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Freezing rain coated all of Ottawa today. At school and university, the teachers and students exchanged stories: "I got into a car accident; I plowed into a snowbank. My friends had to run home to dig me out." "I could not get out of my driveway until my neighbour got out of hers." "I had to unchip my car from its glaze of ice." "Our bus services got cancelled; I had to drive the kids to school." "I fell twice and skidded on my bum walking to school." "I fell walking, but breakfalled (she does jiu jitsu) and scraped my palm on the ice." "I biked," I replied. "And I had no adventures whatsoever."
Well, I do have adventures; it is just that I rode on pavement, carefully, relaxed and trusting to my most respected senseis and sempais who have driven breakfalls deeply enough into my body that I do not fear getting hurt if I do fall - and so I did not fall. So my adventures come indoors.
Having slept through the Thursday class, I came to Topology for the first time on Monday. Professor Pestov is now teaching both Topology and History of Math, and he knew me of old, from second-year Honours Linear Algebra. There I got an A+ and the second-highest midterm mark; there I cultivated the delusion I was good at linear algebra; there I attended Pestov's little "seminars" where I learned of ultrafilters and p-adic numbers; and there I respected and liked Pestov. Before the next semester ended, I respected and hated him, and so my attitude remains to this day.
What happened was that he liked my keen desire to learn, voluntary answers and intelligent questions. He offered to arrange a summer research assistantship for me, in his research in bioinformatics, just expressing fear that his grant would not cover it. The news that the NSERC (National Sciences and Engineering Research Council) undergraduate research grants applied to those not in the faculty of science gave me hope; I rapidly applied, with his approval, filing forms and applications in a rapid exchange of emails. I met with him concerning the work; there we had a slight disagreement, I think basically about the value of oral versus written linguistic data. Although I knew I was in the right, I knew enough to shut up by that age, and did not pay much heed to that disagreement. Yet rumours spread, that what was necessary was at least a 9.0 cumulative grade point average; I had an 8.7 (damn that Calculus III!). Well, if I had not bothered applying, I would not have had a chance to gain a thing; but although miracles happen, not always to me. A month or so later the letter came to my mailbox. It was cc'd to Pestov, and said that alas, we do not have enough funds for all qualified applicants, and we regret, etc. etc. etc. Taking a deep breath, I went to write Pestov an apologetic email, saying that we had mentioned the possibility of me not getting the scholarship, and perhaps we could work some other arrangement out...?
He never wrote back.
I calmly accepted the fact that my work that summer would be in linguistics research, not mathematical, then. But to never even send a cordial apology in the same tone as the NSERC letter, saying that, sorry, I do not see a way we can work together with my funding being the way it is, better luck with other work... was something I would never have expected of a cultured and highly respected Russian professor. I of course checked that the email address had been correct, and it had been; there may have been a slim possibility of a problem with the university server, but I doubt it. I did not write again; if I am ever dumped by a lover, I would not crowd his voicemail with calls either. But on Monday, sitting in the front row of the topology class as usual, I was quietly amazed at myself for at the same time being so interested in the material, admiring the professor Pestov's excellent teaching style, eagerly questioning, probing, volunteering answers - and beneath that mask of a student whom it is a joy to teach, smouldered a hatred I very rarely feel, for the Pestov as a person.
I need him, though. The Complex Analysis grade turned out to be even worse than Linear Algebra. On Tuesday, at the suggestion of Concolor, I calculated my CGPA, and it turned out not to be as bad as I feared - it is still possible to get into grad school. But to get my scholarship back for fourth year is mathematically impossible. Even if I get all A+ this semester. So I need as high grades as I can get.
Pestov announced at the beginning of Topology class that he was going to hold a discussion group - during the time I had set aside to coach my trivia team, so it will not happen, - hold an informal topology seminar again, and also accept applications from students wishing to be his research assistants for the summer. But, he said without looking at me, to get in you need at least a 90% average.
