrassingly so, you might say.

The third and final quantity in which I am interested is the number of reams of plain white paper I'll have used for scratch. Unless I know precisely what I am doing — and believe me, at this point, such an occurrence is rare — I tend to use at least one side of a sheet per problem. I tend to toss one or two sheets per assignment before I am through, and I rarely use pencil, because it often turns out that a once-crossed out result is actually pretty close to the mark, whereas an erased result is lost forever.

Of course, there are other considerations here, too. If I make it to graduate school, there's a decent chance I'll have a blackboard or a whiteboard to my name, at least in-part, in which case much of my scratch will end up on the wall, with a large "DNE" not too far away.

Haircuts and things

2009-02-10T19:08:00.000-06:00

I got a haircut

Truth. First I was all :D, but then I was all :/. The world did not end, but it came close to ending. I take with me the knowledge that a relative measure of my hair — specifically, "one-half of my current length" — is meaningless to the lady holding the clippers.

I thought I was going to write more, but I simply cannot.

Twenty-five

2009-01-31T12:15:00.001-06:00

I was recently tagged in a Facebook Note by my friend Vanessa to do this, so here we are. Random* facts now.

I talk to myself constantly when I'm alone, and usually in different accents.
If I had more time, and the wherewithal to buy a nice TV, a PlayStation 3, and an Xbox 360, I'd play all sorts of videogames.
I have a favorite pen: the Pentel R.S.V.P. BK90 Fine-tipped black pen. I used one of these puppies at work once and it was like a whole new world. I sketch out all of my proofs using these.
I'd like to retire — presumably with my wife — to the English countryside, with an enormous library of books, a fireplace, a large yard, and a beautiful kitchen.
Again, if I had a whole bunch of time on my hands, I'd like to learn how to play the piano.
I have Snoopy & Woodstock-themed flannel bed sheets.
I write all of the posts on this blog in hand-coded HTML because Blogger uses ridiculous styling methods with its WYSIWIG editor. I'm also a pedant.
I'd trade just about anything to play baseball for the Chicago Cubs.
I consider Bull Durham to be the best sports movie ever created.
I love taking showers.
I can't swim very well, and gave up on lessons once my sister's friends trickled into my skill-level at the local YMCA.
I've never sold back a textbook to the bookstore, although now that I've sort of given up on undergraduate Economics, I'd like to clear some space on my bookshelf by selling off my intro- and intermediate-level textbooks.
I'm mildly afraid of heights.
I still love playing around with LEGOs, especially the part where I build a bunch of spaceships.
In the course of writing this — which, predictably, took longer than one sitting — I've been tagged by Sam Hoymeistersteinson.
Playing around with last names and nicknames is something I rather enjoy. Much like Rob Schneider on Saturday Night Live
I've never seen any American Pie movies.
Kneading dough makes me happy, as does baking in general. But kneading dough makes me feel badass.
I have an unhealthy interest in typography.
Raising my sister and I without cable television was, in retrospect, probably the best decision my parents ever made. It sure sucked at the time, though.
When I was in third grade, I wrote in an assignment for school that said if I couldn't be a professional baseball player, I wanted to be a Mathematician. Prophetic? The next year will tell.
Despite loving nearly every facet of Madison, after nearly sixteen years of living here, I'm ready to move elsewhere.
As Sam noted, I am not a fan of hipsters. You've got to make a good impression if you harbor hipster inclinations.
My favorite coffee mug is one I purchased in Oxford, and it has the shields and founding dates of all of the Oxford colleges across it.
Although I rarely have time to listen, I love the AM radio shows A Prairie Home Companion and The Nick Digilio Show

As for taggings, Sam has already crafted one of these, but I'd love to see one from Katie, Steph, and the Jew, perhaps. Actually, anyone who reads this blog should feel compelled, and then they should comment with a link. A link, I say!

* "Random" is a bit of a misnomer, as truly random facts would be forcefully taken from my brain out of the entire pool of "facts about Brian." This is ridiculous, and a more apt title would be "Twenty-five facts about myself that bubbled to the top of my head, and were considered interesting enough to publish on the internet." But that would be no fun, and too long.

