Alone In Bed In Montreal

Strange things happen to me when I go to conferences.  I won't say I go crazy, just that my mind starts to behave in strange fashions.  I don't know if it's because I have to spend an extended period of time away from home, or if it's because I have to spend time in contact with a number of strangers, or because my usual mechanisms of self-distraction are not available, but my mind becomes overactive.

One thing happens is that I often end up writing a lot.  Which is a consequence of me spending a lot of time thinking.  I think when I'm with other people, and I try to find time to be by myself so I can think some more.  I think, and think, and ultimately end up writing my thoughts down.  Which is what I am doing right now.  Another things that happens is I become emotional.  I don't mean burst into tears or hysterical emotional.  I just mean that somehow I feel my emotions more acutely.  Perhaps it's just another symptom of thinking more.  But I find myself feeling things and having flights of fancy that I wouldn't have under everyday circumstances.

A common occurrence is that I will, I hate to use the term, fixate on a person I meet at a conference.  It's not obsessive, more like a very strong crush.  In actuality, it's not something that's bad.  People normally meet other people, find themselves attracted to another person, maybe have a bit of a crush.  I'm led to believe this happens to people all the time.  I guess what's different for me is that it happens way more frequently at conferences, so it seems to stand out.  Maybe that's because I'm meeting new people at a rate much higher than I normally do, so the chance for sparking is higher.  But I'm always on the lookout for abnormal psychological behavior in myself, and it worries me when something stands out.

Her name is Coralie, and she is a grad student from a Caulobacter lab in Geneva.  My interaction started innocently enough.  I was putting up my poster before the Caulobacter meeting and two girls were wandering around looking at posters.  They were looking at mine and I just said "hey, that's me, do you want me to take you through it?"  They said sure, so I ended up explaining the project.  That was kind of it.  Later on one of the girls presented a talk that had some work that explained a very confusing piece of data I had.  I was pretty excited.  After the talks I tapped her on the shoulder and said "when you get a moment you need to come see my other poster, I have something you are going to want to see."  In a little bit she came over.  I showed her my data and how thanks to her work it actually made sense now.  I explained how I wasn't going to do anything with the data and my boss and I think she should take this work and expand it a bit and it would really help out her paper.  She seemed relatively happy with the idea.

It was then that my attention began to focus on her.  Normally at the end of a poster-type conversation, the non-poster person politely makes some excuse to be elsewhere and awkwardly leaves.  But she didn't.  Everytime the conversation began to wind down and I thought she was going to excuse herself, she was spark the conversation back up again.  About this, about that.  Half-consciously in response, I turned on what charm I had.  We ended up chatting for, oh, 45 minutes?  An hour?  Quite some time.  She's a slender beauty, with a very expressive face, and she laughed at most of my jokes.  It was very pleasant.

During one of the later talks our eyes met from across the room.  She scrunched up her face and flicked her eyes towards the speaker.  The maneuver could be interpreted one of two ways.  Either "get a load of this boring crap" or "hey, stop looking at me and pay attention to the talk, silly man".  Either way, I laughed, and that seemed to go over well.  I can count one hand without using all my fingers those special types of moments I have had with someone.  They are precious to me beyond dollars and doughnuts.

So now I follow.  I am led like a lamb.  I try not to be the creepy stalker.  I wave if I see her, and if I get a chance to say a few words, I say a few words.  But in my head I yearn, and in a room of over 200 people I am not satisfied until I know where she sits.  I itch and hop until the bun of her hair or the orange peel curve of her chin provide relief.  What does she think of me?  Based on her reactions there could be a possibility of her being attracted to me.  It is a non-zero probability.  But more than likely she just thinks I'm a nice guy.  And I'll take that.  So often people think I'm the asshole, that if she goes back to Geneva and thinks "wow, I met this really nice guy named Patrick", I will consider that a win any day of any week.  But as I lie here alone in bed in Montreal, wanting to taste her neck, I fancy the idea that as I wish she was lying here beside me, maybe she is lying in bed wishing I was there beside her.  Wouldn't that be something?  Wouldn't that be something.

