January 19, 1998.
I'll have lots more for you later today. Unfortunately (or whatever), I'm bound for the hospital this morning yet again. Today I'm being subjected to nuclear testing. Yummy radioactive dye for me.
The first thing they made me do was lie down on the X-ray scanner. It resembled a MRI scanner in some ways, except that it didn't constitute a chamber, and was simply a huge ring that encircled the head of the bed-type platform they had me reclining upon. My left arm was placed in an armrest at my side, but I was required to raise my right arm up above my head so that they could prepare the I.V. I don't really have a problem with needles puncturing my skin (most people I know do) although of course I'm never looking forward to the moment of piercing. Initially I was made to drink lots of water, because the first thing they introduced to the I.V. was a potent dose of diuretic to get my kidneys filtering at their best. Next, the radioactive dye. Luckily, this was a different kind of dye than the injection I was given when I had X-rays taken during my kidney stone episode (yesterday's injection being for the purpose of monitoring function, the first injection allowing them to chart a physical obstruction), because as I warned the technician, radioactive dye has a habit of making me pukey.
For the next thirty-two minutes, I lay perfectly still while my slightly turned head allowed me to watch (with some interest) a monitor that displayed my glowing kidneys. As the time passed, my bladder became (as they warned me) more and more urgently full, and soon it was the most brightly glowing object on the screen, as it was holding rather a lot of radioactive chemicals. I won't know the results of this procedure for about two weeks, but I can only presume that I'm doing well, and my kidneys are filtering my blood just they way they were meant to by thousands of years of human evolution. Which actually reminds me of something that has caused me great ire over the past couple of days, which is my run-in with Christianity's devoutest. I was sitting in the junk-foody food court at school (home of Ottawa's first and only Taco Bell) with a friend on Thursday, when we were approached by a young man and woman.
Politely enough, we agreed to let them sit and talk to us for a couple of minutes, which turned out to be about an hour of them debating me about the existence and rightness of God. My friend had told them that he was reasonably religious, and was actually a Sunday school instructor, which earned their fast approval, but of course when I told them I was an atheist (well, they asked) there were a few moments of considerably shocked silence. This sparked the discussion. And of course, they could have never convinced me, but they tried. This is the way they work -- anything goes, different denominations, even different beliefs will sometimes be acknowledged and allowed. But atheists are a challenge; a problem to be fixed. So. I was given a whole heap of religious material to look over, and the challenge to ask Jesus to come into my heart for me, and prove his existence, and fill my life. In response, I presented the challenge that he (the male was the more outspoken of the pair) take a look at the entire world, look at everything people believe, have ever believed, and will ever believed, examine the universe and the way it works, and ask himself "Am I right? Am I really so sure, or arrogant, that I'm actually right?" And he admitted to me that looking that far outwards really scared him, and he didn't do it that often.
Which upset me for the sheer fact that it was basically a confession that religion was his escape from a sense of smallness, or reality. One of the tracts presented me was this big philosophical paper that presented five reasons why God exists.. with the rationale that it basically "makes sense" that God exists. I'm going to spend a lot of time rebutting it on my page, but work is calling and I'm feeling really sick, so off to work and nausea I go.
So it seemed like I was perfectly cut out for the world of computer programming. I started taking computer science classes in grade ten, and had finished all four years of the classes offered by the end of grade twelve. For some odd reason, my non-linear brain was inventive and ingenius when it came to the forbidden intricacies of Turing, an entirely instructional programming language used by my school. I was beyond a doubt one of the handful of exceptional students in any given class, and computers -- those submissive, obedient, shiny and sexy things -- had seduced me to the point where I was planning my future around them. I was (in computer science circles) famous for this game I made, especially among the lesser geeks of the high school -- the grubby greasies with shallower and sadder lives than even mine, who I instinctively shunned -- even though, from the perspective of years later, I can't possibly imagine why. It's cool and flashy, but really repetitive and annoying, and not technically "finished," in the sense that you couldn't possibly figure out how to win because it was kind of beside the point to me to make it playable at the time, as much as just flashy and impressive (I was milking it, yes). Anyway, for a limited time, you can DOWNLOAD this miracle of my nerdiness to see just how odd a duckling I really was (keeping in mind that you really couldn't do much with Turing..., and that it was written on an XT, and it flies unnaturally even on my 386).
There are particulars you should know about if you play the game, namely that I'm too lazy to give you instructions, so you'll have to press buttons until you give up. Lucky for you, I didn't set it up so that you can't control-break the program, so if you get frustrated that's how to quit. Of course, it needn't be said (because you know and love me) that I'm being nice because I don't mind the fact that you'll laugh at my crappy high school ventures, and that, even so, I'm still protective about crap I create (bad poetry or bad coding) so nothing gets downloaded without you understanding that I own the (copy)rights to absolutely everything I've ever done on my page, and if you mess with my rights, I'll liberate myself all over your dead ass. Anyhow, enjoy. And now back to my story.
