You know those days when you get up early, with the best intentions, with big plans and what seems to be a busy day ahead and end up accomplishing not a damn thing, even when there are cases to be processed, article to be read, shit to be packed and stuff to be washed?
Instead, you walk to the nearest convenience store to replenish the supply of menthol cigarettes, buy a ninety nine cent Arizona tea and spend the rest of the day glued to the computer, reading someone else’s blog, because the writing is that good and the author that arresting?
Well, thanks to her, now I am hooked to 101 things in 1001 days, which is exactly what I need to fuel my procrastination, since I already managed to read her entire blog from start to finish… I have to admit that this is somewhat hard – I cannot move past # 63 no matter how hard I push my tired imagination. Now if only these items magically accomplished themselves...
Friday, June 26, 2009
Stuff
• I started and successfully finished the first year of my Master’s program at VCU. Since this blog is still running under graduate edition, this is a topic worthy of its own post in the near future.
• In less than a week the boy and I are moving to a new place. After almost a year of peaceful cohabitation in a rather small, yet incredibly cute one (and a half) bedroom apartment, we decided to relocate to a bigger place, where my shit (notebooks, lose sheets of scribbling, books and computers) can be somewhat contained in one specific location instead of being scattered all over the place.
• So we passed the test: we can manage a small place without killing each other and/or burning it to the ground. The question is how we’re going to manage all this extra space that neither of us had the luxury of having in the past. This means making joint decisions on investing in new furniture (dining table and chairs, new office desk, bookshelves, etc. ), equitably sharing additional household chores that come with the added rooms, as well as giving the place some personality in terms of decorating and stuff. This means that I’ll have to contribute with my “feminine touch” even though the thought of matching sheets, towels and pillows still gives me a shudder.
• The extra bedroom upstairs means that we can now have out-of-town guests, so this is an open invitation to everyone to come and visit the wonderful city of Richmond. We are still in the Fan – the hippest, one of the most historic districts of the town. Added bonus: I make fantastic French toast and incredibly rich coffee.
• In three weeks or so I will be going to Armenia, alone, leaving the boy to his own devices with an ultimatum – next year he gets to come with me or else (after all, it’s high time he met my mother).
• I am currently slaving away as a research assistant for my department on a project on summer knowledge loss (yawn). The research question is whether increase in instructional time and/or alternative school calendar has a positive effect on kids' achievement test scores. While the studies that I have read so far have given me an interesting fact or two, I wonder whether I am the only one dissatisfied with the lack of statistical rigor in articles published by those who write them…
• With the help of a very kind Math professor, I am also trying to conquer differential equations. The said professor is an endless source of awe and inspiration, who not only encourages my still clumsy efforts, but also tries to talk me into doing my PhD in Mathematics. To be honest, I’m really tempted.
• I am currently obsessed with the NCIS show to an extent that its characters feel like family members of sorts. Must have something to do with my past affinity for the marines or something. Plus the show has a kick-ass forensic scientist who happens to be a vampire!
• The summer in Richmond is truly beautiful…
• In less than a week the boy and I are moving to a new place. After almost a year of peaceful cohabitation in a rather small, yet incredibly cute one (and a half) bedroom apartment, we decided to relocate to a bigger place, where my shit (notebooks, lose sheets of scribbling, books and computers) can be somewhat contained in one specific location instead of being scattered all over the place.
• So we passed the test: we can manage a small place without killing each other and/or burning it to the ground. The question is how we’re going to manage all this extra space that neither of us had the luxury of having in the past. This means making joint decisions on investing in new furniture (dining table and chairs, new office desk, bookshelves, etc. ), equitably sharing additional household chores that come with the added rooms, as well as giving the place some personality in terms of decorating and stuff. This means that I’ll have to contribute with my “feminine touch” even though the thought of matching sheets, towels and pillows still gives me a shudder.
• The extra bedroom upstairs means that we can now have out-of-town guests, so this is an open invitation to everyone to come and visit the wonderful city of Richmond. We are still in the Fan – the hippest, one of the most historic districts of the town. Added bonus: I make fantastic French toast and incredibly rich coffee.
• In three weeks or so I will be going to Armenia, alone, leaving the boy to his own devices with an ultimatum – next year he gets to come with me or else (after all, it’s high time he met my mother).
• I am currently slaving away as a research assistant for my department on a project on summer knowledge loss (yawn). The research question is whether increase in instructional time and/or alternative school calendar has a positive effect on kids' achievement test scores. While the studies that I have read so far have given me an interesting fact or two, I wonder whether I am the only one dissatisfied with the lack of statistical rigor in articles published by those who write them…
• With the help of a very kind Math professor, I am also trying to conquer differential equations. The said professor is an endless source of awe and inspiration, who not only encourages my still clumsy efforts, but also tries to talk me into doing my PhD in Mathematics. To be honest, I’m really tempted.
• I am currently obsessed with the NCIS show to an extent that its characters feel like family members of sorts. Must have something to do with my past affinity for the marines or something. Plus the show has a kick-ass forensic scientist who happens to be a vampire!
• The summer in Richmond is truly beautiful…
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Because the neurotic, occasionally weltschmerz, intellectual women need to represent...
Hello… (blowing off dust and cobwebs)…
In case you were wondering, I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth (not yet, at least).
I have to admit that this feels kind of awkward … kind of like reconnecting with a long-lost relative of sorts, when after the first few minutes of usual exchange of pleasantries one inevitably finds herself forced to speak of an excuse or two in a vain attempt to explain where the hell she’s been and why in the world she hasn’t been keeping in touch for so long (I am, in fact, notorious for putting myself in exactly these kind of situations with way too many people who for whatever crazy reason happen to be quite fond of me)...
