A request.
For all those who would like to know how my thesis is "coming along": Thank you, I really do appreciate your concern, but please, do try and refrain from asking. Distilling the past five years of my academic/professional life into a single, roughly-300-page document is a long, tedious, and --- more often than not --- incredibly frustrating exercise. When I'm finally done and satisfied with it, I'll let you know --- with the utmost joy. Until then, if I'm in a social situation with you, I'm most probably seeking escape from the drudgery for just a little while, and talking or thinking about it is the last thing that I would want.
The brilliant Jorge Cham captures the feeling perfectly, here.
Thank you. :)
Monday, October 29, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Wish I DID have some daylight in my savings account
Er... just when, exactly, did it start getting dark so early? I could have sworn that, just last week, it was still light outside up until almost dinner time (7:30-ish). Now it's pitch-black by 6. And it seems like this only just happened in the past two days. Did the Earth just jump? Did *all* the clocks in the world, and not just my computers, automatically fall back to regular time when my back was turned? Should I be pointing fingers at gremlins (if I could see one at which to point a finger!)? Am I losing my mind?
Zoom-zoom
*God*, that was fun.
Needed to get out of the house and away from my computer and the day-in, day-out monotony of thesis writing. So took my car out, just now, and slung it around all the little back-roads of my neighbourhood for a bit. Nothing rash, nothing stupid --- I stayed below the posted speed limits + 15 mph (except for one wide-open straightaway that parallels the Metro tracks and doesn't have any parked cars or children running around), came to a complete stop at *all* the stop signs, yielded to other drivers when the road became too narrow for two cars to pass, used my turn signals each time, both hands on the wheel, except for the gear changes... But it was still just such sheer bliss, slaloming in smooth sinusoids around all the parked cars, hitting the apexes in the turns, ascending --- and descending --- through the shift-points at just the right rpms, the gears snicking precisely into place each time (well, most of the time. I was driving in flip-flops --- chappals --- so there was sometimes a little bit of play between my feet and the pedals.)... Ahh, rev-matching, double-clutching, seat-of-your-pants, mind-in-the-moment Fahrvergnügen.
Made even better by the fact that there was a light drizzle falling, and the roads were slick with carpets of wet, fallen leaves. So you had to be extra careful to not tease the tires too close to their traction limits. Red, orange, yellow and black on the ground; red, orange, yellow and green up above. Wipers on Intermittent. The sound of the engine swelling and cutting, swelling and cutting, swelllllllling and cutting... and sometimes, swollen, but not achieving release in the next upshift, growling back down for a smoothly executed, jerk-free engine-braking manoeuvre. A graceful symphony of perfectly modulated throttle and clutch, the flowing dance of tire and road, pistons and neurons. Fifteen minutes of suburban autocross heaven.
Needed to get out of the house and away from my computer and the day-in, day-out monotony of thesis writing. So took my car out, just now, and slung it around all the little back-roads of my neighbourhood for a bit. Nothing rash, nothing stupid --- I stayed below the posted speed limits + 15 mph (except for one wide-open straightaway that parallels the Metro tracks and doesn't have any parked cars or children running around), came to a complete stop at *all* the stop signs, yielded to other drivers when the road became too narrow for two cars to pass, used my turn signals each time, both hands on the wheel, except for the gear changes... But it was still just such sheer bliss, slaloming in smooth sinusoids around all the parked cars, hitting the apexes in the turns, ascending --- and descending --- through the shift-points at just the right rpms, the gears snicking precisely into place each time (well, most of the time. I was driving in flip-flops --- chappals --- so there was sometimes a little bit of play between my feet and the pedals.)... Ahh, rev-matching, double-clutching, seat-of-your-pants, mind-in-the-moment Fahrvergnügen.
Made even better by the fact that there was a light drizzle falling, and the roads were slick with carpets of wet, fallen leaves. So you had to be extra careful to not tease the tires too close to their traction limits. Red, orange, yellow and black on the ground; red, orange, yellow and green up above. Wipers on Intermittent. The sound of the engine swelling and cutting, swelling and cutting, swelllllllling and cutting... and sometimes, swollen, but not achieving release in the next upshift, growling back down for a smoothly executed, jerk-free engine-braking manoeuvre. A graceful symphony of perfectly modulated throttle and clutch, the flowing dance of tire and road, pistons and neurons. Fifteen minutes of suburban autocross heaven.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Clicks and purrs
Prologue:
I've heard of clicking beetles. And hissing cockroaches (I've actually seen them, too -- my entomologist friend Andrew has a pair). But cats... cats just keep on surprising me.
