Reported today by FreeBSD's ''fortune'' program:

Psychologists think they're experimental psychologists.
Experimental psychologists think they're biologists.
Biologists think they're biochemists.
Biochemists think they're chemists.
Chemists think they're physical chemists.
Physical chemists think they're physicists.
Physicists think they're theoretical physicists.
Theoretical physicists think they're mathematicians.
Mathematicians think they're metamathematicians.
Metamathematicians think they're philosophers.
Philosophers think they're gods.

The place for computer science? This needs an extension:

• computer scientists think they're logicians;
• logicians think they're metamathematicians;
• back to the list above.

She hurt me.

A rusty kitchen knife dropping accidentally into deep scar tissue; ripping open a flesh that remembered an age old pain. An innocuous surface earthquake; well placed, and soon cracks appear at the bottom of a long extinct volcano and lets a sulphuric emulsion of nefarious gases and blazing lava infiltrate to the surface.

Should I go to her an inform her that her careless words were hurtful? Or do I gnaw on my ire alone and accept that I am the only one to be concerned with my sensitivity?

Ik was nog klein,
maar niet heel klein,
ik voelde aan mijn shcouders:
geen vleugels,
voelde telkens opnieuw,
maar ik had geen vleugels,
zelfs niet het begin van vleugels
     of iets wat daarop leek

waarom vlieg jij niet, vroeg iedereen
ik heb geen vleugels, zei ik

ik had geen vleugels,
ik was een jongen die geen vleugels had

en ik steeg op een vloog weg,
ik ging op zoek naar vleugels.
— Toon Tellegen (1941-)

A little over five months ago, I started the following experiment: I invited my best female friends to help me compile a comprehensive and didactic approach to handling complicated relationships.

My invitation went as follows:

Subject: a little group exercise!
Dear friends,
would you like to write something for me?
The request may come unexpected, and I apologize in advance if I am taxing your busy agenda or bothering you in any way. Since some of you don't know each other, I am hiding your e-mail addresses for privacy.
But since I know each of you, I like your personality and I find the way you express your feelings interesting, I would like to involve you in a serious, cultural “interview” I am conducting in my social circles. There is very little reward involved, except my generous gratitude and possibly eternal fame afterwards :) (see below)
Language is free: write in your native language, or the language you are most comfortable writing in. Even a language you know I don't understand is fine!
Length is free: one word is OK, ten pages equally good. Ideal length would be as much as you would write on a real postcard or in your personal journal.
There is one catch: I get to choose the topic :)
When writing, you can adopt one of these two standpoints:
1) a very close (female) friend of yours if feeling uncomfortable: she is involved in a steady relationship and is attracted to (or has an affair with) some other person; she does not know what attitude to adopt;
2) you have experienced yourself such a situation, and you try to explain to a very close (female) friend of your how you are dealing with the situation.
A few hints to focus the situation: children are not involved. Nobody else knows (yet). It's the best sex ever you've ever had (or no sex if you prefer to not have sex at all) on both sides. No money issues either.
At the same time, I am asking you for permission: I would like to reproduce your answer on my web site, in part or in full (you choose!) with or without your first name next to it (you choose! but no last names) in a compilation that will carry the title “Relationships 101: crash course by European girls”.
You can start straight away and let your heart speak for yourself. General opinions are OK, personal experience is good too. But it has to involve some feelings, not only rational thoughts! If you don't know where to start, imagine that your audience will be European teenage girls that are looking for some input from more experienced adults, and who will gladly learn some good advice to not f*ck up later.
And then, it would be also nice if you would reflect in your thoughts your personal opinion on some attitudes from outside Europe on this topic. I'm thinking for example very strongly about polyamory in the US:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polyamory, http://www.faqs.org/faqs/polyamory/faq/index.html
(French: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polyamour)
(Dutch: http://nl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polyamorie, http://www.polyamory.nl/polyamoryFAQNL.html)
but also other cultural positions on these topics from Asia, Africa, the middle east, whichever you know about.
Thank you in advance and so much for your attention and this little bit of your time. There is no delay, take your time to think about it if you need to!
PS: also feel free to forward this request to your (trusted) female friends. I also gladly accept reply from girls I don't know yet, but only if you would recommend them personally!
Thank you again, and big hugs to all.

For the record, the twenty-something friends I involved in this “exercise” are dear to me in different ways; and for each of them, we had at one point or another previously discussed their own relationships and their opinions about the topics mentioned above before I asked them to produce a more constructed argument.

Here is the summary of the reactions I have received so far:

• two have immediately informed me that they were sensitive to the issue and would prefer not to write about it;
• two others have immediately expressed an intense interest in the topic and promised to participate the best they could; however I haven't received yet any further reply from them despite several more recent interactions;
• three others have expressed verbally a moderate interest and suggested they will think about it; of them one highlighted that the lack of deadline might postpone indefinitely her efforts;
• one did actually answer after one month with a well-though argument that I thought was very positive and considerate.
• eleven have not reacted to my invitation in any way whatsoever despite numerous other social interactions since then, and one even denied receiving this e-mail when asked about it a few weeks ago.

I am still waiting and am considering asking for an update next month, i.e. six months after my initial request. Short afterwards, I will ensure with the author(s) that they allow me to publish their works before making them visible online.

The year 2009 also saw the sad disappearance of English poet and author James Kirkup.