As far as they go, my excuses aren’t as elaborate and creative as one might think. You know, the usual knee-jerk response “I’ve been busy,” “swamped,” “don’t have a free minute to myself,” etc., etc. The truth is – I have been incredibly busy during the last semester. After all, juggling four time-consuming graduate courses and 180 plus whiny undergrads demanding credit for incomplete homework, while trying to squeeze in quality time to tend to my personal life and live-in boyfriend is quite a task. And yet, even if I have been busy during the last months or so, lack of time hasn’t been the only reason keeping me from writing. For one thing, I have discovered that even when I do have a free minute or two, I simply cannot be trusted with chunks of time, unless it is punctuated with deadlines and iron-cast responsibilities. I do with time what a shopoholic does with money – squander it as if there was no tomorrow. Another factor keeping me from writing is that I am having a “content crisis” of sorts. My life of late has been rather unexciting to be able to write anything attention worthy… Or rather, if I may rephrase, even though my life of late has been extremely full, I do not think the general public would find it as exciting as it is for me. These days my creative energy is mostly channeled towards stuff that either induces boredom upon my audience (yeah, yeah, so you learned the proof of some fundamental theorem) or makes them think that I am stark raving insane (heterowhat? Serially correlated what?). And yet, during the past few months or so I have been doing nothing but live and breathe mathematics and econometrics. So unless my audience were interested in the aforementioned serially correlated errors and heteroscedasticity, I do not think anyone missed a damn thing during this long-drawn period of absence.
Perhaps some may find my life monotone and boring… During the semester my days are spent at school – morning classes, night classes, work in between… On days when I am not at school, I hardly leave the apartment and spend hours sitting in one spot, writing proofs and running estimations. I don’t particularly follow the news: sources that simply (and seemingly objectively) report the news underwhelm me with their badly written and all over the place stories; those that provide some kind of an interpretation to current events usually throw me into uncontrolled rage. My own political opinions, although unorthodox, lack insight and imagination to be voiced to anyone but my poor boyfriend and the only other meaningful political discussions that I have these days is during my weekly two-hour conversation with my mother (she gets her news from Russian sources, filters the bullshit and propaganda and then discussed them with me). I am three issues behind with Foreign Affairs, but I read each month's Playboy from cover to cover. I don’t have any particular hobbies besides running. As pathetic as this may sound, I haven’t read a single literary work in the past couple of years. Instead, I read textbooks and obscure journal articles. I don’t discuss art. I find fashion boring. My music tastes are ridiculous (current obsession – Russian pop). My culinary tastes are bland and predictable. I watch cop shows instead of decent films. My personal life is calm and cloudless. When there is drama, I usually confide to a friend who lives a couple of blocks down the street or else pay a shrink to figure it all out... The most pathetic of all is that I find this life- my current life, extremely rich and fulfilling, and even if I’m as happy as I can possibly be, this doesn’t leave me with much to write home about.
And yet, despite this time and content crisis of mine, I really miss the kind of writing that does not involve symbols and numbers. A part of me really feels nostalgic about that period of time, before starting grad school, when I had the luxury to really appreciate and write about those most ordinary things that make me happy in their everydayness… I miss the time when I was writing about my life as if I were writing a story , as if by writing it down I was giving shape and order to what otherwise was fleeting and chaotic… Because of that I know that I am not quite ready to let this blog go. Let this be my poor attempt to reconnect with it.
In case you were wondering, I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth (not yet, at least).
I have to admit that this feels kind of awkward … kind of like reconnecting with a long-lost relative of sorts, when after the first few minutes of usual exchange of pleasantries one inevitably finds herself forced to speak of an excuse or two in a vain attempt to explain where the hell she’s been and why in the world she hasn’t been keeping in touch for so long (I am, in fact, notorious for putting myself in exactly these kind of situations with way too many people who for whatever crazy reason happen to be quite fond of me)...
As far as they go, my excuses aren’t as elaborate and creative as one might think. You know, the usual knee-jerk response “I’ve been busy,” “swamped,” “don’t have a free minute to myself,” etc., etc. The truth is – I have been incredibly busy during the last semester. After all, juggling four time-consuming graduate courses and 180 plus whiny undergrads demanding credit for incomplete homework, while trying to squeeze in quality time to tend to my personal life and live-in boyfriend is quite a task. And yet, even if I have been busy during the last months or so, lack of time hasn’t been the only reason keeping me from writing. For one thing, I have discovered that even when I do have a free minute or two, I simply cannot be trusted with chunks of time, unless it is punctuated with deadlines and iron-cast responsibilities. I do with time what a shopoholic does with money – squander it as if there was no tomorrow. Another factor keeping me from writing is that I am having a “content crisis” of sorts. My life of late has been rather unexciting to be able to write anything attention worthy… Or rather, if I may rephrase, even though my life of late has been extremely full, I do not think the general public would find it as exciting as it is for me. These days my creative energy is mostly channeled towards stuff that either induces boredom upon my audience (yeah, yeah, so you learned the proof of some fundamental theorem) or makes them think that I am stark raving insane (heterowhat? Serially correlated what?). And yet, during the past few months or so I have been doing nothing but live and breathe mathematics and econometrics. So unless my audience were interested in the aforementioned serially correlated errors and heteroscedasticity, I do not think anyone missed a damn thing during this long-drawn period of absence.
Perhaps some may find my life monotone and boring… During the semester my days are spent at school – morning classes, night classes, work in between… On days when I am not at school, I hardly leave the apartment and spend hours sitting in one spot, writing proofs and running estimations. I don’t particularly follow the news: sources that simply (and seemingly objectively) report the news underwhelm me with their badly written and all over the place stories; those that provide some kind of an interpretation to current events usually throw me into uncontrolled rage. My own political opinions, although unorthodox, lack insight and imagination to be voiced to anyone but my poor boyfriend and the only other meaningful political discussions that I have these days is during my weekly two-hour conversation with my mother (she gets her news from Russian sources, filters the bullshit and propaganda and then discussed them with me). I am three issues behind with Foreign Affairs, but I read each month's Playboy from cover to cover. I don’t have any particular hobbies besides running. As pathetic as this may sound, I haven’t read a single literary work in the past couple of years. Instead, I read textbooks and obscure journal articles. I don’t discuss art. I find fashion boring. My music tastes are ridiculous (current obsession – Russian pop). My culinary tastes are bland and predictable. I watch cop shows instead of decent films. My personal life is calm and cloudless. When there is drama, I usually confide to a friend who lives a couple of blocks down the street or else pay a shrink to figure it all out... The most pathetic of all is that I find this life- my current life, extremely rich and fulfilling, and even if I’m as happy as I can possibly be, this doesn’t leave me with much to write home about.