Long walks on the cold, hard sidewalk

2009-01-30T22:19:00.002-06:00

What surprised me most when I first joined the cycling club during the first few weeks of my freshman year — and still surprises me, really — is the multitude of members who started commuting by bike (in addition to the usual throw-on-the-spandex-and-bolt riding) not because they want to perpetually savor the thrill of pedaling, but because they hate the prospect of walking. I simply don't understand this aversion.

Very willingly will I trade the speed of a pedaled commute for the opportunity to think during a nice, long walk.

On my walk home tonight — from the skating rink, so a longer walk than usual — I had a lot of time to think. About dinner, and after-dinner, and my day, and the past week, which was unusual in too many ways. I mulled over some math problems that were, and still are, in my head, and I thought about how much — and how subtly — the persistent construction in Madison has changed the campus, even in my short tenure here. I thought about dinner again, actually.

Despite all of that, I mostly thought about nothing. The traffic din and the cold helped, I think, to just move my mind's focus from everything to nothing.

Golly, I'm tired.

In which I discuss macsturbation

2009-01-23T23:26:00.001-06:00

I went to an iPhone Development Workshop the other day — Wednesday, to be precise — to learn about how educational departments might utilize the iPhone, and to see the tools used to develop iPhone applications. It was interesting. I have a write-up in the works* that I'll send to my boss. And I got to skip class.

Subsequently, though, I tweeted my disdain with the so-called "macsturbation" I witnessed. Definition**:

mac·stur·ba·tion: 1. overstimulation while using a Macintosh computer as caused by excessive use of Exposé and Spaces, especially during a presentation, lecture, or otherwise organized event.; 2. gently stroking an Apple product in an affectionate manner.; 3. discussing the latest Apple products with unnecessary fervor with another Apple admirer.; 4. actually masturbating over a Macintosh computer.

A quick Google search would indicate that I have not minted this term in general — although I don't think I had ever seen it before I uttered it for the first time to my programming partner last semester; I figured it was too easy a wordplay to be overlooked, however — but I do think I'm the first to use it as described in the first definition (the other three I threw in so the definition wouldn't appear weak — (co)incidentally, these three are all in use on the greater Internet).

The term first came to me as I sat bored in my Data Structures class last semester, watching a fellow student a couple of rows down Cmd-Tabbing, Exposé-ing, Quicksilver-searching, and Space-switching in between the following programs, in the order of how often I anecdotally recall him using: Google, Gmail, Yahoo Stocks, Google Reader, Flash Games, Microsoft Word (to take notes, presumably), Google Calendar, and Eclipse IDE. As an aside, and specifically in retrospect, I'm curious as to why he'd use Yahoo as his source for financial information when he's clearly got at least two feet in Google's camp. Anyway.

I will say, I'm quite impressed that he consistently used this machine-gun approach to laptop use during every seventy-five minute lecture that I can recall, for the entire seventy-five minutes. I never heard him speak one word. He wore a sleeveless shirt under his coat on one of the coldest days of the year. Oh, Computer Science.

But to go back to the iPhone Development seminar, I saw at least ten similarly-minded people who, through the entire two-and-a-half hour workshop, were zipping from blogs to NetNewsWire to Mail to Adium and then back to the blogs, where they'd read a sentence or two, and then jet off to another window.

As I said in my tweet, I'm a Mac-user. I have so many great things to say about my MacBook, and so many exclusive applications I love for my share of computer-based hobbies and jobs, that I'll likely have to write a separate post to pay my libations. I use Exposé to swiftly switch windows, and while Spotlight has its fair share of problems, it takes at most ten keystrokes to find a file or application that isn't already in my Dock. These are the features that I miss most when I use Windows (although there are undoubtedly Windows applications I could use to achieve the same functionality — but it wouldn't be the same).