In his memory and to bring the spiritual side of 2009 to a coda, I would like to share one of his works from 1977, best known for being censored in the UK and elsewhere:

The love that dares speak its name — By James Kirkup

As they took him from the cross
I, the centurion, took him in my arms-
the tough lean body
of a man no longer young,
beardless, breathless,
but well hung.

He was still warm.
While they prepared the tomb
I kept guard over him.
His mother and the Magdalen
had gone to fetch clean linen
to shroud his nakedness.

I was alone with him.
For the last time
I kissed his mouth. My tongue
found his, bitter with death.
I licked his wound-
the blood was harsh
For the last time
I laid my lips around the tip
of that great cock, the instrument
of our salvation, our eternal joy.
The shaft, still throbbed, anointed
with death's final ejaculation

I knew he'd had it off with other men-
with Herod's guards, with Pontius Pilate,
With John the Baptist, with Paul of Tarsus
with foxy Judas, a great kisser, with
the rest of the Twelve, together and apart.
He loved all men, body, soul and spirit. - even me.

So now I took off my uniform, and, naked,
lay together with him in his desolation,
caressing every shadow of his cooling flesh,
hugging him and trying to warm him back to life.
Slowly the fire in his thighs went out,
while I grew hotter with unearthly love.
It was the only way I knew to speak our love's proud name,
to tell him of my long devotion, my desire, my dread-
something we had never talked about. My spear, wet with blood,
his dear, broken body all open wounds,
and in each wound his side, his back,
his mouth - I came and came and came

as if each coming was my last.
And then the miracle possessed us.
I felt him enter into me, and fiercely spend
his spirit's finbal seed within my hole, my soul,
pulse upon pulse, unto the ends of the earth-
he crucified me with him into kingdom come.

-This is the passionate and blissful crucifixion
same-sex lovers suffer, patiently and gladly.
They inflict these loving injuries of joy and grace
one upon the other, till they dies of lust and pain
within the horny paradise of one another's limbs,
with one voice cry to heaven in a last divine release.

Then lie long together, peacefully entwined, with hope
of resurrection, as we did, on that green hill far away.
But before we rose again, they came and took him from me.
They knew no what we had done, but felt
no shame or anger. Rather they were gald for us,
and blessed us, as would he, who loved all men.

And after three long, lonely days, like years,
in which I roamed the gardens of my grief
seeking for him, my one friend who had gone from me,
he rose from sleep, at dawn, and showed himself to me before
all others. And took me to him with
the love that now forever dares to speak its name.

Let 2010 be the year of freedom of speech, sexual diversity and lesser involvement of religion with morality.

Disclaimer: this is a post about its author. If you just want to be entertained, you can skip reading.

One more page turning. While I have spent the official “big party time” of the year quite comfortably lying on a couch, watching TV and playing video games, the occasional greeting SMS compounded with heavy fireworks and an yearly summary e-mail from a close friend reminded me this is the time of the year to contemplate the time passing and make the best out of transitions.

So here is my summary.

The year 2009 was about growing up. I am officially an adult now. During this year, I have started: considering an actual career, caring for retirement plans, comparing health insurance plans, caring about world politics, contracting a mortgage, planning for future savings, considering the financial well-being of my family before making big spending decisions, planning to care for kids in a somewhat near future and — biggest one among the rest — contemplating and actually enjoying the prospect of getting older, especially turning 30 in the coming year. If I told myself how comfortable I would be with these “accomplishments” a mere 5 years ago, I would not have believed myself. 5 years earlier, I would have been down right suspicious and would have showed contempt. Time does wonders!

At the same time, I have been somewhat unsatisfied with the way I take care of the people who are more or less regularly part of my life. Many times per week, if not every day, I spend a few moment thinking about how much I respect / like / love / admire / am grateful towards the people I know, wondering how to inform them of my feelings. All my acquaintances have contributed in one way to another to the person I am, and for this I am routinely and genuinely grateful. I try to smile, interact socially and positively, send friendly words on cards, e-mails or facebook messages, be supportive. But I realize I have not taken the time to really get to know my entourage better and understand their existence as human beings outside of the pleasure I have interacting with them. In short, I often fear that I appear to act as if I was using my friends to entertain myself or acknowledge my own existence, and that I do not show them (often) enough how much I care about them. At the same time, I feel childish at the thought of more frequent tokens of appreciation; I fear I would come across as “bizarre” or “creepy” by overwhelming friends with tokens of affection, or come across as flirtatious or romantic instead of genuinely happy to know them.

And 2009 was also the occasion to take on bad habits. I have become cynical; I tend to see either stupidity or malice in all aspects of the world that I dislike, instead of considering that my expectations have become distorted by a lack of diversity in my channels to the outside world. In my efforts to move forward dutifully and fight procrastination, I have set up a routine where I pursue small goals one after the other — often losing sight of the big picture and overall direction I would like to go. And I have let work take away a lot of my free time, reducing greatly my opportunities for social activities and self-development. All these changes impact me negatively.

My own resolutions for 2010 area bout sharing and improving my contact with other human beings. I will try and learn to trust friends. I will interact more emotionally with the people I meet and try to understand who they are and what is important to them. And I will exercise more at enjoying my immediate surroundings, instead of worrying about remote issues that I have little impact over.

Fact: Yesterday, a 23 yo Nigerian man attempted to ignite a flammable substance aboard flight DL253, a short time before landing in Detroit. Other passengers saw a bright light and a sound of fireworks before the man was stopped and the device extinguished.