And yet, despite this time and content crisis of mine, I really miss the kind of writing that does not involve symbols and numbers. A part of me really feels nostalgic about that period of time, before starting grad school, when I had the luxury to really appreciate and write about those most ordinary things that make me happy in their everydayness… I miss the time when I was writing about my life as if I were writing a story , as if by writing it down I was giving shape and order to what otherwise was fleeting and chaotic… Because of that I know that I am not quite ready to let this blog go. Let this be my poor attempt to reconnect with it.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Ummm, yeah...
They say that nature rests on the children of geniuses, but if your kid isn't particularly bright, that doesn't necessarily mean that you are a genius.
Friday, January 09, 2009
***
Imagine, for the sake of illustration, a cue ball in a game of billiards. The cue ball moves across the table with a constant speed and direction until it collides with another ball. Some of the momentum of the cue ball is transferred to the object ball, which then moves away. The object ball, hitherto motionless, did nothing to stimulate its own motion. It was merely the passive target of the cue ball’s impact, but by virtue (”virtue” being an old word meaning force or power) of the cue ball’s motion, it was launched into motion itself, and so we blame the cue ball entirely for the motion of the object ball.
This passive model of causality is a victim’s model, and has come to be known as the concept of determinism: namely, that every event is caused by a prior action which wholly explains the event. The passivity of the model is one of the reasons determinism comes in for criticism, since it seems to rob every action it explains of any intentionality or purpose. While it seems to offer the promise of control (supposedly, you can fully determine the flight of the object ball by aiming the cue ball appropriately), in fact, the ability to aim the cue ball is not free. Determinism allows only one possible aim: the aim that is determined by its antecedent causes. There is no free action in a deterministic system.
John Valley (2008)
A Theory of Freedom
For as long as I can remember myself, I have been preoccupied with the reoccurring themes of freedom, choice and agency - issues that I have devoted endless hours of fruitless pondering, issues that have caused me quite a great deal of emotional distress...
Not so long ago I stumbled upon A Philosophy of Choice that brings me right to the doorsteps of probability and chaos. I'm not sure how much of a light these chapters are going to shed on my own personal riddles, but at least this is some starting point...
This passive model of causality is a victim’s model, and has come to be known as the concept of determinism: namely, that every event is caused by a prior action which wholly explains the event. The passivity of the model is one of the reasons determinism comes in for criticism, since it seems to rob every action it explains of any intentionality or purpose. While it seems to offer the promise of control (supposedly, you can fully determine the flight of the object ball by aiming the cue ball appropriately), in fact, the ability to aim the cue ball is not free. Determinism allows only one possible aim: the aim that is determined by its antecedent causes. There is no free action in a deterministic system.
John Valley (2008)
A Theory of Freedom
For as long as I can remember myself, I have been preoccupied with the reoccurring themes of freedom, choice and agency - issues that I have devoted endless hours of fruitless pondering, issues that have caused me quite a great deal of emotional distress...
Not so long ago I stumbled upon A Philosophy of Choice that brings me right to the doorsteps of probability and chaos. I'm not sure how much of a light these chapters are going to shed on my own personal riddles, but at least this is some starting point...
Thursday, January 08, 2009
After days of rain, the sun finally came out.
During the past few weeks I hardly left the apartment. Spent my time on the couch, entertaining myself with mindless distractions. It’s curious how I alternate between periods of hard work and intense productivity and periods of complete slothfulness…
I’m slowly coming to realize that the quiet domesticity I’ve been enjoying throughout this break is nothing but a decoy, a cop-out, a disguise of sorts… Domesticity is comfort. False comfort. It gives an appearance of order, normality. A perfectly cooked meal speaks of ordinariness. Clean bathroom and sparkling dishes give resemblance of order. If I got the floors moped, I will feel better. If I pick up the clutter, things will appear less chaotic. And likewise, if I choose to rebel, if I reject the notion of domesticity, cleanliness and order I will completely give in to chaos…
And yet, I do not think that even the most perfectly cooked turkey breast will be able to disguise any longer that there is something wrong, something very very wrong in all this. And I’m not sure if seeing someone this time around will do anything to help.
I do not like this time of year.
I do not like the weeks that follow the holidays. They are full of complete and utter disappointment.
I see myself in someone else’s story. I see my past repeat itself in her present. I am envious of her in a way – what she’s facing now is the world of endless possibilities and all the promise that they hold. I’ve been there before. I still remember how it feels. And it’s making me nostalgic.
In a few more days things will fall back to their usual routine. My thoughts will settle down into a neat string of numbers. Logic and rationality will keep discordant feelings at bay. If I wait this one more week out, everything will be back to ok. Not great, but at least better than this self-inflicted torture of constant questioning and doubts. Things won’t have to be existential anymore. They will simply be rational, predictable, resolvable. Endless possibilities will be left for another life or yet another world that I will go back to come Monday….
During the past few weeks I hardly left the apartment. Spent my time on the couch, entertaining myself with mindless distractions. It’s curious how I alternate between periods of hard work and intense productivity and periods of complete slothfulness…
I’m slowly coming to realize that the quiet domesticity I’ve been enjoying throughout this break is nothing but a decoy, a cop-out, a disguise of sorts… Domesticity is comfort. False comfort. It gives an appearance of order, normality. A perfectly cooked meal speaks of ordinariness. Clean bathroom and sparkling dishes give resemblance of order. If I got the floors moped, I will feel better. If I pick up the clutter, things will appear less chaotic. And likewise, if I choose to rebel, if I reject the notion of domesticity, cleanliness and order I will completely give in to chaos…
And yet, I do not think that even the most perfectly cooked turkey breast will be able to disguise any longer that there is something wrong, something very very wrong in all this. And I’m not sure if seeing someone this time around will do anything to help.