Turing has sat pretty much unused on my PC since then. Not just because it tends to be extremely limited in function (I tried to write a program that would randomly generate names for me for story characters, but it doesn't like high variables and I was taking it into the hundreds of entries, so it got put away), but because after I left grade twelve for a hiatus in my schooling of six months (while I stayed in Kanata looking after my grandmother, due to the fact that my grandfather had recently passed away), I grew up, discovered a life all to myself, and had entirely more to do with my hours than mess with lines and lines of code (I don't feel particularly ashamed of those hours, due to the fact that I was so exceptionally good at it... therefore, it doesn't seem like a waste... just a phase). I kept everything though, because I'm a packrat, and even when I only had a 170 megabyte hard drive (student loans = computer upgrades) and I was desperately deleting files to free up room, I kept all my old high school data memories. I always figured I could teach myself Turing again (I've forgotten many of my old tricks over four years) if I needed to, and like old textbooks, I hate throwing away repositories of my knowledge.
Sometime after that point, after the end of grade thirteen, when I had been rejected from my applications into computer science degrees at various universities, I smartened up. It seemed like I would be making a mistake by pursuing that kind of study; the thought of spending the rest of my life writing code for some company with abstract purposes and goals seemed really pointless and depressing. I liked programming because even in the rigid structures of computer logic, there was an allowance for my individuality and zaniness. I could format the program any way I liked, mess around with variable names (eg. "var submarine," or "procedure hope_it_eats_the_disk"), which is silly but important. Most of all, though, I had say over what I produced. I was being creative, in a way, and if I set my career sights on computer science, someone else would probably be in control of my creativity and productivity, and that erased the allure and romance for me. Thus, I'm in Cognitive Science. And while "science" might be in the title, at least a quarter of my credits are going to be in philosophy.
Sitting in my lab today, though, I realized that I was happily keeping abreast, and formulating clever and sneaky solutions in my brain with a logical zeal that has been dusty and dormant since I got out of high school. The possibility of passing computer science with glowing colours is exciting simply for the fact that it's reassuring to excel now and then (and as well, the fact that I utterly failed calculus last term, destroying much of my scholastic self-confidence). My degree in Cognitive science requires a certain amount of computer science (introductory stuff at first, building up to classes in artificial intelligence in later years), and so my success in this degree hinges on my being able to slip into my geek shoes again, and write silly programs and get excellent marks on them. Now, if only I can shuck of my procrastination hat, I should be able to get somewhere.
Our cafe is being held every Wednesday in the warehouse, and it's actually quite a good sign for us that it's so fruitful and well-run. We've continued to make a tidy profit, and the crowds are decent and only one mug has so far been stolen (bunch of savages in this town). Broken and I make a habit of being there in the evenings and showing our support. We partake in the fine coffee and teas offered, play Scrabble (truly, the finest board game ever, although I think there should be an extra-vocabulary based version where you get absolutely no sneaky letter or word bonuses, an even number of each letter in the bag, way more letters in total, and room for 8 - 10 letters per player in the rules... that way, all you could do was build words and pile up hugemongous scores based only on a big fat phallic symbol of a vocabulary), smile, socialize, enjoy ourselves, and put money back into the house. It's nice; it's not always quiet or serene, but it is fun. Anyway, Pixiegirl dropped by for a couple of hours last night to check on her room, her cats, and the general scenery. She looked well, and we found her in remarkably good spirits. Life away in another environment has treated her well -- apparently she hasn't tried to kill herself again, and as Caira and Mefisto have discovered, independance from the pressure cooker of the house can be superbly good for the soul.
That being so, she's not at all certain if she's coming home. The notion of isolation has its appeal, and so she's been scratching her head, thinking, "Well, I could just move out on my own," which is ever such a sad thing for me to face, as I have missed the poor girl terribly. And while I do not intend to portray my residence as a place of nothing but ill and chaos (for I would not continue to stay if I did not, in fact, enjoy living here), it has become decidedly less wonderful and enriching without the happy presences of Caira and Mefisto (and subsequently Pixiegirl). It is really upsetting, however, to see such divisions. I've been very upset with certain residents over the treatment of my friend, as if she were taking less priority in the presence of a new, more desirable individual -- which isn't, to me, the way one ought to treat his or her friends. This has become something of a sore spot... Pixiegirl, being the only single female resident at the time, has been regarded, and treated, like a commodity since she moved in. It's natural for people to have crushes on her, but it's really upsetting, when, in spite of her feelings for someone else, she is wooed and pursued and craved and everything else, often to her great detriment. I've really come to care about her as a friend; I'm beginning to think I might actually be capable of platonic affection (whew! says the female population of earth). I just want the best for her.