The plane departed from Amsterdam. The first news reports in the Netherlands described the situation as “failed attempt to light a firecracker on board a plane departed from Schiphol;” “man controlled by other passengers after lighting a piece of fireworks;” and “the perpetrator was injured by fire, no-one else wounded.”

Curious, I used my brains:

• the materials in a plane cabin are fireproof;
• the other passengers heard and saw fire + a combustion device needs containment to become explosive (this is opposed to chemical explosives which do not need containment) + chemical explosives do not burn;
• if there was a deliberate intent to cause heavy flight disruption, the man could have fired his device in the plane's toilets where other passengers could not have controlled him.

In other words, while the motive of the man is not clear and we do not know the exact nature of his device, his actions where not well thought-out, and of limited risk for the plane and the passengers (burns are not deadly) — at least not of any more risk than a heavily drunk passenger breaking his wine bottle and using the glass shards as a weapon.

I would suggest the following exercise: when reading about this event, consider only the first-hand accounts by witness passengers on-board, and try to dismiss entirely any account from ‘US officials’. The contrast between the facts above and what follows is striking.

Soon after the situation was known in the US, the tone of the news reports there became different: “terrorism attack on US-bound plane;” “terrorist attempts to fire a bomb aboard a plane, heroic action from other passengers to stop him;” and “Moslim terrorist declares he was directed by Al-Qaeda”. The news reports in the Netherlands are then modified: “intelligence reports in the US indicate that…” and “US sources report that…”

Also, the plane was isolated upon landing in a remote area of Detroit's airport and all passengers and crew were interrogated by the FBI. Presumably, the perpetrator was subject to “advanced interrogation techniques.” Whether his “admission” that he was acting for Al-Qaeda is true or merely the wishful thinking of his interrogators will be lost with the torture logs, obviously.

Meanwhile, in an opportunistic move the White House declares that terrorism control in airports worldwide must be strengthened.

But this is Christmas. You should be celebrating, so nothing to see there. Move along.

Liu Xiaobo is on trial. The verdict is due on Dec 25th, 2009, when western media is on holiday so as to reduce international attention on the case.

Liu Xiaobo is a human rights activist and signatory of Charter 08, a groundbreaking manifesto requesting the modernization of the Chinese state. He is charged for “inciting subversion of state power.” Foreign officials support him and Charter 08, and criticize the trial; meanwhile the Chinese government decries diplomatic meddling. Liu Xiaobo faces 15 years in prison for wishing to improve the world.

But there is nothing to see there of course, move along. Your are celebrating Christmas tomorrow!

Recently: http://www.gilestro.tk/2009/lots-of-smoke-hardly-any-gun-do-climatologists-falsify-data/.

Simultaneously, found on the Independer:

Climate models, which is what the "scientists" use cannot produce evidence. They give a large number of "what if" scenarios. Picking one of these because it fits with the political message is snake-oil selling; not science.
Go check the meaning of "chaotic" in the mathematical sense. A dynamic, complex, chaotic system - Earth's climate - cannot be predicted with any certainty, because each element can undergo a small variation which can have a large effect on the whole. This means there are an infinite number of possible outcomes, none of which are any more certain than any other.
Further, climate models exclude two of the most important climate factors - behaviour of oceans and clouds - because computers lack the power to make the necessary calculations.
It is not possible to predict climate with any certainty at any point in the future.
To say scientists have produced evidence of what a 2C - or any other value - will do to the Earth's climate is nonsense.
The models are programmed with the assumption that CO2 can only have a strong positive forcing effect; which is not supported in the peer reviewed scientific literature.
The result of computer models which rely on an assumption cannot be used to prove that assumption.
In any case observation over the past 11 years shows the Earth's climate is not warming by the 0.2C per decade predicted by the IPCC - in fact it is cooling.
If you are interested in fact rather than fiction go here: http://rankexploits.com/musings/2009/hadley-november/

In the Netherlands, you should register via the Donor Register. In all countries, the most important is to tell about your choice to your friends and family! They will support your decision and/or accept the request to donate if you end up in a position to donate without being able to give your consent.

Of course, there are discussions about the lack of organ donors, on one side, and whether donors should receive compensation on the other side. The current system supports voluntary donations without compensations. This calls for discussion and thinking.

Seen on Metafilter this year and previously

In response to shortfalls in organ donation, policy is undergoing a serious rethink in several countries. In Australia, the government has just lifted a ban on animal-to-human transplants. In the UK, the Chief Medical Officer has called for presumed consent, while in Israel a new law gives donor card carriers a legal right to priority treatment if they should require an organ transplant. Many are looking to Spain, which leads the world, having seen the number of deceased donors per million people - a commonly used benchmark - increase from 14 in 1989 when a new system was put in place to 34.2 last year.

If you think that you or your family should get paid for your organs:

[…] Of the episode of the Twilight Zone where a family is given a little button to push. When pressed, someone they "don't even know" will die and the family will get a million dollars. Arguments ensue, but eventually they press the button. A man shows up to drop off the money and collect the button. The man assures them that the button will now be given to someone they "don't even know." Zing!
If you allow organ selling, you generate a market that will encourage harvesting.
If you imagine that you are not a member of the organ pool because you're middle-class, you're assuming the wealthy won't preferentially choose to buy well-fed, healthy organs for transplants.
In a world where white, newborn orphans get adopted first, that's just naive.
If people are allowed to shop for organs, you're putting yourself in the store display window right beside the third-world labourer. And you're pretty tempting - you don't have HIV, you probably haven't been exposed to poisons your whole life, you probably haven't suffered malnutrition or parasitic infection. You're organs are probably in very good shape compared to 90% of the planet. Furthermore, there's someone out there who:

1. Doesn't care who you are.
2. Has the money to buy your organs.

Register now, advertise your choice, donate later!