I do not like this time of year.
I do not like the weeks that follow the holidays. They are full of complete and utter disappointment.
I see myself in someone else’s story. I see my past repeat itself in her present. I am envious of her in a way – what she’s facing now is the world of endless possibilities and all the promise that they hold. I’ve been there before. I still remember how it feels. And it’s making me nostalgic.
In a few more days things will fall back to their usual routine. My thoughts will settle down into a neat string of numbers. Logic and rationality will keep discordant feelings at bay. If I wait this one more week out, everything will be back to ok. Not great, but at least better than this self-inflicted torture of constant questioning and doubts. Things won’t have to be existential anymore. They will simply be rational, predictable, resolvable. Endless possibilities will be left for another life or yet another world that I will go back to come Monday….
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Ёжик в тумане
Ежик сказал Медвежонку:
- Как все-таки хорошо, что мы друг у друга есть! Медвежонок кивнул.
- Ты только представь себе: меня нет, ты сидишь один и поговорить не с кем.
- А ты где?
- А меня нет.
- Так не бывает, — сказал Медвежонок.
- Я тоже так думаю, — сказал Ежик. — Но вдруг вот — меня совсем нет. Ты один. Ну, что ты будешь делать?
- Пойду к тебе.
- Куда?
- Как — куда? Домой. Приду и скажу: «Ну что ж ты не пришел, Ежик?» А ты скажешь…
- Вот глупый! Что же я скажу, если меня нет?
- Если нет дома, значит, ты пошел ко мне. Прибегу домой. А-а, ты здесь! И начну…
- Что?
- Ругать!
- За что?
- Как за что? За то, что не сделал, как договорились.
- А как договорились?
- Откуда я знаю? Но ты должен быть или у меня, или у себя дома.
- Но меня же совсем нет. Понимаешь?
- Так вот же ты сидишь!
- Это я сейчас сижу, а если меня не будет совсем, где я буду?
- Или у меня, или у себя.
- Это, если я есть.
- Ну, да, — сказал Медвежонок.
- А если меня совсем нет?
- Тогда ты сидишь на реке и смотришь на месяц.
- И на реке нет.
- Тогда ты пошел куда-нибудь и еще не вернулся. Я побегу, обшарю весь лес и тебя найду!
- Ты все уже обшарил, — сказал Ежик. — И не нашел.
- Побегу в соседний лес!
- И там нет.
- Переверну все вверх дном, и ты отыщешься!
- Нет меня. Нигде нет.
- Тогда, тогда… Тогда я выбегу в поле, — сказал Медвежонок. — И закричу: «Е-е-е-жи-и-и-к!»,
и ты услышишь и закричишь: «Медвежоно-о-о-к!..» Вот.
- Нет, — сказал Ежик. — Меня ни капельки нет. Понимаешь?
- Что ты ко мне пристал? — рассердился Медвежонок. — Если тебя нет, то и меня нет. Понял?
Passage courtesy of Naked Silence
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
I cooked my first big-ass turkey breast. All on my own. I made stuffing from the box. I sauteed mushrooms and onions. Later we baked cookies...
This year I got my first adult Christmas tree. It has lights and red and gold ornaments. I wrapped the presents and put them under the tree. I haven't had a Christmas tree since I was thirteen.
I never thought I would find this bliss of domesticity so comforting.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Variation on the theme (or more on nostalgia)
Боже Какой Пустяк
Я вижу небо в нем тишина
Я поднимаюсь к небу еле дыша
И вдруг понимаю это во мне душа
Странное дело это моя душа
Как нелепо жить вниз головой
Когда такое небо есть надо мной
И кажется звезды можно достать рукой
Я и не ведал что этот мир такой
Боже какой пустяк
Сделать хоть раз что-нибудь не так
Выкинуть хлам из дома и старых позвать друзей
Но что-то всерьез менять
Не побоясь в мелочах потерять
Свободно только небо над головой моей
Я был богом в прошлую ночь
Я отыскал дорогу и выбежал прочь
Богом стать просто если уже невмочь
И незачем плакать дом покидая в ночь
Но оказалось даже тогда
Что все дороги света ведут в никуда
И даже когда под ногами блестит вода
Бог просто не может странником быть всегда
Боже какой пустяк
Сделать хоть раз что-нибудь не так
Выкинуть хлам из дома и старых позвать друзей
Но что-то всерьез менять
Не побоясь в мелочах потерять
Свободно только небо над головой моей
Поднимаю свой воротник
Ругаю дождь и слякоть будто старик
Бегу за толпой видно уже привык
И в памяти небо как нереальный блик
Но однажды мне станет легко
И будет все не важно и далеко
Меня примет небо в свой неземной покой
Александр Иванов
Я вижу небо в нем тишина
Я поднимаюсь к небу еле дыша
И вдруг понимаю это во мне душа
Странное дело это моя душа
Как нелепо жить вниз головой
Когда такое небо есть надо мной
И кажется звезды можно достать рукой
Я и не ведал что этот мир такой
Боже какой пустяк
Сделать хоть раз что-нибудь не так
Выкинуть хлам из дома и старых позвать друзей
Но что-то всерьез менять
Не побоясь в мелочах потерять
Свободно только небо над головой моей
Я был богом в прошлую ночь
Я отыскал дорогу и выбежал прочь
Богом стать просто если уже невмочь
И незачем плакать дом покидая в ночь
Но оказалось даже тогда
Что все дороги света ведут в никуда
И даже когда под ногами блестит вода
Бог просто не может странником быть всегда
Боже какой пустяк
Сделать хоть раз что-нибудь не так
Выкинуть хлам из дома и старых позвать друзей
Но что-то всерьез менять
Не побоясь в мелочах потерять
Свободно только небо над головой моей
Поднимаю свой воротник
Ругаю дождь и слякоть будто старик
Бегу за толпой видно уже привык
И в памяти небо как нереальный блик
Но однажды мне станет легко
И будет все не важно и далеко
Меня примет небо в свой неземной покой
Александр Иванов
Thursday, December 18, 2008
On getting one year older...
