dreamed last night that a scintillating scotoma was starting; i think
i was trying to read, but couldn't see letters, space was distorted as
though there were blind spots. i'm wondering if now that i'm familiar with the scotoma experience, the normal dream experience of being unable to resolve text in a dream is now naturally triggering thoughts, and ensuing dream experience, of a migraine aura.
i went to get my laptop
so i could start recording the aura, but then i got distracted by
downloading a video game, which then autonomously tried to download
other games, which made it impossible for me to get back to matlab to
run the aura recorder.
after a few minutes, i realized
that either i had missed the whole thing, or it had stopped, because
there was no scotoma and i couldn't remember seeing any of the big
peripheral scintillations. at some point after that, i realized it had
all been a dream, and i started wondering whether i actually had a
headache or not; then i awoke, and went through the same train of
thought again. but happily, no headache.
my tkd black
belt test is sunday, and i am slightly nervous that i will get a
headache sunday morning; i have a superstitious feeling that i have
*caused* the headaches before by thinking too much about being about to
have one, when in fact i think i've just subconsciously noticed aspects
of prodrome. anyways.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Friday, January 18, 2013
gone, gone..
I need to get back to posting on my research activities, which have not ceased completely believe it or not. Next time, next time.
My grandfather, granddaddy, RSM, died Tuesday night. He was 92, born on the Ides of March in 1920. He was my last grandparent, my mother's father. Her mother, Elizabeth, who I will always say was probably the most important influence on the development of the contents of my mind, died almost 3 years ago at 85. My father's father died in summer of 2001, 89 years old. His mother died in 1998, 84.
My mother's parents were always closer to us, maybe because they were younger than my father's - by a decade - and had a lot more energy left. My father's parents could only tell me stories and talk with me; my mother's parents took me places and taught me things.
Elizabeth gave me books, told me about what she knew and where she'd been, took me to museums and historical sites all over the southeast, taught me to explore cities and the countryside and new towns, and to wonder where we and our ancestors had come from, and where all people and their cities and their civilizations had come from.
Granddaddy took me fishing on the rivers and lakes that he'd fished on since he was a boy - since before they had existed, in the case of those big TVA lakes, I guess. He tried to take me hunting, but I clearly wasn't interested. He took me camping and exploring in forests and mountains. He showed me how to interact with nature, and I don't think he ever knew how much of it stuck with me. I'm not a fisherman, but I know how to fish, and I know how to get around in the woods, and I'm at home in the outdoors. He was also a doctor and an artist. On the outside he was a cynic and a skeptic as pertained to human things, but he was always fascinated with nature, and with the human being and the human mind, and I think he was proud of me for becoming what I am. I know for certain that since I was little I learned to copy his personality, and my mother has commented on it positively and negatively, because he could be harsh and negative. I always wanted to be like him.
It was so strange to see him go, just like it was with Elizabeth, who was always so mobile and active and who spent her last year or so unable to get out of bed. Granddaddy, and I told him this the last time I saw him, was always the strongest person I ever knew, the model of strength, invincible even though I knew he was always getting injured in one way or another, always sick but always too strong for the sickness. But in his last years he lost his house and all of his health, and became thin and pale and weak, and finally he too was stuck in bed, but thankfully only for the last couple of months.
One of the last times I saw him, around Labor Day, I went to pick him up in Dunlap to bring him back to Kingston Springs to stay for a while. He said he wanted to start driving again, as if it were possible, and I think he must have known it wasn't, but also that he knew that to get out and get around was his only way of living, and that otherwise he had nothing left. He talked about his old life, basically the time before Elizabeth died, when he still painted and was still on his own, and had her to take care of and to take care of him. Then she went, and he sold his house and moved from place to place, and I kept thinking he was like a living ghost, and he knew it. I wish he could have lived forever, but nobody does.
So is this the best option we have? Live to be old, and watch as everything is subtracted from you, until you are zero. He had nothing left, he had given it all away or lost it or had it taken from him. I think I will always feel like he lost too much that we could have taken, or that we took things too early. He was more than any of us knew how to deal with, and we didn't know how to deal with his slowly fading away. His nurse called my mother early on Tuesday morning to say he was writhing in bed and laughing, and we all took that as a sign, properly, that he was almost finished. He was so tired, I've never seen anyone so tired...
So sad this week, so sad...