Unsettling, surprising ways to learn about oneself.

As I am sitting here, a black ball of purring fur in my hoodie deciding whether to take its chance at staying on my lap in such an uncomfortable setting, I still wonder about how I will crystallize the train of though that brightened my return home since yesterday.

Much thoughts are pressing in my mind now and they are pushing to get out although my language processing nodes are crying to try and make a story, if not a rational ordering, out of their intricate web of cross-dependencies. The music helps, as it always does, and I may as well take a go at this without the hint of ethyl spirits that I used to involve in such circumstances…

I was invited in Scotland last Monday.

Scotland is a peaceful area, sparsely populated and truly beautiful. My hosts rented a house on the borders of the Loch Ness, with a breathtaking view on the waters, and more so on the cliffs that border the lake and carry, at this time of the year, autumn colors that I only ever dreamed to encounter in an hypothetical trip to Canada. So much for my irrational impressions that Europe had little aesthetic secrets left for me to discover. And While this was never a topic of discussion in our group, I couldn't help but think about the immense forces that created the characteristic features of the Great Glen Fault, and the humbling thought that a mere geological tremor could mean a dire shift in our altitude and the utter destruction of our house and its surroundings.

Yet Scotland left me remarkably cold despite the mild weather. While I was acutely aware of it, the beauty of the Highlands merely stirred my heart and didn't get hold of it. I didn't dismiss it though; for one I do feel a deep understanding for the member of our company who delivered an awkward yet inspiringly sincere account of his love for this environment; but as I thought about his feelings on the way back to the Inverness airport, the clarity of mine dawned on me and left me dazzled for the next few hours.

Childhood memories, childhood experiences in general, are like deep scars: one can see them as impediments to external perfection, one can remember them as painful memories, one can try and hide them with layers of make-up or chisel them away using a scalpel and skin grafts; but they are bound to stay forever, carved in the flesh that was modified, if not visible from the outside. Accept them, and move on.

One cannot feel whole and consistent without including all the facets of ones presentness, even those due to unwanted causes.

Slopes covered by trees and waterfalls. Beautiful autumn colors. I am familiar with those, how couldn't I remember? And yet the feelings that they stir for so many others are dead for me. I will never look back warmly at these countless occasions I was brought to hike in countless mountain ranges, with nothing else to do than stare at the purity of large spaces, the beauty of undisturbed biology, skies and geology. The pain from wounds opened and forced open so long have left me scarred for life, and have forever tainted my appreciation of the beauty of natural landscapes.

Until this week, I feared them, I loathed the memory and the pain they would stir every time I lost sight of a flat horizon — unless their surface was mostly covered in white, for the color white has become a safe harbor ever since the count of blissful experiences with snow has largely outnumbered a few early mishaps — and I am now soothed to discover that this pain has mostly subsided and left place to a peaceful indifference.

Indifference is a feeling that is difficult to justify to others who would dream to enjoy this environment every day of their life.

In general, indifference is a feeling that I also used to fear as a token of perceived lack of emotion. It is not socially acceptable in many contexts to stay indifferent especially in matters of enjoyment and entertainment. Staring at the Scottish reliefs, wandering around and breathing the cold air, I could not state my lack of feelings at this purity without risking being perceived as senseless, a freak; how then can I share how I feel that my indifference was a major achievement, at least to me? I guess I won't, and I am satisfied that I avoided the situation by staying indoors for the entire duration of my stay.

A season has passed and I wasted most of it. My days have been relatively bleak since I started doubting my aspirations in the summer. As September moved by and my mood at the end of each day became broodier, I slowly lost appetite for the thrill of new experiences and the drive to move forward.

I didn't know exactly why. In fact, the last three month have been full of discoveries, encounters, and otherwise happy experiences that have established warm memories and (hopefully) lasting bonds. I would have otherwise much to say about the exciting thrill of meeting interesting people, feeling part of a group, and getting slowly but surely confident about my surroundings.

Yet I felt nowhere near myself whenever I was alone, and I became increasingly aware that what was left of my drive everyday was mostly remnants of habits, and that its fuel was merely my automatic tendency to do whatever it takes to please those whom I respect and who protect me. The pride on which I was riding until two years ago like a surfer on its wave, the pride I had in establishing my new home and self-motivated independent life was wavering and I was slowly leaving room to a gloomy fog of weakness to the uncertainty of life. It was unnerving, as I was and still am a proponent of claiming the uncertainty as a realm of opportunities to be taken, not to be feared… And yet, I felt increasingly estranged to myself, wandering in self-doubt, not sure where to look for a key to the feelings I knew — from memory — that I was able to harbor in my more sunny days.

Of course, I am growing older. With this comes the useful toolbox of past experiences to deal with everyday challenges. And so I perused the recently learned the trick to drill the shadows of my conscience for the few unhandled feelings that hide in its corners. Like icebergs, the tip of a repressed uneasiness may hide a larger issues with many side-effects. After all, it was this way that I discovered that a tiny loose point at the tip of my tongue was the opening to a nearly deciliter of infected pus that kept my tongue uncomfortably inflated for two weeks — a longer time that a sane person would way before showing the clear signs of an infection to an authorized doctor! And it took only a few seconds of prodding to release the pressure, clean the wound and start the healing process that completed in one day. Ah, the wonders of self-introspection. But enough with the gore.