“Holy crap! I have lines under my eyes,” greets me my computer screen at the crack of dawn. It’s Yulya, im-ing me on Google talk.
“I just looked in the mirror in the bathroom at work and was like wtf?” she goes on. “One day you wake up and you’re like I just aged overnight! It's like good lord and the birthday is coming up. What am I supposed to do?”
I try not to think about the image that was staring back at me in my own bathroom mirror about two minutes ago.
“Didn’t you get the memo that says that bathroom mirrors lie?” I write back. “And if it’s any consolation, my skin tone is not what it used to be. And I have about a dozen of gray hairs…And I am older than you are…”
“But you're cute and all and you’ll always look like you’re seventeen. And that’s a compliment, by the way…”
Regardless whether I look like seventeen or not, I have never been as aware of my age as I am this year. And that is without even having to see an occasional gray strand. First there was the trip back home that made me realize that had I been living in Armenia, I would be pushing it close to the dooms of spinsterhood by now. Seeing my much younger cousins married and with kids didn’t help either Yet, there I was, no kids and all, stuck in a lifestyle of a perpetual student that doesn’t seem to have an end in any foreseeable future. Later this year, throughout this entire past semester I was constantly reminded of my age thanks to the couple of undergraduate courses that I had to take. And yet, feeling ancient aside, I am coming to really appreciate the fact that thank god, I’m over twenty one and a quarter life existential crisis closer to whatever it is that I am moving towards to. Looking back at my myself at various points of my past makes me extremely grateful for no longer being that young, that misguided, that naïve and that arrogant. Looking at myself now I realize how much I really value the experience, the knowledge and the wisdom that comes to me with every passing year, even if I still react to the physical signs of aging with a “holy crap!”
***
I remember around this time last year I first caught myself thinking and then telling Mother Sugar that I am actually looking forward to being old. Somehow there is this image in my mind of an old woman – wise, serene, composed, in a big house full of books and maps … I see myself sitting in a chair for hours at a time, leisurely musing on things far removed from the everyday life, things that go beyond one’s own life experiences and things that I’ll never have the time to think about while I am young… I remember talking about this with Yulya as we split a mediocre brownie in a bakery in Tbilisi this past summer… and how we decided that when we get old, we’ll open our own pastry shop, and she’ll have a garden and I’ll study butterflies…
This morning I remind her of that conversation. And tell her that I have heard that vitamin E does miracles to the skin. I am also one year closer. And it’s making me smile.
“I just looked in the mirror in the bathroom at work and was like wtf?” she goes on. “One day you wake up and you’re like I just aged overnight! It's like good lord and the birthday is coming up. What am I supposed to do?”
I try not to think about the image that was staring back at me in my own bathroom mirror about two minutes ago.
“Didn’t you get the memo that says that bathroom mirrors lie?” I write back. “And if it’s any consolation, my skin tone is not what it used to be. And I have about a dozen of gray hairs…And I am older than you are…”
“But you're cute and all and you’ll always look like you’re seventeen. And that’s a compliment, by the way…”
Regardless whether I look like seventeen or not, I have never been as aware of my age as I am this year. And that is without even having to see an occasional gray strand. First there was the trip back home that made me realize that had I been living in Armenia, I would be pushing it close to the dooms of spinsterhood by now. Seeing my much younger cousins married and with kids didn’t help either Yet, there I was, no kids and all, stuck in a lifestyle of a perpetual student that doesn’t seem to have an end in any foreseeable future. Later this year, throughout this entire past semester I was constantly reminded of my age thanks to the couple of undergraduate courses that I had to take. And yet, feeling ancient aside, I am coming to really appreciate the fact that thank god, I’m over twenty one and a quarter life existential crisis closer to whatever it is that I am moving towards to. Looking back at my myself at various points of my past makes me extremely grateful for no longer being that young, that misguided, that naïve and that arrogant. Looking at myself now I realize how much I really value the experience, the knowledge and the wisdom that comes to me with every passing year, even if I still react to the physical signs of aging with a “holy crap!”
***
I remember around this time last year I first caught myself thinking and then telling Mother Sugar that I am actually looking forward to being old. Somehow there is this image in my mind of an old woman – wise, serene, composed, in a big house full of books and maps … I see myself sitting in a chair for hours at a time, leisurely musing on things far removed from the everyday life, things that go beyond one’s own life experiences and things that I’ll never have the time to think about while I am young… I remember talking about this with Yulya as we split a mediocre brownie in a bakery in Tbilisi this past summer… and how we decided that when we get old, we’ll open our own pastry shop, and she’ll have a garden and I’ll study butterflies…
This morning I remind her of that conversation. And tell her that I have heard that vitamin E does miracles to the skin. I am also one year closer. And it’s making me smile.
Monday, December 08, 2008
It's about that time, isn't it?
I am three days and two final exams away from the winter break - the only real break I get to have since the winter break of last year. I finally feel how the craziness of this entire year is starting to tell on me, so the coming month of no obligations is much anticipated. And yet, I already have my work cut out for me: learn integration and differential equations; read on chaos theory and difference equations; read up on game theory that we didn't finish in class and go through ever single Foreign Policy issue sitting on the library shelf. Frankly, I much rather be doing exactly that than studying for the finals. If there is one thing I dread about school is those last couple of days regardless of how well I think I know the subjects and how well prepared I think I am.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Speaking of drama...
A while back I wrote a post titled "А напоследок я скажу," which happened to be the name of an old Russian romance from the film "A Cruel Romance." Although I have been been looking everywhere for the film, I was delighted to find the beautiful and heartbreaking song itself, which I am sharing with you here.
Monday, December 01, 2008
The bloody aftermath...