January sixteenth, by proclamation of Caira, is my official un-birthday from now on. Because of the fact that we couldn't celebrate my actual birthday, due to its awkward scheduling (which falls every December the twenty-fourth), my trip to Toronto, and the poverty of my friends at the time, we held the fesitivities last Friday. This involved tasty beverages, tasty cheesecake, NTN consoles (whee!), exquisite company and yummy presents (a Gashlycrumb Tinies agenda, which I treasure and adore and even use, from Caira, and a whole buncha Tootsie Pops from Burrhus). We've been meeting at the James Street Feed Company (a jocky sports bar that nevertheless offers the aforementioned electronic trivia game and very good cheap food) to socialize when our jobs and educations (because, hey, we've got our heads screwed on straight and ambitious like) permit us to escape home and lecture theatre alike. It's really reassuring to know that, although the social link of the house no longer supports our friendship, that Caira, Mefisto, and I, are actually taking measures to remain close and companionate. I think this was a fear for all of us... that it might sort of fizzle out. Certainly Caira expected no one else from the house (except, she concedes, Jaysen, who is a wonderful duckie) to stay in touch (their parting, while not bitter, was the illustration of the complicated and unpleasant socio-political factors at play).
So, things are "Just OK." Not really great, but not all that bad. I'm trying to make the best out of my various problems, and enjoy the goodnesses I do have. I mean, I wrote my first computer program in -- oh -- three years tonight, which was a big delightful success. It required me to be clever and everything, and while I could have completed it easily with Turing (even with so much attrition in my knowledge of that system), there's nothing wackier than Object Oriented programming, and specifically, this idiosyncratic, instructional, application of it. I had to be clever and sneaky to figure out how to work out the best way to calculate the factorial for any given number, and it works just dandy. Broken likened me towards one of those wind up toys with a little motor in my bum, like the wind up swimming frogs that you used to be able to get, that swam around your bathtub, for I was puttering around with such enthusiastic pleasure at the realisation that I won't, in fact, likely fail computer science at all.
I really must go to bed, and prepare myself for a day of classes and work this fine Friday, but I wanted to apologize for being such a bum about my updates. It's been a busy week. I've prepared Clorinda's birthday present, at long last, and while it will take yonks to arrive at her home, it will be totally worth it. I wish I could be there to see her face, but anyway, I can pretty much imagine it vividly; it's just going to be murder waiting for the mail to properly deliver the goods as planned.
I was walking home today, freshly returned (via buses) from a night of cuddling and goodness and South Park (I wouldn't call South Park "My new favourite show," but it certainly is a show I've come into the habit of not missing now that I have a VCR -- because my TV is old and wacky, it requires the boosted signal from either a converter or a VCR to make it watchable, and anyway it only has 13 channels without such assistance, so I bought a stylishly designed RCA something-or-other to allow me to watch television and tape my ITV psychology lectures), and for various reasons that I won't get into, my self-esteem was really low, and I was just kind of slinking home, not really paying attention to the world. Yesterday brought a terrible snowstorm to Ottawa; for the entire day, the city was festooned with tons of snow, propelled onwards by mighty freezing winds that brought the temperature way down. Miserable miserable miserable. And it left today rather slippery and slushy out, even with the sidwalks cleared.
Coming down the street to my house, I felt myself losing traction. It didn't seem that bad for the first split-second, but after the other half of that second whizzed by, I knew I was losing control of at least one of my legs. Usually my kooky counterbalance abilities and happy reflexes are enough to stop me (when you're as clumsy as I am, you learn to compensate for all the dropped, spilled, knocked-over, tripped-over obstacles in life) from flying feet first into the air, but today there was to be no salvation for me. I flew, flew into the air. There was the ass, there was the teakettle. My briefcase hurtled in a graceful parabola onwards down the sidewalk, and I skidded to a stop with the (now red and sore) tips of my fingers as an anchor. I have to say, falling wasn't that bad, and it isn't, specifically, the basis for my complaint. My spine didn't snap, and my skull didn't crack, and I managed to walk home under my own power.
The world, however, didn't see it that
way. I got up (in considerable pain, but nothing lasting or crippling),
brushed the gobs of treacherous snow from my trenchcoat, walked after my
departed briefcase, and once I'd retrieved it, bravely trundled onwards.
Somewhere in my website, in the archive of past weekly philosophies, I
have a quote about the expressions of people walking out of porn
stores. I said, it's the same look you get when you trip in public. What
do you do? You look around to see if anyone saw you, because you really,
truly do feel ashamed and awkward -- which is precisely what I did
jsut then. I looked around to see who was watching my follies. As it
turns out, the world was watching. A couple walking towards me
politely averted their gaze, but people driving past in cars were pointing
and laughing, making no secret of the fact that they thought my suffering
was hysterical -- like dozens of personal Nelsons, laughing at me with a
grating "Ha Ha!"
Today I just plain hate everything and everyone.
Pout.
Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.
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