On with the story!
I'm almost 30. And I'd never heard a cat purr until 3 years ago, would you believe it?
Indian cats don't purr, it would seem. They just snarl, and hiss, and yowl. But then, growing up in Bombay, I never knew anyone who kept a cat as a pet. People had dogs, fish, squirrels, parrots, budgerigars... one or two had rabbits... but no cats. The only cats around were the stray, feral ones --- and there were plenty of those. But they never purred. Not to my knowledge, at least. Purring was something only the cats in storybooks did.
Americans, on the other hand, seem about equally-divided between cat-people and dog-people. And in the past few years, I've made a number of friends with members of the former division, and so have had much more exposure to domesticated felines than before. (I myself grew up a dog-person, and still consider myself as one, but I've learned to appreciate and enjoy cats too, now.) But the first time I heard a cat purr, I damn near jumped out of my skin --- I thought it was growling at me! And heaven knows, I didn't want to be within range of those irrational, easily-aggravated claws. Much hilarity ensued, of course, amongst the cat-owner and other humans present.
But this particular species wasn't quite done pulling my tail just yet. More surprises were still in store. That other same day, while I was peering fascinatedly at the baby cats (see my previous post), Katie asked me if I'd like to hear them purr. "Sure!" I said, confident now in my ability to correctly identify a purr. She held one up to my ear, and I waited. And waited. And heard nothing that matched anything in my mental database of animal sounds. "Listen!" she said. "Don't you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
-- "That clicking sound!"
"That clicking sound?!?"
-- "Yes!"
(And yes, I had heard a series of clicks emanating from roughly the animal's thoracic region, but they hadn't registered as anything noteworthy. I had been expecting *purrs*!)
"They click?!?"
-- "Yes!"
"I thought you said they were purring!"
-- "Well, that's how kittens purr."
... My education continues.
I've heard of clicking beetles. And hissing cockroaches (I've actually seen them, too -- my entomologist friend Andrew has a pair). But cats... cats just keep on surprising me.
On with the story!
I'm almost 30. And I'd never heard a cat purr until 3 years ago, would you believe it?
Indian cats don't purr, it would seem. They just snarl, and hiss, and yowl. But then, growing up in Bombay, I never knew anyone who kept a cat as a pet. People had dogs, fish, squirrels, parrots, budgerigars... one or two had rabbits... but no cats. The only cats around were the stray, feral ones --- and there were plenty of those. But they never purred. Not to my knowledge, at least. Purring was something only the cats in storybooks did.
Americans, on the other hand, seem about equally-divided between cat-people and dog-people. And in the past few years, I've made a number of friends with members of the former division, and so have had much more exposure to domesticated felines than before. (I myself grew up a dog-person, and still consider myself as one, but I've learned to appreciate and enjoy cats too, now.) But the first time I heard a cat purr, I damn near jumped out of my skin --- I thought it was growling at me! And heaven knows, I didn't want to be within range of those irrational, easily-aggravated claws. Much hilarity ensued, of course, amongst the cat-owner and other humans present.
But this particular species wasn't quite done pulling my tail just yet. More surprises were still in store. That other same day, while I was peering fascinatedly at the baby cats (see my previous post), Katie asked me if I'd like to hear them purr. "Sure!" I said, confident now in my ability to correctly identify a purr. She held one up to my ear, and I waited. And waited. And heard nothing that matched anything in my mental database of animal sounds. "Listen!" she said. "Don't you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
-- "That clicking sound!"
"That clicking sound?!?"
-- "Yes!"
(And yes, I had heard a series of clicks emanating from roughly the animal's thoracic region, but they hadn't registered as anything noteworthy. I had been expecting *purrs*!)
"They click?!?"
-- "Yes!"
"I thought you said they were purring!"
-- "Well, that's how kittens purr."
... My education continues.