I am awfully sorry to disappoint my readers, but my adventures of this past summer didn’t even come close to resemble the colorful plots that my dear friend nicely laid out here. Unfortunately we’re looking at ramblings of a neurotic female instead of the drama of Mexican telenovellas. The diplomat didn’t turn out to be the cousin of the boy, there were no marines anywhere in the vicinity and I ended up back in Richmond safely and soundly, missing out on Cairo and abductions and confinements in tomb like structures with sex starved terrorists. Apologies again. If I can somehow make up for the lack of excitement, maybe I will, at some point in the future, when I am old and retired, turn this into an action packed flick, somehow managing to incorporate the KGB into this rest of the potpourri as well. After all, there are only so many boring old memoirs that the world can bear to read.
I do have to admit that this particular event did have a quite a lasting impact. After all, it’s not like proposals like this happen to me on a regular basis. If I were smart enough and knew better, I would simply let it go, attributing the temporary lapse of judgment of the said diplomat to Yerevan summer heat, alcohol, Indian spices and scantly clad women swarming the streets of my city, instead of wasting my precious time trying to figure out why on earth would anyone want propose to someone they have just met. Especially since I make it pretty obvious that those of my type are nothing but trouble, let alone suitable marriage material.
Had I been smarter, I would have known better not to question other people’s motives. Most of the time I can hardly figure out my own for that matter. As much as I claim that the underlying motives of US foreign policies are blatantly obvious, the dark and murky kind belonging to the personnel of the aforementioned department are better left alone. But even when I consider the most harmless of these motives, you have got to agree that proposing marriage must be the worst trick to use for anyone who wants to get laid. God, even I have over a dozen of more creative one-liners in my back pocket that have a better chance of success. Had the man been more honest about his intentions, I would have kindly pointed him to the right direction, equipped him with a couple of my own one-liners and sent him away with blessings. The story would have ended right there without any hurt feelings or bruised egos, as I would congratulate myself with yet another successfully accomplished mission…
And yet, at that moment, despite my seemingly cheerful appearance and humorous mood, I was really and seriously enraged. And the more I thought about it, the more upset I became. Thinking about the banality of this whole situation - a foreign diplomat in an exotic country, a young local female and the bright prospect of becoming a diplomatic wife … The fact that this particular subject was not a balding male with a protruding beer gut didn’t significantly improve the situation. If anything, it reminded me of the circumstances under which I was married years ago and clearly, it wasn’t something that they put in the curry that was making me sick in the stomach.
Some may see this situation as incredibly noble and romantic. After all, there was that slim possibility that the poor diplomat had the best of intentions. And yet I found it nothing but repulsive. I couldn’t stop but wonder that what I was encountering was one of the worst moves in gender politics. He was proposing marriage to a woman he had just met. He was handing it to her on a silver plate as if it was the best that she could have hoped for in her lifetime. Was this what he thought women wanted? Was it all that he thought women wanted? Was this his idea of impressing women? Should I have sat there, floored and flattered and dizzy with expectations of some happily ever after? I left the restaurant furious, wondering whether this really was the best that I could ever hope for– a reckless, thoughtless marriage proposal thrown at me as if it was the end all, be all.
But as I was walking home, I thought about women who may really want this. Women who might perceive situations like this one as appropriate, noble, romantic... I thought about women that would be happy to trade places with me and yet others who may be impatiently waiting for their partners to offer what this man was offering to me so readily and eagerly… Maybe I was missing a point; maybe all that I had accomplished during the years of my adult life was become a heartless romance-intolerant cynic. Maybe marriage really was some kind of an end-all, be all, and I was simply too stubborn, too vain and misguided to really see the point.
Maybe I will never, to my shrink’s disappointment, come to understand the point. After all, I am damaged goods when it comes to anything marriage related, given my past track record. And yet, even if I believe that marriage isn’t the best that I can ever hope for, I really wish that there is something more than reckless frivolity involved when it comes down to it. That night, still upset and frustrated, I asked the boy whether he would ever marry someone like me. Just like that. Over a text message. Unaware and unsuspecting, he wrote me back “Of course,” and called me to find out whether I was feeling ok. Now that, my friends, is what I see as true romance. Everything else can simply go to hell, maybe with the exception of a hot stripper. A bonus point if she has an eye patch.
I do have to admit that this particular event did have a quite a lasting impact. After all, it’s not like proposals like this happen to me on a regular basis. If I were smart enough and knew better, I would simply let it go, attributing the temporary lapse of judgment of the said diplomat to Yerevan summer heat, alcohol, Indian spices and scantly clad women swarming the streets of my city, instead of wasting my precious time trying to figure out why on earth would anyone want propose to someone they have just met. Especially since I make it pretty obvious that those of my type are nothing but trouble, let alone suitable marriage material.
Had I been smarter, I would have known better not to question other people’s motives. Most of the time I can hardly figure out my own for that matter. As much as I claim that the underlying motives of US foreign policies are blatantly obvious, the dark and murky kind belonging to the personnel of the aforementioned department are better left alone. But even when I consider the most harmless of these motives, you have got to agree that proposing marriage must be the worst trick to use for anyone who wants to get laid. God, even I have over a dozen of more creative one-liners in my back pocket that have a better chance of success. Had the man been more honest about his intentions, I would have kindly pointed him to the right direction, equipped him with a couple of my own one-liners and sent him away with blessings. The story would have ended right there without any hurt feelings or bruised egos, as I would congratulate myself with yet another successfully accomplished mission…
And yet, at that moment, despite my seemingly cheerful appearance and humorous mood, I was really and seriously enraged. And the more I thought about it, the more upset I became. Thinking about the banality of this whole situation - a foreign diplomat in an exotic country, a young local female and the bright prospect of becoming a diplomatic wife … The fact that this particular subject was not a balding male with a protruding beer gut didn’t significantly improve the situation. If anything, it reminded me of the circumstances under which I was married years ago and clearly, it wasn’t something that they put in the curry that was making me sick in the stomach.