In the University of Ottawa, A+ is everything above 90%. A 90% average, therefore, is an A+ average, which means that you must have had A+ in every single course you took, as grades lower than that cannot be balanced out by grades higher than that. When Concolor heard of this, he gasped "That's impossible!" No, a 90% average is not impossible. But the life Tourmaline would have to lead to have it, the Tourmaline who busted her ass and broke her heart studying for Complex Analysis only to get the lowest mark in her career, is not a life the Tourmaline whose dearest dream is a Hugo Award, and whose dearest dream after that is another one, wants.
Eight grade points is 80%. Nine grade points is 85%. So 8.5 translates roughly to 83%. And the other 17% I gave to you and Reach and aikido, to my family and trivia and writing and dance . To the things I love. Including money.
Touching. But it won't swing me past better people.
We go on to another day. Even without $1000, we won't die. Even without a university degree, we won't die. Without sex, we won't die.
Without love, we probably will.
Because depression is always at my shoulder.
Topology as Pestov introduced it deals with some set and those of its subsets which are defined as open sets. We spent the lecture discussing various open sets and open intervals - on the real line, intervals such that each point in the set has a neighbourhood in the set. Intervals which do not end abruptly.
I then remembered one of the last dance rehearsals of the last year, when Lord Pencilturn changed the choreography of one of the barre exercises to include a flowing movement from toe to wrist. Watching how we did it, he lectured us: "You don't just stop with a jerk! You go gradually, slow down..." As in, you know when you are moving, and when you are not, but there is no fixed point where the motion suddenly stops.
The body's most graceful movements are open intervals. And stiffened muscles cause jerky movements - closed intervals.
I was sorry to miss the first Sociolinguistics class; Professor van Herk is very funny and very enthusiastic. We discussed use of intensifiers: very cool, really cool, totally cool, wicked cool, fuckin cool: "fuckin(g), depending on how formally you want to write." The end result of this is going to be the Ottawa Intensifier Project, a study of several different social groups' use of intensifiers on the Internet, which hopefully van Herk is going to publish, with everyone who wants to participate in the acknowledgements: "So our names would appear in linguistics search engines?" "Really sensitive search engines." I suggested scholars as one of the social "tribes," then changed my mind. "Scholarly papers are too heavily edited. And no one will write, 'Those ribosomes are so totally awesome!' Unless you go to a scientists' chat room." Van Herk heard me. "Believe me, you don't want to go there." So the idea is to collect 100 sentences with adjectives, with or without intensifiers, and see which intensifiers show up.
I picked geeks. Linux geeks, to be specific. A preliminary browse of the message boards at userfriendly.org, site of a Linux-geek-favouring cartoon, revealed a depressing tendency: Linux geeks do not use adjectives. With or without intensifiers.
A story Concolor introduced me to, though, used adjectives rather a lot, and also kept me laughing until my belly hurt, a thing I have not done in a long time. The story in question is the Eye of Argon, the worst fantasy story ever written. A few paragraphs of it, in all its misspelled glory (it was written by a 16-year-old, who, reviews allege, had neither dictionary nor encyclopedia nor style guide, but did spend his lunch money on about 20 thesauruses) will suffice:
I really wasn't sure who was killing who, and I have no idea what a sward is, but I like the idea of humid air currents in the desert. Read on at the link, o mere mortals, to make my own grade five writing sound like Hemingway. Grignr gets a girlfriend with an opaque nose, rips out a rat's trachea, esophagus and hyoid bone, and someone is kicked in the crotch and at least 1000 words describe this. Oh, and by the way, emeralds are scarlet. When they are not dull red.
Anyhow, I will tell of my other adventures, of the History of Math and of Minimalism, in a further post.
I wish you joy.
Well, I do have adventures; it is just that I rode on pavement, carefully, relaxed and trusting to my most respected senseis and sempais who have driven breakfalls deeply enough into my body that I do not fear getting hurt if I do fall - and so I did not fall. So my adventures come indoors.