I first looked around and see whether I was repressing an attraction to someone in particular. And with it, how much the so far desired lack of a “specific someone” was affecting me. And so I went, looking at one and another in turn, checking each time how my heart and libido were reacting, and which opportunities my feral instincts would be tended to catch. I made some discoveries in that direction, some of which I might explore in the future, but there was nothing there that caught my attention with its intensity… And so while it was tempting to attribute part of my gray mood to the frustration of a lack of companionship, I could not convince myself that moving in that direction would address the root of my concern.

I then considered other things; in no particular order, friendships, surrogate families, and career choices. I have complex situations to tread with, and a lot of thinking to do in the coming year, but again I didn't find anything unsettling in there either.

The most obvious and simple alternative was physical fatigue. After all, I haven't given myself a chance to relax a lot lately. Late nights at work, very little environmental shifts, few hours out, and yet a lot of running around with logistics, all this would certainly support a healthy weariness that only true rest could lift for a while. This was my state of mind two mondays ago, and I warmly accepted the invitation to an unexpected vacation abroad this week.

Of course, it wasn't vacation of the mind, as we have worked many hours and slept little at night; still, the complete change of surroundings and totally different life rhythm was plain relaxation to my body, and I slept soundly enough at night that my body is certainly not tired any more.

And so was I acutely disappointed, in Gatwick's North Terminal, when I recognized despite my healthy body that the uneasiness I was trying to cure was still fresh. My impatience with myself was growing. I felt irritated, agitated out of frustration to not recognize the cause of my misfortune. Even music did not soothe me reliably any more!

In the airport, pockets full of foreign change, there were not many ways to achieve a temporarily release for this pressure: I indulged myself in a spending spree, despite my tight budget lately.

Oh boy, how did that help! My face now shines with glee at my reversed fortune!

Fortunately, I did not find joy in the mere process of spending money. The action itself was quite innocuous, not even worth a memory: I merely acquired a few books to keep me company during a long travel… And still, it took only a few pages — a few paragraphs, even — to realize how stupid I was, how blind I was to not have recognized the obvious, some of it even trustfully standing in my own living room!

I cannot share too many details in public writing about the keys to my heart and my creative self. Faithful readers and careful attendants of my library might get a glimpse of them, but I will not need to refer to them literally for my own future reference. I am simply happy to share the diverse flow of feelings that poured out of me in a few hours, or more exactly that the author squeezed out of me — relatively easily even, since they that been building up for a while… I laughed, I cried, I sobbed; I felt jealousy, I emphasized with bonding, with longing, with frustration; my breath stopped with fear and surprise, I felt both tension building up and relief. And I smiled a lot. I grinned several times for so long that my jaws and cheeks burned with stretching, while I was thinking that anyone who would see me in this situation would immediately think I am seriously mad.

I was also, for the first time in a few trips abroad, very happy to come back home. And I finally slept soundly in my bed. And now I feel happy and autonomous, once again. What a relief! A bust in self-confidence, I feel stronger now.

Another healthy night is now calling me and I will now close this account with an epilogue.

After a three-month-long fruitless process of trying to figure out the obvious, I realized a few other things in a short succession.

One is that the reason why I only release the intensity of my feelings — and my lack of self-control when I indulge in them — with books and music is that I see them as a vulnerability and that music and books are easily fended against. They can be muted and closed fairly easily. Entrusting other humans with the ability to hurt me from the inside is something I should learn to do, at least moderately, as it would allow me to truly bond instead of merely socializing and allow me to enjoy emotional satisfaction more often than with the occasional few hours of reading.

Another is the answer — or at least part of it — to a question I was asked by a dear friend among the dearest recently, in some underground restaurant in Central Europe. I think I know what I am looking for, and I am now able to make verbal statements to that effect. This will certainly open new opportunities in the near future.

And then there are a few other points that I am now free to consider, now that the more urgent matters have been resolved.

Scotland wasn't quite a bad vacation after all.

Friends and colleagues subjected me yesterday to Team America World Police.

Frustration ensued, as I was not able to sort out my feelings (initially) nor communicate them properly (later):

• about the movie itself, general contempt broken down in five parts:
  1. blank disinterest for the “mission” of this movie in parodying america saves the day and eagleland;
  2. mere annoyance at the use of the acceptable targets and as long as it sounds foreign;
  3. slight irritation at the unfortunate involvement of once acceptable targets;
  4. stronger irritation at the perusal of the hilariously abusive childhood (dude it's really not funny)
  5. stronger annoyance at the feeling of having wasted nearly two hours of my time while in good company;
• about my company:
  • for those who pretend enjoying the movie as “pure entertainment,” frustration at reminder that despite the comfort and friendliness, we do not yet know each other well enough to prevent this type of “failed experiment” from taking place;
  • for those who appear to share my contempt, uncertainty about how much their contempt stems from an inappropriate sensitivity to criticism of the “world guardian.”

All it all, I don't like to be reminded that it takes a lot of time to know people better, especially to attune to their sense of empathy, and to their cultural and moral values.

The worst and best of the world wide web packed in three links:

• The father
• The son
• The holy spirit

A few keys: the "pregnant woman" is actually the "unwed mother". Where's Satan? Soldiers have no guns. Han Solo in the background.