Miniature-mamal magic
I had the opportunity, a couple of days ago, of carrying around a basketful of just-a-few-days-old kittens. Five of them. They were the tiniest things I'd ever seen. I mean, I knew baby puppies, kittens, piglets, etc. are small when newly-born, but I had never realized just *how* small. And yes, they were incredibly cute. Not just in the miniaturized-version-of-a-bigger-thing way (hey! I *am* an engineer!), but also because of that evolved baby-animal strategy of endearing themselves to adults and provoking nurturing feelings and thereby facilitating survival by having heads and eyes disproportionately larger than the rest of their bodies and by emitting those plaintive, woebegone cries. (Yes, I am a scientist, too.) We adults are such suckers. :)
I had to carry that basket (which otherwise could have passed off as a small laundry hamper) through a study lounge full of hard-at-work students --- and in a building on campus in which I'm quite sure pet animals are not allowed. (Shhh!) The first time, on the way in, the kittens behaved. On the way out, though, they didn't. (And just so you know, their heads weren't the only things larger than you'd expect. Their voices were, too.) And everybody, oh just evvvverybody knew I had kittens in the basket.
I couldn't stop grinning.
I had to carry that basket (which otherwise could have passed off as a small laundry hamper) through a study lounge full of hard-at-work students --- and in a building on campus in which I'm quite sure pet animals are not allowed. (Shhh!) The first time, on the way in, the kittens behaved. On the way out, though, they didn't. (And just so you know, their heads weren't the only things larger than you'd expect. Their voices were, too.) And everybody, oh just evvvverybody knew I had kittens in the basket.
I couldn't stop grinning.
In the footsteps of the Earl of Sandwich, that intrepid pioneer
Tabasco sauce tastes great on tuna-and-cheese sandwiches.
Old Bay... surprisingly, not so much. Kinda "meh", really. (Yes, I'm aware that I'm "from" Maryland. Wanna hear some more sacrilegious stuff? I don't care much for crabs, either! ... Although jousting's kinda cool.) It does taste great on 'fries, though!
Old Bay... surprisingly, not so much. Kinda "meh", really. (Yes, I'm aware that I'm "from" Maryland. Wanna hear some more sacrilegious stuff? I don't care much for crabs, either! ... Although jousting's kinda cool.) It does taste great on 'fries, though!
Jason bought a crock for butter, and now his butter tastes so much better!
I have re-discovered the goodness of butter. Actually, let me correct that: I have *discovered* the goodness of butter, never having realized it before. Back home, when I was a kid, we used to keep the butter in the fridge (naturally), and if I wanted to have some with my breakfast, or to make sandwiches with, I'd have to leave it out for several hours beforehand --- like overnight --- to melt. (We didn't have microwave ovens back then.) I didn't use that butter very much.
Besides, I don't ever remember it tasting all that wonderful, either. Might just have been the kind of butter we got in India back then. The cheese there wasn't so great, either.
By the time I came to the US, I had heard all about margarine. And was quite vehemently opposed to using it. a) Because it wasn't the "real thing", and b) because I badly needed to put *on* weight, not lose it. (I still do. And still grumble at having to hunt for "regular" food among all the low-fat/non-fat/reduced-fat variants whenever I go grocery shopping.) My aunt --- with whom I stayed for a while before I moved into the dorms, and whose choice of household items for running her house (Tide detergent, Polaner jam, Philadelphia Flavours cream cheese, Lipton tea bags, Eggo waffles...) left me, an impressionable, fresh-off-the-boat newcomer to the American Way, forever brand-loyal --- used to use something called "Shedd's Country Crock". It looked, to me, and behaved, like butter, except that it never got hard in the fridge. And I remember it actually *saying* "butter" somewhere on the outside of the container. Eight years of devoted usage later, I actually re-read the label, and was left incredibly disappointed. I guess I should've been more suspicious about it having that miraculous non-hardening quality.
So I set out to look for a butter dish, just like I'd seen in other people's homes. A container in which I could leave the butter outside so that it would always be ready-to-spread whenever I wanted it. (My roommate used to use a regular tupperware container, but that was just ugly, and meant one less tupperware container for storing other things in.) Strangely enough, I was never able to find one --- that was inexpensive enough. (It's just a *butter dish*, for crying out loud!) Then I found something called a "butter bell" at Marshalls, a local discount department store. (You can read more about it at the manufacturer's website, and at all these other websites, too.) It didn't look like anything I'd ever seen before, but it looked neat, and seemed to make sense from a scientific/engineering standpoint (it was very-practically sized to contain the same volume of butter in a standard stick... the water not only sealed off the container, but also, by evaporating, kept the whole thing cool, just like the clay/earthen `matkas' we have back in India for keeping water cool) and it was just 10 bucks. I bought it.