Having slept through the Thursday class, I came to Topology for the first time on Monday. Professor Pestov is now teaching both Topology and History of Math, and he knew me of old, from second-year Honours Linear Algebra. There I got an A+ and the second-highest midterm mark; there I cultivated the delusion I was good at linear algebra; there I attended Pestov's little "seminars" where I learned of ultrafilters and p-adic numbers; and there I respected and liked Pestov. Before the next semester ended, I respected and hated him, and so my attitude remains to this day.
What happened was that he liked my keen desire to learn, voluntary answers and intelligent questions. He offered to arrange a summer research assistantship for me, in his research in bioinformatics, just expressing fear that his grant would not cover it. The news that the NSERC (National Sciences and Engineering Research Council) undergraduate research grants applied to those not in the faculty of science gave me hope; I rapidly applied, with his approval, filing forms and applications in a rapid exchange of emails. I met with him concerning the work; there we had a slight disagreement, I think basically about the value of oral versus written linguistic data. Although I knew I was in the right, I knew enough to shut up by that age, and did not pay much heed to that disagreement. Yet rumours spread, that what was necessary was at least a 9.0 cumulative grade point average; I had an 8.7 (damn that Calculus III!). Well, if I had not bothered applying, I would not have had a chance to gain a thing; but although miracles happen, not always to me. A month or so later the letter came to my mailbox. It was cc'd to Pestov, and said that alas, we do not have enough funds for all qualified applicants, and we regret, etc. etc. etc. Taking a deep breath, I went to write Pestov an apologetic email, saying that we had mentioned the possibility of me not getting the scholarship, and perhaps we could work some other arrangement out...?
He never wrote back.
I calmly accepted the fact that my work that summer would be in linguistics research, not mathematical, then. But to never even send a cordial apology in the same tone as the NSERC letter, saying that, sorry, I do not see a way we can work together with my funding being the way it is, better luck with other work... was something I would never have expected of a cultured and highly respected Russian professor. I of course checked that the email address had been correct, and it had been; there may have been a slim possibility of a problem with the university server, but I doubt it. I did not write again; if I am ever dumped by a lover, I would not crowd his voicemail with calls either. But on Monday, sitting in the front row of the topology class as usual, I was quietly amazed at myself for at the same time being so interested in the material, admiring the professor Pestov's excellent teaching style, eagerly questioning, probing, volunteering answers - and beneath that mask of a student whom it is a joy to teach, smouldered a hatred I very rarely feel, for the Pestov as a person.
I need him, though. The Complex Analysis grade turned out to be even worse than Linear Algebra. On Tuesday, at the suggestion of Concolor, I calculated my CGPA, and it turned out not to be as bad as I feared - it is still possible to get into grad school. But to get my scholarship back for fourth year is mathematically impossible. Even if I get all A+ this semester. So I need as high grades as I can get.
Pestov announced at the beginning of Topology class that he was going to hold a discussion group - during the time I had set aside to coach my trivia team, so it will not happen, - hold an informal topology seminar again, and also accept applications from students wishing to be his research assistants for the summer. But, he said without looking at me, to get in you need at least a 90% average.
In the University of Ottawa, A+ is everything above 90%. A 90% average, therefore, is an A+ average, which means that you must have had A+ in every single course you took, as grades lower than that cannot be balanced out by grades higher than that. When Concolor heard of this, he gasped "That's impossible!" No, a 90% average is not impossible. But the life Tourmaline would have to lead to have it, the Tourmaline who busted her ass and broke her heart studying for Complex Analysis only to get the lowest mark in her career, is not a life the Tourmaline whose dearest dream is a Hugo Award, and whose dearest dream after that is another one, wants.
Eight grade points is 80%. Nine grade points is 85%. So 8.5 translates roughly to 83%. And the other 17% I gave to you and Reach and aikido, to my family and trivia and writing and dance . To the things I love. Including money.
Touching. But it won't swing me past better people.
We go on to another day. Even without $1000, we won't die. Even without a university degree, we won't die. Without sex, we won't die.
Without love, we probably will.
Because depression is always at my shoulder.