Also, why this matters.

The trouble with nerds, when they stay in front of you looking into your eyes, not saying anything and not doing anything, with this awkward half-second of silence after a conversation ends, is that you don't know how to handle them because it could be they are just being dorky.

A thorn in an otherwise bright and enlightening period; why, in all my inability to handle relationships in general, do I now get to hunt for hints of feelings behind thick layers of dorkiness and geekiness?

Bright eyes, big hands. Lovely evening, though.

Strange and unexpected: those are the first two qualifiers that come to my mind for this evening.

For a start, I was not expecting such a successful date. The energiest, pretty and extra-ordinary girl I planned to have dinner with reached me with her life projects. As we went through our groceries, my mind slowly stopped wandering around with recollections of my working day (plenty of good stuff in store for tomorrow!) and eventually focused on the conversation with my host: while our previous encounters had prepared me to a relaxing evening, I found her daring enterprises unexpectedly surprising and inspiring. This, in addition to the discovery of a remote part of Amsterdam which proved to be in reality more welcoming and civilized than what the local urban culture would otherwise suggest, soothed my busy mind and left it open to appreciate the beauty of a well-decorated interior. Such a reception! It really made my day.

As an expression of my gratitude I tried my best to prepare something edible — unfortunately likely a failed attempt, given the polite lack of feedback, but we fed nonetheless — and we had otherwise a pleasant and entertaining conversation, about experiences past and to come.

Meanwhile, rewinding this story a little, as I was initially waiting for my host to pick me up I wandered around one of the busiest areas in the neighbourhood; either the idle atmosphere or out of some desire for entertainment (not knowing yet how agreeable my date would be) instilled in my the idea of a visit to the nearby cinema. She accepted.

And zo was het, a boy and a girl having a good time after a dinner together, in a wonderful mood, and going together to the movies, and planning to enjoy a film and each other's company in the anonymity of obscurity…

As we sat down, I was already thinking: what will I say to people? What will people think of this? What am I doing?

We watched Brüno together.

As we sat up, I was now thinking: what will I say to people? What will people think of this? What have I done?

But then I was not taking myself seriously any more. My company was barely hiding her putting back her brain and her senses together after the exposure to more skin than she was expecting. I was still laughing, of course. Note to self: educate friends, especially females, with the basics before bringing them to the advanced courses. Because that's what Sasha Baron Cohen has made there — and I didn't know before tonigh, I swear! — although I wonder how she understood it; alas we did not take the opportunity to talk about that since she was busy stating and rehearsing her disbelief that anyone could even imagine such a concept… I was happily thinking: honey, there goes your sanity; denial first, we'll see to the rest later. We parted, I laughed again, and I took the metro back to the city.

What a nice movie. What a nice take on all I've ever been thinking personally about culture on the other side of the Atlantic. Would I ever myself have expected to identify so much with the message of a movie whose main character is so exaggeratingly, undoubtedly, painstakingly and obnoxiously “over the top”? Whatever, life is like a box a chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get.

Still, this day will be difficult to summarize.

Amsterdam is a city of many surprises — not. As I was unlocking my bike, the most derelict shadow of a human being I have ever met in person asked me if I knew my way around the city. His hat, sunglasses and scarf were hiding his face; his heavy winter clothes the rest of his body; except for his hands and his nose. The latter was wearing a piece of stainless steel; the former were spotted with open sores, although they were surprising clean.

Only years of experience in Paris allowed me to detect the slightly rehearsed side of an otherwise brutally honest, straightforward and heartbreaking conversation. He needed help, and his opening line was merely asking for it. Do you know places in Amsterdam where I could get help? City shelters for the homeless were my blind guess. They don't accept non-EU citizens, or you need to pay a small amount of money upfront. A hospital? That's where a friend died of an overdose yesterday. They provided the list of all the shelters, but it doesn't work out. The police? They are friendly and understanding, but they don't provide the most important: some money and/or a trip. I was honestly searching for more ideas. The guy genuinely sounded despaired, and why should he not? Even if his story is rehearsed, his trump card is certainly his honesty and his clarity. Despite the many recognizable scars over his veins and arteries, he was rational, polite and relatively well-mannered; he only needed a few coins either for a dose of whatever drug he's on, or to get into the only shelters that would accept him. And he was tired, visibly so.

“What would Jesus do?” My immediate previous experience had not prepared me for this. But the following scene still plays in my head:

— look, I don't have any cash on my. I usually don't anyways. But it happens I have some free time, and I'm in a good mood.

So we go to the nearest shop and I get two beers with my debit card. We sit. He tells me his story, not surprising and yet so human. I get an idea:

— I lied earlier. I have these two English pounds in my wallet from a previous trip. Those are the only coins I have. But I have an idea: you tell good stories. So why not making a show of yourself in Amsterdam, telling about your life and the mistakes you've made? Propose to answer questions; challenge tourists to guess what your life looks like, amidst the prejudice of what they think about how drugs work in the Netherlands. And then ask friendly a British visitor to change these pounds for the same denomination in Euros. Given the exchange rate they might accept.

In a way, I fathom it can be difficult emotionally to live isolated from society when one dragged themselves this way out of it. There was not much left in that human to let others identify with him in any way. But he was telling a good story, so how could I not spend a few minutes of my time with him, offer and let him feel honest and sincere attention for a little while? As any decent and moral social person ought to do, as they would expect others to do the same in return?