Some may see this situation as incredibly noble and romantic. After all, there was that slim possibility that the poor diplomat had the best of intentions. And yet I found it nothing but repulsive. I couldn’t stop but wonder that what I was encountering was one of the worst moves in gender politics. He was proposing marriage to a woman he had just met. He was handing it to her on a silver plate as if it was the best that she could have hoped for in her lifetime. Was this what he thought women wanted? Was it all that he thought women wanted? Was this his idea of impressing women? Should I have sat there, floored and flattered and dizzy with expectations of some happily ever after? I left the restaurant furious, wondering whether this really was the best that I could ever hope for– a reckless, thoughtless marriage proposal thrown at me as if it was the end all, be all.
But as I was walking home, I thought about women who may really want this. Women who might perceive situations like this one as appropriate, noble, romantic... I thought about women that would be happy to trade places with me and yet others who may be impatiently waiting for their partners to offer what this man was offering to me so readily and eagerly… Maybe I was missing a point; maybe all that I had accomplished during the years of my adult life was become a heartless romance-intolerant cynic. Maybe marriage really was some kind of an end-all, be all, and I was simply too stubborn, too vain and misguided to really see the point.
Maybe I will never, to my shrink’s disappointment, come to understand the point. After all, I am damaged goods when it comes to anything marriage related, given my past track record. And yet, even if I believe that marriage isn’t the best that I can ever hope for, I really wish that there is something more than reckless frivolity involved when it comes down to it. That night, still upset and frustrated, I asked the boy whether he would ever marry someone like me. Just like that. Over a text message. Unaware and unsuspecting, he wrote me back “Of course,” and called me to find out whether I was feeling ok. Now that, my friends, is what I see as true romance. Everything else can simply go to hell, maybe with the exception of a hot stripper. A bonus point if she has an eye patch.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Bringing the chicken curry back
I was only weeks away from moving in with the boy,
I had been thinking quite a lot about the Golden Notebook and the relationship of Anna with Michael and her fictitious characters Ella and Paul,
An event that is soon to become a focal point here – I was proposed to by a certain diplomatic servant of the United States to Armenia.
Yeah, you heard me right – a diplomatic servant of relative importance (neither his post nor his identity should be revealed for apparent reasons) proposed marriage over a meal of chicken curry and a couple of mango lasses (of course there has to be chicken curry involved somewhere in here, doesn’t it?) at a lovely Indian restaurant in downtown Yerevan.
The horror of horrors – what an ungodly act! Even the fact that I have really pretty eyes (?) does not serve as grounds for an excuse for such … (I can’t even find words to describe such atrocity). And yet, as serious as he made the whole thing sound (I’m not sure if you can ever take the State Department seriously), I certainly do hope that he was joking, otherwise the said State Department should be gravely concerned with the state of mental health of its employees. So to keep the same humorous air, I told him that I would marry him if he took me to Beirut for the honeymoon. He said that there was not even a slight chance of that happening and that Cairo was the farthest that he would go to draw that line of compromise (compromise? Before marriage? Come on!). I shrugged my shoulders and calmly rejected his offer, as I cold heartedly broke his heart (not really). The end of story, you would think? Not quite.
The thing is, crazy and ridiculous shit always happens to me when I am in Yerevan. That’s a known fact that can be taken for granted. But the usual suspects of such ridiculousness used to involve any or all combinations of the following: the fat bastard, peace corps, strippers and the marines… Diplomatic staff? I am not sure whether I should consider this as an upgrade or a downgrade from the above listed bunch.
The scary thing is that had I been younger and under different circumstances, I would have said “yes” to the guy just out of the sheer absurdity of the whole situation. And who knows, maybe I would have made it out of Cairo alive, we would have had a couple of embassy brats and life would become nothing but one drunken hash after another, since at that point I would have to start drinking and drinking heavily…
So the story itself is remarkable enough to be worth holding on to so that I can tell it to my grandkids. And yet, as hysterical and absurd as it may sound, it evoked a series of quite uncomfortable and distressing emotions, both directed towards myself, the poor diplomatic servant (who was quite adorable, I would have to admit) and another, completely innocent party that became the only casualty of this whole situation that I will unfold shortly. But before I take a breath to sort through my frantic notes as I struggle to organize my thoughts, I have to warn you that what follows next is nothing but what you may see as the bloody aftermath of feminism, and it, indeed, is not going to be pretty…Loaded stuff coming right up. So hang on tightly.
P.S. I think the fat bastards owes me at least two Cricket lighters.
Monday, November 24, 2008
***
Nika, every challenge is a stepping stone to a happier place than you even knew existed.
Oh, the magic,
The Universe
Oh, the magic,
The Universe
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Learn to pick your adjectives
Damn! Right after I vowed to continue keeping my political beliefs to myself, I am forced to amend the previously made statement thanks to the recent numbers pulled by the wonderful periodical named the Economist. So in the light of such events I will have to make a slight amendment to the effect that I will abstain from pushing my otherwise rigorous and vocal political agenda on this blog, unless it’s somewhat related to foreign affairs, especially when my target happens to resemble the general form of "stupid."
The truth is, my outrage has been brewing for quite a while, starting with the unfair coverage of the Russian-Georgian conflict of the past summer by the “Western” media. Back then the Economist posted the more or less decent stuff on the subject, such as this or this. But then about a month ago this happened, and then there was this, which was not only poorly researched and all over the place as far as articles go, but also displayed lack of any substantial knowledge and understanding of what has been happening in the entire region of the Caucasus for the past few decades or so. It also insulted me, like it would insult any other person either from the region or possessing any knowledge about the region or having any interest whatsoever in the stability of the region. Those of you who’d like to witness a transnational virtual conflict that erupted after the above referenced articles are encouraged to read the Comments section that follow this particular piece.
Given the fact that I wasn’t really all that enthusiastic to discuss the events of the past summer beyond what I had already said, I thought I would simply let my issues go, especially when considering the otherwise long and loving relationship that I’ve had with the Economist so far. But my outrage was more than doubled after the relatively recent blurb that the Economist posted on relatively recent events of the presidential elections in the United States and the first state-of-the-nation address of Dmitry Medvedev to Russia (which by whatever coincidence or conspiracy, as the Economist claims, happened to follow one another). And of course, it pushed me over the edge.