Topology as Pestov introduced it deals with some set and those of its subsets which are defined as open sets. We spent the lecture discussing various open sets and open intervals - on the real line, intervals such that each point in the set has a neighbourhood in the set. Intervals which do not end abruptly.
I then remembered one of the last dance rehearsals of the last year, when Lord Pencilturn changed the choreography of one of the barre exercises to include a flowing movement from toe to wrist. Watching how we did it, he lectured us: "You don't just stop with a jerk! You go gradually, slow down..." As in, you know when you are moving, and when you are not, but there is no fixed point where the motion suddenly stops.
The body's most graceful movements are open intervals. And stiffened muscles cause jerky movements - closed intervals.
I was sorry to miss the first Sociolinguistics class; Professor van Herk is very funny and very enthusiastic. We discussed use of intensifiers: very cool, really cool, totally cool, wicked cool, fuckin cool: "fuckin(g), depending on how formally you want to write." The end result of this is going to be the Ottawa Intensifier Project, a study of several different social groups' use of intensifiers on the Internet, which hopefully van Herk is going to publish, with everyone who wants to participate in the acknowledgements: "So our names would appear in linguistics search engines?" "Really sensitive search engines." I suggested scholars as one of the social "tribes," then changed my mind. "Scholarly papers are too heavily edited. And no one will write, 'Those ribosomes are so totally awesome!' Unless you go to a scientists' chat room." Van Herk heard me. "Believe me, you don't want to go there." So the idea is to collect 100 sentences with adjectives, with or without intensifiers, and see which intensifiers show up.
I picked geeks. Linux geeks, to be specific. A preliminary browse of the message boards at userfriendly.org, site of a Linux-geek-favouring cartoon, revealed a depressing tendency: Linux geeks do not use adjectives. With or without intensifiers.
A story Concolor introduced me to, though, used adjectives rather a lot, and also kept me laughing until my belly hurt, a thing I have not done in a long time. The story in question is the Eye of Argon, the worst fantasy story ever written. A few paragraphs of it, in all its misspelled glory (it was written by a 16-year-old, who, reviews allege, had neither dictionary nor encyclopedia nor style guide, but did spend his lunch money on about 20 thesauruses) will suffice:
THE EYE OF ARGON
by Jim Theis
The weather beaten trail wound ahead into the dust racked climes of the baren land which dominates large portions of the Norgolian empire. Age worn hoof prints smothered by the sifting sands of time shone dully against the dust splattered crust of earth. The tireless sun cast its parching rays of incandescense from overhead, half way through its daily revolution. Small rodents scampered about, occupying themselves in the daily accomplishments of their dismal lives. Dust sprayed over three heaving mounts in blinding clouds, while they bore the burdonsome cargoes of their struggling overseers.
"Prepare to embrace your creators in the stygian haunts of hell, barbarian", gasped the first soldier.
"Only after you have kissed the fleeting stead of death, wretch!" returned Grignr.
A sweeping blade of flashing steel riveted from the massive barbarians hide enameled shield as his rippling right arm thrust forth, sending a steel shod blade to the hilt into the soldiers vital organs. The disemboweled mercenary crumpled from his saddle and sank to the clouded sward, sprinkling the parched dust with crimson droplets of escaping life fluid.
The enthused barbarian swilveled about, his shock of fiery red hair tossing robustly in the humid air currents as he faced the attack of the defeated soldier's fellow in arms.
"Damn you, barbarian" Shrieked the soldier as he observed his comrade in death.
I really wasn't sure who was killing who, and I have no idea what a sward is, but I like the idea of humid air currents in the desert. Read on at the link, o mere mortals, to make my own grade five writing sound like Hemingway. Grignr gets a girlfriend with an opaque nose, rips out a rat's trachea, esophagus and hyoid bone, and someone is kicked in the crotch and at least 1000 words describe this. Oh, and by the way, emeralds are scarlet. When they are not dull red.
Anyhow, I will tell of my other adventures, of the History of Math and of Minimalism, in a further post.
I wish you joy.
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