And it works like a charm! Haven't had any problems with mold so far (See the concerns expressed here), and the butter makes my sandwiches and pancakes and waffles and toast taste so much better! Plus, it just seems to have a certain old-world charm about it all. Or maybe that's just me. Whatever. Yay for butter!
Besides, I don't ever remember it tasting all that wonderful, either. Might just have been the kind of butter we got in India back then. The cheese there wasn't so great, either.
By the time I came to the US, I had heard all about margarine. And was quite vehemently opposed to using it. a) Because it wasn't the "real thing", and b) because I badly needed to put *on* weight, not lose it. (I still do. And still grumble at having to hunt for "regular" food among all the low-fat/non-fat/reduced-fat variants whenever I go grocery shopping.) My aunt --- with whom I stayed for a while before I moved into the dorms, and whose choice of household items for running her house (Tide detergent, Polaner jam, Philadelphia Flavours cream cheese, Lipton tea bags, Eggo waffles...) left me, an impressionable, fresh-off-the-boat newcomer to the American Way, forever brand-loyal --- used to use something called "Shedd's Country Crock". It looked, to me, and behaved, like butter, except that it never got hard in the fridge. And I remember it actually *saying* "butter" somewhere on the outside of the container. Eight years of devoted usage later, I actually re-read the label, and was left incredibly disappointed. I guess I should've been more suspicious about it having that miraculous non-hardening quality.
So I set out to look for a butter dish, just like I'd seen in other people's homes. A container in which I could leave the butter outside so that it would always be ready-to-spread whenever I wanted it. (My roommate used to use a regular tupperware container, but that was just ugly, and meant one less tupperware container for storing other things in.) Strangely enough, I was never able to find one --- that was inexpensive enough. (It's just a *butter dish*, for crying out loud!) Then I found something called a "butter bell" at Marshalls, a local discount department store. (You can read more about it at the manufacturer's website, and at all these other websites, too.) It didn't look like anything I'd ever seen before, but it looked neat, and seemed to make sense from a scientific/engineering standpoint (it was very-practically sized to contain the same volume of butter in a standard stick... the water not only sealed off the container, but also, by evaporating, kept the whole thing cool, just like the clay/earthen `matkas' we have back in India for keeping water cool) and it was just 10 bucks. I bought it.
And it works like a charm! Haven't had any problems with mold so far (See the concerns expressed here), and the butter makes my sandwiches and pancakes and waffles and toast taste so much better! Plus, it just seems to have a certain old-world charm about it all. Or maybe that's just me. Whatever. Yay for butter!
Monday, October 8, 2007
Somebody please take these away from me
I'm decimating a can of almonds (a "tin" of almonds?) right now, with a couple of boxes of raisins thrown in for good measure. Somehow, having finger food -- and drink -- around is very conducive to the writing process. Unfortunately, finger food too often equates to junk food. Like bags of Doritos chips.
Ah well. If I have to pick my poison, at least it's not the bitter variety.
Somebody please invent -- or obtain -- for me a tea-mug that never gets cold, so I don't have to keep making trips to the microwave oven. I don't have time to tinker around with thermoelectric circuits myself right now.
Ah well. If I have to pick my poison, at least it's not the bitter variety.
Somebody please invent -- or obtain -- for me a tea-mug that never gets cold, so I don't have to keep making trips to the microwave oven. I don't have time to tinker around with thermoelectric circuits myself right now.
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Managed to drag myself out of bed nice and early this morning. At 6:45! The past couple of weeks, working at home, I've been waking up later and later each day, averaging a rise-and-shine time of around 9:30. Then again, I've been turning my lights out between 1 and 2 am each night, so it works out. I need at least 7 hours of sleep to feel rested. But then by the time I finish my breakfast and actually get started working on my thesis, it's already noon or a little past, so in all honesty, it really doesn't work out. So last night I rapped myself on the head and forced myself to get into bed by 11:30, and, as motivation to not just turn the alarm off and dive back under my blanket, promised myself that I would go for 7:30-am morning mass. Calmed my brain down with a little light reading about Galileo and Newton and gravitation (Morris Kline's "Mathematics and the Physical World"), and voila! Lights out at 00:05!