A letter

Dear Flight Attendant whom I think flirted with me on my flight from Indianapolis to Charlotte,

I'm sorry I didn't properly say goodbye. I kind of left you in the lurch at the back of the airplane there, and it was very rude of me. I can only say you caught me off-guard. I've never really been flirted with before, or at least not by someone who was a complete stranger. If it was indeed flirting (and general consensus and my gut instinct says it was), it totally surprised me and I kind of panicked. So I'm sorry about appearing rude. I'm also sorry about not trying to get your number. I don't think anything could've happened, since you said you lived in St. Louis and that's very far away from where I live, but in retrospect I'm really kicking myself that I didn't at least try to get your number or email or something. It's a regret that I'll carry with me. Finally, I want to thank you. I've had flights with more leg room, or free movies or free first class meals, but being flirted with by a very attractive woman made it the best flight I've ever had.

Sincerely,

The shy idiot in 19C

Again, and again

The New Year. And as tradition, I make a blog post, looking back at the list from last year and making a list for the next. Except I won't. Why? Because I am tired. I am abso-fucking-lutely tired from the past year. Do you know why? Because it sucked. It has been, in retrospect, one of the shittiest years of my life. It started so promising. I was actually, dare I say, happy at the start. The year was filled with promise. Thing were looking up. It actually felt that my life might have taken a turn such that every waking moment wasn't going to be filled with pain and suffering and heartache.

I should have known better.

Past precedent may not be indicative of future performance, but it sure as shit is a better bet than not. The year began to decline quickly, then just short of 5 months in it took a nosedive into an abyss of shit that my life has not climbed out of yet, and does not appear to in risk of rising above in the near future.

So here's what I'll do. I'll go over the old list.

• Propose to my girl in a personal and creative fashion

Heh, the cruelest cut of all. At the time is seemed so certain we were going to get married. We were arriving at the point where it was something we both wanted. Then it all just...fell apart. Fell apart. It's like trying to pick up one too many things in your hands. One thing starts to slip, so you adjust to get it, which causes another to go, so you adjust again, then another slips, and so on and so on until everything falls from your fingers and you're left staring at your empty hands, wondering what happened. Everything seemed in control. Now you're got nothing to hold on to.

• Make more blog posts that start with movie quotes

I tried. I doubt I succeeded. I haven't written much. Anything I write is bitching, no one wants to read it. I can tell by the lack of responses.

• Play the new version of Dwarf Fortress

Didn't touch it. Movies were my escape this year.

• Get my guitar out once a month

I touched it once.

• REALLY start to work on losing weight, to perhaps look good in a tux

After I got dumped I reached a new high in weight. I've lost some, but it's still higher than it's been in the past decade or so. I've had to buy new clothes. I don't think I'm going to lose weight anytime soon. And it scares me, because I feel my lifespan shortening.

• Finish the origami page-a-day calender from last year

Still sitting there, unfinished.

• Succeed in doing some good science

I may have done that. Or at least started it.

• REALLY submit a story for publication (am I repeating myself here?)

Did, a number of times. All rejections. Most pretty nasty rejections.

• Finish the stack of books next to my bed

All but one. I don't know if I'll ever reach the point of mental stability where I'll be able to read The Road without wanting to kill myself. It's not about good or bad, the prose is heartbreakingly beautiful, but it's a depressing as fuck book and I can't handle that right now.

• Take a trip with my girl

We were planning a trip to Chicago when she dumped me.

• Take a chill pill

Not even close.

• Take a number

I applied to 43 jobs. I think that counts.

• Take a vacation before December

Does the day before and after Thanksgiving count? Cause those are the only other vacation days I took this year before December.

• Take a moment

I got drunk the night I got dumped. I think that counts.

• Work 8 hours without turning on my computer

Nope.

• Eat a balanced breakfast

Nope.

• Balance the books

Nope.

• Book a flight

Actually did that.

• Try to be happy

Does increasing my medication count?

• Hold myself to my New Years resolutions only so much as I want, and not feel guilty if I fail

Failed.

So what about a new list? I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to. I could put down pithy comments, or serious comments, or whatever, but it all boils down to one thing for me this year.

• Try to make it through the year without killing myself

Perhaps it a bit melodramatic. It is, in fact. I've never been suicidal. But every time I fall into depression I feel myself trending in that direction just a little bit more, a little bit more. And my life keeps getting worse and worse and worse, and judging by my job situation it's not going to get any better. So maybe next time is the time I buy the gun. And the time after is the time I get the bullets. How many lives do I have left? Who knows. Who knows how many lives any of us have left.

Life. Sucks. So all I can try to resolve for this next year is to survive. It's all I got left.

I cannot hide what I am

Don John: I cannot hide what I am: I must be sad when I have cause and smile at no man's jests, eat when I have stomach and wait for no man's leisure, sleep when I am drowsy and tend on no man's business, laugh when I am merry and claw no man in his humour.