So why the disdain? I find it ridiculous that this sort of computer use actually makes sense to people — the fact that they're Mac users is likely coincidence, but macsturbation has a ring that personal-computerbation will never have. When I'm developing on my laptop, sure, I flip windows pretty frequently between my text-editor and browser, with a splash of FTP client, MySQL client and Version Control client thrown in as needed. But to focus simultaneously on a lecture, a game, a feed reader, email, and stock prices is ludicrous. Hmph.

* I should note that, at the time of writing the first paragraph, I was sitting in pajamas, killing time by writing until I could hop in the shower. Well, I didn't get back to it until now, after work, and the write-up is done. For the sake of the post, this is probably irrelevant, and I kind of regret making note of it, but here we are.

** I realize that this is technically a poor definition, since it combines verbs and nouns. I guess I can live with myself, so I hope you'll forgive me

Small Spaces

2009-01-19T17:42:00.004-06:00

Last night I ate dinner with my folks and a couple of our family friends over at their beautiful Arboretum home. While I sat on the couch listening to the conversation and half-watching the football game, I spied this fascinating little book called Living in Small Spaces and spent much of the evening paging through it, enthralled.

Given my intended educational track, I'll be living in "small spaces" for the next decade or so, and yet the ingenuity required to live comfortably in such a space makes me think again about ever buying a larger-than-average home*. It's akin to the phrase "brevity is the soul of wit" — if you only have so much space to put your shit, you've got to figure out how to store it intelligently. A small home (or apartment) also lends itself, perhaps counter-intuitively, to entertaining; parties, gatherings, and soirée's ought to bring people together, and a large room only encourages wall-polarity.

* As a kid, I used to tape about six sheets of white construction paper together, and lay out a rough blueprint of my future "house," which generally had at least two swimming pools, a baseball stadium, a McDonald's, a theme-park, a mall, and a bedroom or two. I also usually drew in Great White Sharks circling the premises, hidden in the depths of my moat.

Quietly Gearing Up

2009-01-18T21:23:00.002-06:00

Over the past couple of days I've slowly come to the realization that class does, in fact, start on Tuesday and that I've done little to prepare as such, outside of buying books (which I actually just finished doing mere minutes ago).

If I was asked to rate this break, I'd probably make some sort of snorting noise and counter-ask what sort of fool rates breaks. Really. If I was asked to talk about how I felt about this recent break, I'd probably understate it and say "it was pretty okay."

This break was interesting, really. I read voraciously — something I always mean to do, but never take the time — and I worked much less than I could have so that I might have time to enjoy myself. In those respects, it was unlike any other break I've had since starting university, and consequently, where I was once burned-out, I'm refreshed and ready for classes to kick back into gear.

Get Off My Lawn

2009-01-12T17:53:00.004-06:00

So I saw Gran Torino last night with Jamie and Stu (woo, future roommates!). I won't say anything about it, as just about everything noteworthy I could say would spoil the movie for others, but I do highly recommend it. A fair warning for my asian friends such as Katie: while there are a lot of racial slurs in the movie, most of them are directed at asians, so if that's not your bag, stay as far away as possible: Clint Eastwood held very few punches.

Update: To expand on the above, I should say that very rarely — say, in a handful of scenes — is the usage due to anything more than Walt being an old-timer, and a Korean War veteran at that. I suppose you could say it's "light-hearted," but I will not speak for others.

Anyway, a week from now, you'll find me packing my backpack once more for the start of second semester. I have what I think is a pretty nice assortment of classes:

Math 522 - Analysis II
Math 542 - Abstract Algebra II
French 101 - Bonjour! (Not actually the class name, but why not?)
Econ 450 - Wages & the Labor Market

Unfortunately, a new semester brings with it new textbooks, which, as of now, will likely deplete a good portion of the money I've made by working over the recess. But, such is the price of knowledge, I suppose. Even so, I can't help but feel just a little miffed when my French workbook costs $170. I'm being robbed.

Pip!