Well, I thought I had calmed myself down. Darkness or not, my brain just wouldn't shut down, and I tossed and turned through most of the night. I think I had about two periods of sleep, because I remember two sets of dreams. The rest of the time, visions of West-Coast-Swing YouTube videos danced in my head. Insomnia is something I've dealt with since I was 15, though, so although the whole thing annoyed the heck out of me, I didn't get too worked up about it. (Can't really say that I "didn't lose any sleep over it," though. That turn of phrase doesn't quite work here. Neither does "not losing any hair over it," especially given the haircut I had a couple of days ago that left me shorn nearly as closely as a Marine recruit.) Even if I wasn't actually sleeping, my body *was* getting some sort of rest, so it was OK.
5:26. So said the red LEDs. Sigh. Oh well, maybe I'll be able to fall asleep within the next hour and 15 minutes.
The alarm went off what felt like less than 20 minutes later. Damnit! Just when I thought I could feel true, blissful sleep coming on. Had I read the clock wrong earlier? Had it actually been *6*:26? It'd be ok if I went back to sleep, and started going to morning mass tomorrow instead, wouldn't it? After all, I'm allowed an adjustment period between waking up at 10:30 and waking up at 6:45, right? It's not natural to go cold-turkey from one to the other on consecutive days. Not good for the body.
Ach, whom am I kidding. I'm wide awake. Ain't gonna be any falling-back-to-sleep anyway. Quit being lazy, Jason. I just need to get myself into an upright position, and get my shoes on, and I'll be fine.
So I did, and I was indeed fine. Pulled open the blinds -- dawn hadn't quite broken yet, and the air was still still and heavy and humid in the darkness. The birds were just about starting up, too, while the crickets were winding down. Stumbled to the bathroom. Heidi's door was open, and her light on -- she was up already, working on her dissertation. She's an early riser. Light was shining under Brian's door, too. Good god, does *everyone* in this house normally get up this early? Oh well, he's an architect, and these architecture students are crazy. They work even harder than us engineers.
Fixed myself a bowl of porridge ("oatmeal", to you Yanks), and contemplated cycling to church vs. walking. I'd always cycled before, because I'd always carried on to school afterwards, lugging my heavy backpack around with me. But today I'd be coming back home, and no backpack either. Besides, when I cycle, it's all about speed and getting somewhere fast, and I wanted to take my time and enjoy the morning. Walking sets the mind free and allows it to wander as well. I read a great quote once, by this guy who used to go for walks for two to three hours on end. Some famous author or the other. Can't remember it now -- need to look it up again.
Ernest Hemingway, it might have been. Hmm...
So I walked, even though I knew it would make me a couple of minutes late. Got there during the First Reading -- was the story of Jonah, today. The Gospel was the story of the Good Samaritan. Nothing in The Word was terribly inspiring today, and indeed I spent quite a few minutes distracted by the dewy freshness of the trees just outside the window. But, like my Mama says, it's good to just touch base, so I contented myself with that, where normally I would have fretted about having wasted my time. Was nice to see Fr. George, the parish priest, again, too. Although I did get miffed -- again -- about people's habit of conversing loudly, *inside* the church, after the Mass gets over. Not in the least bit helpful to people, like myself, who just want a little quiet-time in a church to pray. That's precisely the reason why I'd rather go for the daily morning Mass at this neighbourhood church than for the Sunday Masses at the Catholic Student Center on campus. Over there, the minute the service is over, it gets noisier than a high-school cafeteria.
I finished reading C. S. Lewis' "The Case For Christianity" a little while ago (see also my second post in this blog). That guy is amazing. That little book, less than 60-odd pages long, answered a whole bunch of the questions I've been carrying around with me for years about Christian dogma -- things that just didn't make any logical sense to me, and so prevented me from believing [in] them. But Lewis dealt with those issues so deftly, it was almost like a sleight of hand. I need to go back and read that book again (and his other works, too). By the end of the book, I found myself thinking -- Is it all really that simple?! (The logical arguments, I mean, not the dogmas themselves.) His reasoning was so lucid and compelling, that I found myself led along until I was boxed into a corner where really, Christianity is The Answer, and there's a part of me that rebelled against that (the being led along by hypnotizingly powerful rhetoric) a little bit. It was all just too easy, too much like a magician's trick. I'm not denying that he could be right; I just want to go back and truly satisfy myself that he is, before committing myself.