Conrade: Yea, but you must not make the full show of this till you may do it without controlment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta'en you newly into his grace; where it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself: it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest.

Don John: I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace, in this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing villain. If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking: in the meantime let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.

- Much Ado About Nothing

Tink, tink, tink

Tink, tink, tink

Tink, tink, tink

Ssssshhht

Tink, tink, tink

Tonk...tonk...

Ssssshhht

Tink, tink, tink

Tink, tink, tink

Where I skate upon the thin edge of my sanity

Do you know what the Golden Ratio is? The Golden Ratio. It's a mathematical precept where the ratio of a smaller number to a larger number is the same as the ratio of the larger number to the sum of the numbers. It manifests itself in a variety of places, such as the Fibonacci sequence (where the next number of the sequence is the sum of the previous two numbers, i.e. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8...). It also manifests itself in architecture, such as in the construction of the Pyramids and the Parthenon. But even more so, the Golden Ratio is found in nature. For example, the graphical depiction of the Fibonacci spiral, which shows the Golden Ratio as boxes with a curve connecting the corners.


Is often correlated with the pattern of growth of Nautilaus shells.


Or the shape of the human ear.

The Golden Ratio is also found in the shape of a Pentagon/Pentagram. Here the colored segments are in Golden Ratio to each other.

And the human body maintains this aspect ratio.


People find the Golden Ratio everywhere. It constantly crops up in nature, and people use it in music, art, architecture, finance, etc.

The Golden Ratio is also a fractal.

A fractal is a mathematical equation that repeats itself on finer and finer scales. Think of it like this. You know when you look at the reflection of a mirror within a mirror you see the same thing repeated smaller and smaller? Like this:
No matter how small you get there's still a smaller version inside it? A fractal is the same thing but with mathematics. They tend to look pretty neat. And make good wallpapers.


Fractals are all over nature, where it becomes like the movie Pi. If you look, you are sure to find one. What does that mean? Who knows.

But all that is in my mind while I read this Cracked article about a guy who got beat near to death by some muggers, but as an unexpected result his brain was altered and now he essentially sees fractals. As in, when he looks at his hand, he sees the fractal shapes that make the hand. When he sees a cloud trail away, he sees the fractal spiral that makes that trail. I encourage everyone to read the story, I'm not doing the description justice. It's quite amazing.

Not only does he see fractals, he understands and has progressed the mathematics of fractals. The thing that has stuck with me from the article is that guy has found that Einsteins E=mc^2 equation is actually a fractal. And somehow this seems so very, very profound. I don't know why. I'm not a mathematician. I only know about these things on an intuitive sense. But it's something about the fact that one of the bedrock equations of physics now turns out to be a fractal. Fractals are found in nature a ton, but in physics? Now in physics.

So what does that mean? What is it about fractals? Repeating mathematical formulae, cropping up here and there and everything, in art, in nature, in physics. What does that mean for us? Are we just fractals? Are we just repeating mathematical formulae, replicating on infinite scales, through space and time? Everyone says history repeats itself, is human history a behavioral temporal fractal? If you crack the equation of the fractal, could you know the future?

I guess it's the same quantum equation people have been grappling with since fate and determination and mathematics intersected, but it's come through a lens of fractals. I don't know, I'm just rambling. A better man could make a story of this. Me, I'm just intrigued.

Enough

I don't want to feel any more. I want my emotions burned out of me. I want the wick of my nerves lit, and as my nervous system flares the silhouette of my skeleton will strobe through my skin.

The hail has the cats startled, and the late night Saturday has me scared of the ghosts of Sunday afternoon as they walk along the street, and the stabs of random pain I can't seem to shake.

Sometimes I wonder what holds up the thin wall between my current self and the full goose bozo of a state institution. Clearly I'm the craziest person around, and the guilt of bringing such harmful words as these to eyes of my friends has risen past my knees. They are good people, they do not deserve such unkindness. But I have to get these words out. It's a compulsion as strong as addiction. Even so, as I type the keys I can hear the legions of internet commenters yell "cry more, emo kid" and I laugh, as if my pain makes me special. Somehow I don't think I left my 15 year old behind. You'd think I'd be able to exorcise that demon. All the words I write strike me as so much bad poetry written in the back of a mascara-stained notebook. But writing them makes me feel better. What is there to do with pain but keep on living?

Edit: and now after spending time organizing a folder of 80's pop music, I somehow feel better. Man those songs were upbeat. They may be fueled by cocaine mania, but they sure seemed happy about it.