My grandfather, granddaddy, RSM, died Tuesday night. He was 92, born on the Ides of March in 1920. He was my last grandparent, my mother's father. Her mother, Elizabeth, who I will always say was probably the most important influence on the development of the contents of my mind, died almost 3 years ago at 85. My father's father died in summer of 2001, 89 years old. His mother died in 1998, 84.
My mother's parents were always closer to us, maybe because they were younger than my father's - by a decade - and had a lot more energy left. My father's parents could only tell me stories and talk with me; my mother's parents took me places and taught me things.
Elizabeth gave me books, told me about what she knew and where she'd been, took me to museums and historical sites all over the southeast, taught me to explore cities and the countryside and new towns, and to wonder where we and our ancestors had come from, and where all people and their cities and their civilizations had come from.
Granddaddy took me fishing on the rivers and lakes that he'd fished on since he was a boy - since before they had existed, in the case of those big TVA lakes, I guess. He tried to take me hunting, but I clearly wasn't interested. He took me camping and exploring in forests and mountains. He showed me how to interact with nature, and I don't think he ever knew how much of it stuck with me. I'm not a fisherman, but I know how to fish, and I know how to get around in the woods, and I'm at home in the outdoors. He was also a doctor and an artist. On the outside he was a cynic and a skeptic as pertained to human things, but he was always fascinated with nature, and with the human being and the human mind, and I think he was proud of me for becoming what I am. I know for certain that since I was little I learned to copy his personality, and my mother has commented on it positively and negatively, because he could be harsh and negative. I always wanted to be like him.
It was so strange to see him go, just like it was with Elizabeth, who was always so mobile and active and who spent her last year or so unable to get out of bed. Granddaddy, and I told him this the last time I saw him, was always the strongest person I ever knew, the model of strength, invincible even though I knew he was always getting injured in one way or another, always sick but always too strong for the sickness. But in his last years he lost his house and all of his health, and became thin and pale and weak, and finally he too was stuck in bed, but thankfully only for the last couple of months.
One of the last times I saw him, around Labor Day, I went to pick him up in Dunlap to bring him back to Kingston Springs to stay for a while. He said he wanted to start driving again, as if it were possible, and I think he must have known it wasn't, but also that he knew that to get out and get around was his only way of living, and that otherwise he had nothing left. He talked about his old life, basically the time before Elizabeth died, when he still painted and was still on his own, and had her to take care of and to take care of him. Then she went, and he sold his house and moved from place to place, and I kept thinking he was like a living ghost, and he knew it. I wish he could have lived forever, but nobody does.
So is this the best option we have? Live to be old, and watch as everything is subtracted from you, until you are zero. He had nothing left, he had given it all away or lost it or had it taken from him. I think I will always feel like he lost too much that we could have taken, or that we took things too early. He was more than any of us knew how to deal with, and we didn't know how to deal with his slowly fading away. His nurse called my mother early on Tuesday morning to say he was writhing in bed and laughing, and we all took that as a sign, properly, that he was almost finished. He was so tired, I've never seen anyone so tired...
So sad this week, so sad...
Thursday, January 10, 2013
frustration '13
so, this past summer, my boss tells me that he's invited to give a retrospective paper on a particular topic as it pertains to a meeting he's been a regular at for almost 20 years. he asks if i'd be interested in writing it with him, and i honestly said no, i don't know the meeting that well, it's not really my core area, i don't have time now to do a retrospective which means all sorts of reading and research that i don't need to do on old things that nobody cares about anymore, and there are other things i'd rather be doing. he seemed to agree and said okay, we won't do it. then, a week later he tells me he agreed to supply the paper, as if i'd agreed, and so i didn't put up a second protest, except probably for a confused look on my face.
so here we are now, the paper is due, i've written it and spent a few good weeks on it, and i'm satisfied with it. i'm not even going to the meeting to present it. so now he wants to continue making changes and modifications to the structure of the thing, and he wants me to make the presentation for him. this is really frustrating. it's too late to fight it, because the paper is there on the schedule, he's going to present it, and i don't *want* to present it, and if i refuse to make the presentation he's not going to be able to do it himself, and it will just cause a fight and a falling out, which is bad because we're currently on good terms.
this is very frustrating. i'm put, again, in this position of paralysis, where there are several other things that i want to do, or need to get done, and instead i have to do this pointless job instead, and so i wind up doing next to nothing. i'm like a ghostwriter. how is this research? i have papers to revise and resubmit, papers to complete and submit, papers to write and complete, experiments to finish and write up, and instead i'm struggling over this stupid retrospective on a topic that i think is basically irrelevant, and in which my *conclusions* are that that work done on this topic over a 20 year period are basically irrelevant. the paper itself begs the question of why the paper has even been written. i think i made a big mistake in letting myself get put into this assignment.