And so, when it wasn't otherwise thinking about Jonah and fishes' bellies and Samaritans and dewy leaves, that's what my mind was reflecting on during the Mass: some of the things that Lewis had talked about. Fallen angels, free will, Incarnation and Resurrection... weighty stuff.
The walk back home was lovely. Saw some dogs, which always leaves me feeling happy. Detoured through a park, swung on a swing for a bit and grinned at how self-conscious I was feeling about playing, in public, on something meant for a 7-year-old (I really don't like the flexible-seat design that's so ubiquitous nowadays. My butt isn't shaped like a semi-circle, for pete's sake! Why don't they make them like they used to, with a nice flat plank for a seat?!), looked around and pictured what this entire grassy, wooded area would like in just a few months, covered in frost and ice and snow, and transformed into a winter wonderland... lay back on a park-bench and stared up through the tree-branches at the sky for a couple of minutes, before telling myself that I really needed to get up and get going and stop lazing around.
Further down the trail that I had to take on my way home, I saw a single leaf hovering in mid-air, at about eye-level, far away from any other structure. Although I couldn't see it until I walked around and looked at it from a different angle, I immediately knew how it was achieving that feat: it was suspended by a strand of spider-silk. I was still quite intrigued, though: it's normal to see a *spider* suspended at the end of a long thread like that. Not a *leaf*!
Earlier last week I had come running along that trail with my running buddy -- my football (soccer ball, to you, my American readers) -- and somewhere right around there it had spiked off my toe and gone bounding off into some bushes along the side. I had followed, to retrieve it, most trepidatiously, because that unkempt little area was precisely the kind of place where nasty things like poison ivy like to lurk, and, it being quite dark, I really couldn't see anything very clearly (it had been around 8 pm -- which made for dribbling a football along woodland trails quite an adventure, too). Oh, and my legs were quite bare and unprotected, of course. Anyway, I managed to snatch my ball out, and didn't break out into any sort of hideous rash, so it all turned out ok. So today, since it was all nice and bright, I decided to go and take a look at that thicket and see if there indeed was any poison ivy there. Ventured cautiously in, crouched down to bring my eyes down to shrub-level... and then I saw one little guy there, trademark trifoliate, asymmetric, palm-shaped leaves and all. A-ha! Wow, so I *had* been lucky! And then I looked up and around a little bit more, and realized just how lucky I had been: that entire area was actually *blanketed* in poison ivy, a huge, mature growth of it pushing through all the other plants there! I have *no* idea how I went in there and emerged unscathed! Do I really have greater resistence to poison ivy than most other people? Is this magnificent biological machine that is my body even more magnificent that I had imagined?! (Yes, I'm allowing myself a moment of vainglory here.) Well, even if it is, that is one hypothesis I'm not going to attempt testing. I don't mind ringing Fate's doorbell and running away once in a while, if I know I can get away with it, but it's not good to tempt her *too* much. ;)
Profoundly full of happiness at the experiences and discoveries of my early-morning walk, I continued on. I'd never have noticed all these things if I had cycled instead. Saw some lovely deep-pink (rose!) roses growing in a neighbour's garden. Waved out to people driving off to work. Heard a mockingbird sounding off from inside a bush (you can tell it's a mockingbird because its tune changes every few seconds), and was immediately reminded of Zooey Deschanel's hilarious performance in the movie "Failure to Launch" ("What the hell kind of devil bird chirps at night?!"). Got home, and Raja, Heidi's 10-year-old cat, was waiting right behind the front door (probably trying to figure out a way to get out. She's an inquisitive little thing.). She was in one of her inexplicably random (in other words, typically cat-like) frisky moods -- she scampered off down the hallway, and then back again, and leapt up onto the counter-top to have her ears scratched (It really amazes me, how much power these animals have in their legs, and especially at this age!), and I indulged her, and was rewarded with a happy purr. ... It had been a good morning. :) Good enough to inspire me to actually write about it. A porch/verandah, a deck chair, a mug of hot tea, a laptop and wireless networking, and a morning that stayed cool and pleasant the whole while. Let me say it again -- it's been a good morning.
Now, back to reviewing the literature on fenestron tail rotors and playing a different kind of author. ;)
P.S.: Thank you, Cat Stevens.