Dear Economist, please help me make this clear - are you suggesting that the internal events of one state should be coordinated in such a way that they do not interfere with the internal evets of another state? Is it just me, or the mere suggestion stinks of absurdity? By the same token, all historic and other considerations aside, why exactly should Obama’s acceptance speech have been expected to be televised in Russia? When was the last time any of Russia’s presidential speeches were broadcasted to the American public? Besides, would you rather they turned it all around and covered the US elections for the allotted 45 minutes of broadcasting, leaving Mr. Medvedev only five minutes to address his nation for the first time since he took the office?
As for the content of the speech – leave it to the Russians to judge and please bear in mind that the popularity ratings of both Mr. Medvedev and his predecessor have always been and remain significantly higher among the Russians (compared to those of the current president of the United States.) Plus the former enjoy an advantage of being able to communicate in distinct, grammatically correct and quite meaningful utterances that they call sentences. Speaking of which - don’t you think that there may be a better, perhaps a more grown up adjective to describe Mr. Medvedev’s speech besides “belligerent?”
And please, please, leave democracy aside. It makes me sick in the stomach every time someone brings the magic bullet word up, since we all know that this is not what it is about and has never been, especially when it is becoming increasingly clear that “[m]aking criticism of Russian democracy a strong theme of […] foreign policy no longer enhances respect for either democracy or the United States in Russia.”*
See, dear Economist, it’s not like I have any vested interest in Russia itself or am particularly anti-American. I’m just anti-stupid, and this particular article (which I can’t label as anything but “retarded”) shrinks you to the level of dirty tabloids that would publish anything to make a splash. I mean, there is bias, but then there is well-researched, well formulated and well argued bias and it is the latter that will earn you the cool points.** Unless, of course, this all is a part of a grand scheme of pushing another kind of fear-infused agenda (one of the comments, I shit you not, was “Russia scares the hell out of me…”), and fear, in its all shapes and forms, has been a highly coveted commodity in the political world as of late, as Mr. Colbert recently mentioned.
With all due respect, you’ve got to be higher than that.
P.S. For those who may be interested in a better researched, better formulated and more level headed account of past and present challenges as well as the shaping of US-Russia relations, I recommend Charles King's essay sited below (read preview here)
* Chares King. The Five Day War: Managing Moscow After the Georgia Crisis. Foreign Affairs. November/December 2008. p. 22.
** There is also, so I hear, the omitted variable bias, but that is usually left to be discussed in modern econometric courses.
The truth is, my outrage has been brewing for quite a while, starting with the unfair coverage of the Russian-Georgian conflict of the past summer by the “Western” media. Back then the Economist posted the more or less decent stuff on the subject, such as this or this. But then about a month ago this happened, and then there was this, which was not only poorly researched and all over the place as far as articles go, but also displayed lack of any substantial knowledge and understanding of what has been happening in the entire region of the Caucasus for the past few decades or so. It also insulted me, like it would insult any other person either from the region or possessing any knowledge about the region or having any interest whatsoever in the stability of the region. Those of you who’d like to witness a transnational virtual conflict that erupted after the above referenced articles are encouraged to read the Comments section that follow this particular piece.
Given the fact that I wasn’t really all that enthusiastic to discuss the events of the past summer beyond what I had already said, I thought I would simply let my issues go, especially when considering the otherwise long and loving relationship that I’ve had with the Economist so far. But my outrage was more than doubled after the relatively recent blurb that the Economist posted on relatively recent events of the presidential elections in the United States and the first state-of-the-nation address of Dmitry Medvedev to Russia (which by whatever coincidence or conspiracy, as the Economist claims, happened to follow one another). And of course, it pushed me over the edge.
Dear Economist, please help me make this clear - are you suggesting that the internal events of one state should be coordinated in such a way that they do not interfere with the internal evets of another state? Is it just me, or the mere suggestion stinks of absurdity? By the same token, all historic and other considerations aside, why exactly should Obama’s acceptance speech have been expected to be televised in Russia? When was the last time any of Russia’s presidential speeches were broadcasted to the American public? Besides, would you rather they turned it all around and covered the US elections for the allotted 45 minutes of broadcasting, leaving Mr. Medvedev only five minutes to address his nation for the first time since he took the office?
As for the content of the speech – leave it to the Russians to judge and please bear in mind that the popularity ratings of both Mr. Medvedev and his predecessor have always been and remain significantly higher among the Russians (compared to those of the current president of the United States.) Plus the former enjoy an advantage of being able to communicate in distinct, grammatically correct and quite meaningful utterances that they call sentences. Speaking of which - don’t you think that there may be a better, perhaps a more grown up adjective to describe Mr. Medvedev’s speech besides “belligerent?”
And please, please, leave democracy aside. It makes me sick in the stomach every time someone brings the magic bullet word up, since we all know that this is not what it is about and has never been, especially when it is becoming increasingly clear that “[m]aking criticism of Russian democracy a strong theme of […] foreign policy no longer enhances respect for either democracy or the United States in Russia.”*
See, dear Economist, it’s not like I have any vested interest in Russia itself or am particularly anti-American. I’m just anti-stupid, and this particular article (which I can’t label as anything but “retarded”) shrinks you to the level of dirty tabloids that would publish anything to make a splash. I mean, there is bias, but then there is well-researched, well formulated and well argued bias and it is the latter that will earn you the cool points.** Unless, of course, this all is a part of a grand scheme of pushing another kind of fear-infused agenda (one of the comments, I shit you not, was “Russia scares the hell out of me…”), and fear, in its all shapes and forms, has been a highly coveted commodity in the political world as of late, as Mr. Colbert recently mentioned.
With all due respect, you’ve got to be higher than that.
P.S. For those who may be interested in a better researched, better formulated and more level headed account of past and present challenges as well as the shaping of US-Russia relations, I recommend Charles King's essay sited below (read preview here)
* Chares King. The Five Day War: Managing Moscow After the Georgia Crisis. Foreign Affairs. November/December 2008. p. 22.
** There is also, so I hear, the omitted variable bias, but that is usually left to be discussed in modern econometric courses.
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