2009-01-07T21:28:00.005-06:00

Just short of three weeks to the day on which I began, I've finished Great Expectations. Before I write anything else, I'm compelled to tip my cap to Everyman's Library editions of novels. If, twenty years down the stretch (when, presumably, I've struck it rich), I could re-purchase every book in my possession as an item in this collection, I'd do it in a second. My library would ooze class, and I'd ride around on my ladder with wheels affixed to the tops of my bookshelves, laughing with the laugh of a man who just bought an absurd number of finely-bound hardcover books.

But getting back to Dickens, I'm making quite an understatement when I say that I enjoyed this book wholly — from beginning to end, I never found myself stagnating in the middle of a page, waiting for something to happen, for some paragraph to grab me back into the novel, as I occasionally did in David Copperfield (although I will say that Copperfield is my favorite of the two). I remember learning in high school that, in The Great Gatsby (which has a great typo-twin, The Great Hatsby), F. Scott Fitzgerald strove to write the perfect paragraph — he came damn close at the very end, I'd say, but in Great Expectations, I found myself on several occasions re-reading a single paragraph, feeling as I did when reading the closing of Gatsby. But even with those outliers aside, the writing kept me, the reader, along at an even pace.

Parting with the characters was bittersweet: on the one hand, I was happy for Pip, who had found his place in life, and for Joe and Biddy who had found happiness together; but on the other, I was sad to leave the characters — much like finishing The Deathly Hallows or Lord of the Rings was like losing most of my friends. Every great novel, leaves the reader with that inkling of sadness that the tale is told. For my purposes, anyway, this is a good rubric to have on-hand.

Anyway, I think that's all I'll say for now. Next up is Norwegian Wood. This will mark the second time I've followed Dickens with a Murakami story. My life is nothing but one big thrill ride, I know.

Nothing For It

2009-01-06T16:13:00.000-06:00

Being sick, I mean.

It set it Friday evening in a matter of hours: at work I was fine, at my lease-signing I had a few sniffles, and by ten that night I had those weird lower-back sensations, where you feel a combination of stiffness and general restlessness, a sore throat, a light fever, and a headache. Saturday was not a whole lot better. Only on Sunday did my drastic increase in tea-intake start to shine through, and yesterday and today I only have the remnants of my weekend symptoms.

All was not lost, though. Being at my parents' house, I had little to do but read, and as such, I'm maybe forty pages away from concluding Great Expectations, and am very much caught up on local happenings and various comics' story lines. I reaffirmed that the one cat genuinely fears for her life when I'm in earshot, too, and that the other has absolutely no regard for privacy of any sort. Although I really can't blame him — if I were a cat, I'd be curious about the shower, too.

A Map to the...wait, what?

2009-01-02T17:50:00.004-06:00

There you have it, folks: the namesake of this blog. Rather, I should say, this blog's reincarnate, as I wrote a [lesser] blog A Map to the Refrigerator during high-school, oh-so-many years ago.

But where to begin? The phrase is overused, but I'd say it's appropriate given the introductory nature of this post, at least thus far (I could just blow off on tangents later on…you just wait!). I suppose I'll begin with a little history — seems like a logical place to start.

History!

I've written things on the internet since Xanga first came about. I hopped over to Blogger for while, undoubtedly had a LiveJournal at one point, have blogged on my own domain, had another domain which was attacked by Turkish ePirates, and most recently took a break because I couldn't find a rhythm.

So what's this?

Well, I'm not sure just yet. Lately I've had the itch to just write. You know, just for the hell of it. To use words that I don't ordinarily get to use, such as betimes which is, in my opinion, a nice alternative to early, on occasion. Perhaps I'll talk about the books I'm reading, or the neat things I'm learning about in my Math classes, or the fun that will be researching graduate schools.

Whatever it turns out to be, which is likely nothing consequential, I'm going to write for myself. My most egregious error in my most recent efforts has been writing as though I'm writing for something else. Along with the phrase "where to begin?," this is an overused sentiment ("I'm going to just lose weight/live/fight/eat crackers for myself and not anyone else!,") but in this case, the outcome won't be some sort of triumphant overcoming of adversity for my own improvement, but rather a departure from any sort of academic writing for my own enjoyment.

And, hopefully, yours.