Well, I thought I had calmed myself down. Darkness or not, my brain just wouldn't shut down, and I tossed and turned through most of the night. I think I had about two periods of sleep, because I remember two sets of dreams. The rest of the time, visions of West-Coast-Swing YouTube videos danced in my head. Insomnia is something I've dealt with since I was 15, though, so although the whole thing annoyed the heck out of me, I didn't get too worked up about it. (Can't really say that I "didn't lose any sleep over it," though. That turn of phrase doesn't quite work here. Neither does "not losing any hair over it," especially given the haircut I had a couple of days ago that left me shorn nearly as closely as a Marine recruit.) Even if I wasn't actually sleeping, my body *was* getting some sort of rest, so it was OK.
5:26. So said the red LEDs. Sigh. Oh well, maybe I'll be able to fall asleep within the next hour and 15 minutes.
The alarm went off what felt like less than 20 minutes later. Damnit! Just when I thought I could feel true, blissful sleep coming on. Had I read the clock wrong earlier? Had it actually been *6*:26? It'd be ok if I went back to sleep, and started going to morning mass tomorrow instead, wouldn't it? After all, I'm allowed an adjustment period between waking up at 10:30 and waking up at 6:45, right? It's not natural to go cold-turkey from one to the other on consecutive days. Not good for the body.
Ach, whom am I kidding. I'm wide awake. Ain't gonna be any falling-back-to-sleep anyway. Quit being lazy, Jason. I just need to get myself into an upright position, and get my shoes on, and I'll be fine.
So I did, and I was indeed fine. Pulled open the blinds -- dawn hadn't quite broken yet, and the air was still still and heavy and humid in the darkness. The birds were just about starting up, too, while the crickets were winding down. Stumbled to the bathroom. Heidi's door was open, and her light on -- she was up already, working on her dissertation. She's an early riser. Light was shining under Brian's door, too. Good god, does *everyone* in this house normally get up this early? Oh well, he's an architect, and these architecture students are crazy. They work even harder than us engineers.
Fixed myself a bowl of porridge ("oatmeal", to you Yanks), and contemplated cycling to church vs. walking. I'd always cycled before, because I'd always carried on to school afterwards, lugging my heavy backpack around with me. But today I'd be coming back home, and no backpack either. Besides, when I cycle, it's all about speed and getting somewhere fast, and I wanted to take my time and enjoy the morning. Walking sets the mind free and allows it to wander as well. I read a great quote once, by this guy who used to go for walks for two to three hours on end. Some famous author or the other. Can't remember it now -- need to look it up again.
Ernest Hemingway, it might have been. Hmm...
So I walked, even though I knew it would make me a couple of minutes late. Got there during the First Reading -- was the story of Jonah, today. The Gospel was the story of the Good Samaritan. Nothing in The Word was terribly inspiring today, and indeed I spent quite a few minutes distracted by the dewy freshness of the trees just outside the window. But, like my Mama says, it's good to just touch base, so I contented myself with that, where normally I would have fretted about having wasted my time. Was nice to see Fr. George, the parish priest, again, too. Although I did get miffed -- again -- about people's habit of conversing loudly, *inside* the church, after the Mass gets over. Not in the least bit helpful to people, like myself, who just want a little quiet-time in a church to pray. That's precisely the reason why I'd rather go for the daily morning Mass at this neighbourhood church than for the Sunday Masses at the Catholic Student Center on campus. Over there, the minute the service is over, it gets noisier than a high-school cafeteria.
I finished reading C. S. Lewis' "The Case For Christianity" a little while ago (see also my second post in this blog). That guy is amazing. That little book, less than 60-odd pages long, answered a whole bunch of the questions I've been carrying around with me for years about Christian dogma -- things that just didn't make any logical sense to me, and so prevented me from believing [in] them. But Lewis dealt with those issues so deftly, it was almost like a sleight of hand. I need to go back and read that book again (and his other works, too). By the end of the book, I found myself thinking -- Is it all really that simple?! (The logical arguments, I mean, not the dogmas themselves.) His reasoning was so lucid and compelling, that I found myself led along until I was boxed into a corner where really, Christianity is The Answer, and there's a part of me that rebelled against that (the being led along by hypnotizingly powerful rhetoric) a little bit. It was all just too easy, too much like a magician's trick. I'm not denying that he could be right; I just want to go back and truly satisfy myself that he is, before committing myself.