so here we are now, the paper is due, i've written it and spent a few good weeks on it, and i'm satisfied with it. i'm not even going to the meeting to present it. so now he wants to continue making changes and modifications to the structure of the thing, and he wants me to make the presentation for him. this is really frustrating. it's too late to fight it, because the paper is there on the schedule, he's going to present it, and i don't *want* to present it, and if i refuse to make the presentation he's not going to be able to do it himself, and it will just cause a fight and a falling out, which is bad because we're currently on good terms.
this is very frustrating. i'm put, again, in this position of paralysis, where there are several other things that i want to do, or need to get done, and instead i have to do this pointless job instead, and so i wind up doing next to nothing. i'm like a ghostwriter. how is this research? i have papers to revise and resubmit, papers to complete and submit, papers to write and complete, experiments to finish and write up, and instead i'm struggling over this stupid retrospective on a topic that i think is basically irrelevant, and in which my *conclusions* are that that work done on this topic over a 20 year period are basically irrelevant. the paper itself begs the question of why the paper has even been written. i think i made a big mistake in letting myself get put into this assignment.
Saturday, January 05, 2013
also
a few other observations from china:
in developed, urbanized places, people live, or aspire to live, in flat, spread-out places (single-family houses in subdivisions, or in the countryside); and they go to work in tall buildings in concentrated, densely-built places.
in developing, urbanizing places, people live, or aspire to live, in tall buildings in densely-built places; and they go to work in flat, spread-out places (factories, construction).
all i noticed was that in china, even in small towns, once you get out of the little villages (where each family has a house of their own), the common people live in tall apartment buildings or highrises, but a lot of them are going to work in huge factory floors, although a lot of them are also going to commercial or service-sector stuff in big multistory buildings. meanwhile in the US, common people (except for young people starting out, or the urban poor, or anyone living in a big city downtown) live in houses surrounded by open space, but they tend to go to work in service sector or commercial business in tall, downtown buildings, although many are also going to work on factory floors. so, it's not a perfect 'economic chiasmus', but still an interesting little contrast.
also, this happened several times: after using the second floor bathroom, i would stand by the window to reassemble my multi-layer winter clothing, looking outside through the blinds. across the street, i would see the front window, at ground-level, of another house, with white curtains drawn. just in front of the window was a little tree with what i think were seed pods hanging from the branches, so that i saw the branches against the window curtain background. each time i saw this scene, i at first would think that the curtain had large-print calligraphic characters printed on it, only to shift immediately to seeing the true depthful scene - deja trompé! even after the shift, there would still be a lingering feeling of 'what are the characters, they are too small to read', which would then quickly disappear as it was obviously a wrong question. it did make me wonder whether or not the same sort of scene had stimulated some artful styles of calligraphy..
in developed, urbanized places, people live, or aspire to live, in flat, spread-out places (single-family houses in subdivisions, or in the countryside); and they go to work in tall buildings in concentrated, densely-built places.
in developing, urbanizing places, people live, or aspire to live, in tall buildings in densely-built places; and they go to work in flat, spread-out places (factories, construction).
all i noticed was that in china, even in small towns, once you get out of the little villages (where each family has a house of their own), the common people live in tall apartment buildings or highrises, but a lot of them are going to work in huge factory floors, although a lot of them are also going to commercial or service-sector stuff in big multistory buildings. meanwhile in the US, common people (except for young people starting out, or the urban poor, or anyone living in a big city downtown) live in houses surrounded by open space, but they tend to go to work in service sector or commercial business in tall, downtown buildings, although many are also going to work on factory floors. so, it's not a perfect 'economic chiasmus', but still an interesting little contrast.
also, this happened several times: after using the second floor bathroom, i would stand by the window to reassemble my multi-layer winter clothing, looking outside through the blinds. across the street, i would see the front window, at ground-level, of another house, with white curtains drawn. just in front of the window was a little tree with what i think were seed pods hanging from the branches, so that i saw the branches against the window curtain background. each time i saw this scene, i at first would think that the curtain had large-print calligraphic characters printed on it, only to shift immediately to seeing the true depthful scene - deja trompé! even after the shift, there would still be a lingering feeling of 'what are the characters, they are too small to read', which would then quickly disappear as it was obviously a wrong question. it did make me wonder whether or not the same sort of scene had stimulated some artful styles of calligraphy..
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