As this scene was forming in my mind, I was reflecting on my own mess. On the one hand, I socialize with wonderful and passionate women and I have absolutely no first-hand experience of the myriad of feelings they try share with me; yet I persist because the invisible wall that clearly separates us and establishes our mutual trust gives me a slight sense of control that my abysmal relational ignorance would otherwise shatter. On the other hand… Here should come a sentence with "men", but also "invisble wall", "mutual trust", "abysmal relational ignorance" and "myriad of feelings", although in quite a different order that I haven't sorted out yet. Every day, as the sun sets, I am scared. While a beautiful job and an exciting social life get me out of bed happy every morning, they are merely pushing away the nagging call of my hormones: seduce! couple! settle! breed! cherish your elders, so your offspring will cherish you as well!

An isolated life is a battle to fight every day, and I am proud to dominate my biological urges more often than not. If I can, why shouldn't he? Or maybe I was contemplating myself, twenty years down the line?

This world is a jungle: as I was unlocking my bike, I instead closed our conversation saying that I was coming from Rotterdam, and that I didn't know the city enough to answer him. I wonder if I can look at myself in a mirror tomorrow.

Still, this day will be difficult to summarize.

In the process of sorting through archives and old stuff, I found a collection of sticky notes that colleagues and I used five years ago to evaluate students at EPITA. These were oral examinations with no computer, only pen and paper or whiteboard. As I am recycling the paper, here is the transcript for archival.

• each page of the Unix User Manual belongs to one of its sections. Give the title of each of the first three sections.
• given two C++ strings s1 and s2 representing two large numbers expressed in base b (each character is a digit), write an algorithm that returns the sum (as a C++ string of digits) expressed also in base b.
• what is the canonical mode for a terminal? Explain.
• SIGKILL and SIGSEGV excluded, give the name of 5 signals, their meaning and their use(s).
• %d, %i and %x excluded, give 5 distinct printf format conversion specifiers.
• give 6 gcc options and explain them. Only the options properly explained are accepted.
• give the library function names and data types involved in reading a Unix directory.
• given a make macro named SRC defined to an arbitrary list of Texinfo file names (e.g. SRC = foo.texi bar.texi ...), write a Makefile which creates PostScript and PDF output for these sources, using commands texi2dvi, texi2pdf and dvips.
• given a 2D character array (dimensions W and H) with each cell set to X or O, representing respectively ground and water (it's a map), write an algorithm which takes the coordinates of two points and which returns true if and only if one can swim from one point to the other.
• write an algorithm which takes two strings as input and returns true/false according to whether the two strings are anagrams of each other (e.g. abc/bca -> true, aab/bba -> false).
• given an array of zeros and ones, write an algorithm that returns the index in the array which maximizes the sum of the number of zeros on the left and the number of ones on the right (e.g. 001101 -> 2).
• given the expression printf(1["foo"]), comment.
• given a sorted integer sequence s and an integer n, write an algorithm which returns the value in s which is closest to n.
• write an algorithm which takes a string representing an arithmetic expression as input and which returns true if and only if parentheses are properly balanced.
• write an algorithm which takes a character string as input and returns the character with the most occurrences.
• given a 2D character array (dimensions W and H) with each cell set to X or O, representing respectively ground and water (it's a map), write an algorithm which returns the sum of the lengths of the coasts. Each cell side counts for 1.
• given a directed graph structure G, an operator V which for a given graph returns the set of nodes, and an operator T which for a given node n returns the set of nodes accessible from n, write an algorithm which takes a graph as input and returns true if and only if the graph contains cycles.
• to establish a connection with a client, a TCP server on Unix must call four library functions; give their name and the call order.

Last sunday my mind decided against the will of my body and despite one night dancing out I was ended up biking from Amsterdam to Marken and back. Fifty kilometers and a few sunburns later, I felt strangely relaxed, surprised again by the merits of exercise on my psychological sanity.

Besides the experience of serotonin, a quite distinct memory lingered after my stride around North Holland: the acute realization, twenty kilometers down the way and after crossing a few bakfietsen full with children, of the psychological imprinting that riding bikes has on most Dutch people, at the same age where I was spending most of my time building lego sets or playing around in a fine dry sand, a shy six hundred kilometers from the equator. I found it interesting to note that while the first memory of a lower water level at one side of a dike than the houses on the other blurs here with those of the first playground, my first memories often bring up the ruins of days long gone by. (And yes, I still recognize what's on that picture, although it has been nearly twenty years…)

There is a lot to recall and to tell about growing up as a third culture kid, especially when the only “consistent social unit” ends up imploding with emotional abuse — although deprivation may suit better the situation here — at the most unfortunate point in time, that is, the narrow window where one should learn models for a social identity. That's a quiet story I usually keep to myself, since demons of the past are best left lurking at the back of one's consciousness, carefully acknowledged regularly during the day so that they can stay reasonably quiet at night.

And yet, I was lucky and I could rejoice when fate, in an ironical twist, kicked me out of my own ignorance onto a world where I had to shed the scales I was given previously and grow my own. It was an unexpected but invaluable opportunity to deconstruct, and then reconstruct — a much-needed second adolescence during which the emotional turmoil proved to be a fertile ground for a new self: while I was fed vodka in nursing bottles by the woman who first handled me as a real person, I would imprint durably — like an inside tatoo overlaid on a fading pattern — the combined effects of friendship, ethanol and melodious rythmic sounds and let them replace gradually my fears of an autonomous identity in society.