And so, when it wasn't otherwise thinking about Jonah and fishes' bellies and Samaritans and dewy leaves, that's what my mind was reflecting on during the Mass: some of the things that Lewis had talked about. Fallen angels, free will, Incarnation and Resurrection... weighty stuff.
The walk back home was lovely. Saw some dogs, which always leaves me feeling happy. Detoured through a park, swung on a swing for a bit and grinned at how self-conscious I was feeling about playing, in public, on something meant for a 7-year-old (I really don't like the flexible-seat design that's so ubiquitous nowadays. My butt isn't shaped like a semi-circle, for pete's sake! Why don't they make them like they used to, with a nice flat plank for a seat?!), looked around and pictured what this entire grassy, wooded area would like in just a few months, covered in frost and ice and snow, and transformed into a winter wonderland... lay back on a park-bench and stared up through the tree-branches at the sky for a couple of minutes, before telling myself that I really needed to get up and get going and stop lazing around.
Further down the trail that I had to take on my way home, I saw a single leaf hovering in mid-air, at about eye-level, far away from any other structure. Although I couldn't see it until I walked around and looked at it from a different angle, I immediately knew how it was achieving that feat: it was suspended by a strand of spider-silk. I was still quite intrigued, though: it's normal to see a *spider* suspended at the end of a long thread like that. Not a *leaf*!
Earlier last week I had come running along that trail with my running buddy -- my football (soccer ball, to you, my American readers) -- and somewhere right around there it had spiked off my toe and gone bounding off into some bushes along the side. I had followed, to retrieve it, most trepidatiously, because that unkempt little area was precisely the kind of place where nasty things like poison ivy like to lurk, and, it being quite dark, I really couldn't see anything very clearly (it had been around 8 pm -- which made for dribbling a football along woodland trails quite an adventure, too). Oh, and my legs were quite bare and unprotected, of course. Anyway, I managed to snatch my ball out, and didn't break out into any sort of hideous rash, so it all turned out ok. So today, since it was all nice and bright, I decided to go and take a look at that thicket and see if there indeed was any poison ivy there. Ventured cautiously in, crouched down to bring my eyes down to shrub-level... and then I saw one little guy there, trademark trifoliate, asymmetric, palm-shaped leaves and all. A-ha! Wow, so I *had* been lucky! And then I looked up and around a little bit more, and realized just how lucky I had been: that entire area was actually *blanketed* in poison ivy, a huge, mature growth of it pushing through all the other plants there! I have *no* idea how I went in there and emerged unscathed! Do I really have greater resistence to poison ivy than most other people? Is this magnificent biological machine that is my body even more magnificent that I had imagined?! (Yes, I'm allowing myself a moment of vainglory here.) Well, even if it is, that is one hypothesis I'm not going to attempt testing. I don't mind ringing Fate's doorbell and running away once in a while, if I know I can get away with it, but it's not good to tempt her *too* much. ;)
Profoundly full of happiness at the experiences and discoveries of my early-morning walk, I continued on. I'd never have noticed all these things if I had cycled instead. Saw some lovely deep-pink (rose!) roses growing in a neighbour's garden. Waved out to people driving off to work. Heard a mockingbird sounding off from inside a bush (you can tell it's a mockingbird because its tune changes every few seconds), and was immediately reminded of Zooey Deschanel's hilarious performance in the movie "Failure to Launch" ("What the hell kind of devil bird chirps at night?!"). Got home, and Raja, Heidi's 10-year-old cat, was waiting right behind the front door (probably trying to figure out a way to get out. She's an inquisitive little thing.). She was in one of her inexplicably random (in other words, typically cat-like) frisky moods -- she scampered off down the hallway, and then back again, and leapt up onto the counter-top to have her ears scratched (It really amazes me, how much power these animals have in their legs, and especially at this age!), and I indulged her, and was rewarded with a happy purr. ... It had been a good morning. :) Good enough to inspire me to actually write about it. A porch/verandah, a deck chair, a mug of hot tea, a laptop and wireless networking, and a morning that stayed cool and pleasant the whole while. Let me say it again -- it's been a good morning.
Now, back to reviewing the literature on fenestron tail rotors and playing a different kind of author. ;)
P.S.: Thank you, Cat Stevens.
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