Alas, location-based friendships built during the final period of a cosmopolitan education system are due to disintegrate when individuals go on with their personal development, often at very different locations at the surface of the globe. What survives is indeed invaluable — those few friendships that span frontiers, oceans and continents — but their distribution is precisely what prevents them from pushing a missing sense of “geographical belonging” into the unrooted, floating young adult now mostly out of the common flow.

But this is merely a minor concern. While some rawness makes me sensitive, it also makes me more receptive to certain feelings.

Tonight, I watched Shelter.

The recent months have kept me more busy than usual with work, but meanwhile my position in a University has altogether increased my consumption of news items, both on paper and in bit arrangements. One would assume that the flurry of world events would call for a steady stream of comments from even the least energetic academic; that is, assuming also that said academic should not feel powerless and insignificant next to the intimidating momentum of mass inertia — or, in many cases, hysteria. And I do, more and more often as I get more informed.

Nonetheless, free speech and ideals are like sex performance: they tend to dwindle away when not used for extended periods of time.

So here we are. Today, I read that some sickos on the other side of the Atlantic call for censorship and some for burning the books — burning the f...ing books ! This is no national-socialist germany of the 30's, nor any kind of dystopian government policy attempting to keep its masses inert nor a new leader clearing its kingdom of impure thoughts.

The issue is terribly simple: in a society where the right of “respect of family values” is fundamental but also individual, i.e. where every parent can decide on their own, without checks and balances, what is “best for their children”, even the intellectually challengend and religiously contaminated folk can initiate expensively time-consuming processes to discuss how to hide from children books which, ultimately, only disturb their parents.

We want parents to decide whether they want their children to have access to these books ... and we want the library's help in identifying [them through labeling and moving]," Maziarka said. "It's just common sense."

Slightly more enlightened discussions on the topic were quick to call for Godwin's support, albeit remarkably pointedly:

"All the books in the young-adult zone that deal with homosexuality are gay-affirming. That's not balance," she said.

Yeah and all the books in the History section are anti-Hitler.

And alas, since any ill-driven social tumult operates as a gravity well for the crazy and troublemakers, alternate parties quickly lowered the debate to the sewers of humanity.

But why bother to care about a local phenomenon that will likely quickly dissipate? After all, previous historical records of similar events are widely available, not to mention that fire has often been a convenient way to cleanse populations due to perceived social “issues.”

Why care? I would propose at least one reason: public disinterest in this story will be justified by utterances of the form “this is the country of free speech, the crazy have as much right to it as everyone else — although nobody will listen to them, or not for long”; meanwhile, even the casual herbalist or seasoned sociologist will notice that the seeds of intolerance are like those of mistrust and stupidity — of a thousand seeds cast in a fertile ground, only one needs to grow to cover the entire field with a vine of hatred. Social responsibility mandates the outmost care in unrooting the signs of decadence, or at least singling them out.

“It's just common sense.”

There is a quality to the urban sidewalk at night after a rainy day nowhere to be found otherwise, except maybe on a very quiet night with bright moonlight on a lake border.

This quality is the reflection of city life in puddle pools.

The eyes of the casual observer looking up in a city at night while walking or biking would see buildings, trees, city lights and only somewhere in between patches of dark sky where the stars become invisible, by contrast. When looking down, most urban surfaces have a texture and color that will make them appear dull in dry weather, but somewhat bright and sparkling with reflections of city lights when wet. The more remaining surface water, the more reflections of city lights are to be seen; areas with running water become particularly noticeable through the luminosity of the combined reflection of many light sources.

That is, except around areas where the surface water is sufficient to create a still pool, i.e. an area with no apparent texture. There, unless the angle is right and the inverse path of reflected light from the observer's eye crosses a city light source — an unlikely occurrence in moderately dense European cities, given the relative rarity of city lights — there is perceptively nothing to be seen in the pool's reflection.

Only the Universe, through the small frontier of stars created by the pool's borders. At day, these patches of whater would appear white or blue from the sky colors... At night, they make reality vanish, and make the city darker.

Next time you go walking or biking at night after a rainfall, please take a few seconds to look at the ground. Look at the bright areas, and notice how the pool in the middle of the bright area is more black than any other surface in the city landscape. Then consider, as you would with reflective surfaces otherwise, what the world “on the other side” looks like.

Looking at the world since 2001, according to WHO & other reports:

• >2,500,000,000 humans living with less than $2 per day (decreasing);
• 50,000,000-70,000,000 deaths per year, of which:
  • >7,000,000 deaths per year due to cancer (increasing)
  • >2,500,000 deaths per year due to HIV/AIDS (variable)
  • >1,000,000 deaths per year due to malaria (variable)
  • >1,000,000 deaths per year due to traffic accidents (variable)
  • >1,000,000 deaths per year due to natural accidents (flood, fire, drownings — variable)
  • >800,000 deaths per year due to suicide
  • >400,000 deaths per year due to nutritional deficiencies (increasing)
  • >150,000 deaths per year due to wars
• and then...
  • <300 deaths total due to mad cow disease (decreasing)
  • ~600 deaths (as of april 2009) due to swine flu (increasing)
  • ~750,000 deaths per year due to nazi holocaust (average between 1933 and 1945)

These numbers were dancing in my head as I was visiting Oświęcim and its surroundings. Hurray for relativity.