Coterminous
I find languages to be amazing. What they are, what they're for, what and how they describe things, and how they're communicated. I spend my computer classes intently watching the sign language translators in the front of the classroom from the corner of my eye. I try and pick up verbs and nouns whenever I hear somebody speaking Spanish. And I just listen in amazement at the Korean, Japanese, Chinese, and Russian spoken among my classmates. I can't pay any attention at all.
Just keep going. Keep running.
I also like to write a lot. It organizes my thoughts and gives me an artistic outlet. And not only Chronicles, but stories as well. So far I have three chapters of a story I've wanted to write for a while. Its been three chapters for six months, but hey its a start. I'm also going on three years with the first two lines of a poem I've wanted to write. Lifetime permitting, I might finish it. I could be a writer. I could be a linguist.
Don't stop. This is good for you. Run faster when you're already tired. I think this is called burning out.
Then the thought comes: these are things I will never be. Maybe its the lack of oxygen to my brain, but I start thinking in absolutes. None, never, no chances for anything. I'll always be a cubicle monkey, sweating over nothing anybody cares about.
My legs start to lose their footing, my vision starts tunneling, and I slow down and put my hands on the top of my head. I hear it helps you breathe. I'm gasping so hard it feels like my lungs are ripping apart. Its 95 degrees outside, better than it has been, but still searing when you need to breathe. I can't believe I used to be able to run twice this distance. Halfway through last semester I wouldn't have even been breaking a sweat. I'm coughing up something for the rest of the day. I can't decide if its phlegm, or something else I have to get out of my system.
--
The computer science department at ASU is about a half mile off campus. It sits inconspicuously and incongruously next to a huge, brick, upper-middle-class shopping area that makes up the better part of downtown Tempe. They call it the 'Brickyard Artisan Court.' Or just Brickyard, for short.
On the second floor is our computer lab, a few thousand square feet of finite-state machine bliss. It is hidden behind electronic locks and is patrolled every 15 minutes by a security team, trained extensively in making you nervous and staring you down. Also on the second floor, right across from the entrance to the computer lab, is The Bamboo Club, a fine dining establishment serving cocktails and sushi.
The waiters wear black and are never seen standing still. Pulsating but dining-friendly techno thumps across the Brickyard square, broadcasting its siren call for authentic international cuisine for all to hear. And oh, do they flock. In droves they come. Business Casuals. Corner Offices. People like you see in Sharper Image catalogues. Their care-free expression captured forever while they enjoy their ball point pen that plays MP3s.
Inside I'm sure it is intense. A flurry of raw fish and alcohol. Screaming at your colleague about your expense reports over the dining music. Waiters flitting about like ninjas in the subdued lighting, meant to keep conversations to a low hum, but failing miserably.
An elevator, two escalators, and a pair of concrete stairs lead up to the second floor. As luck and probably design would have it, the escalator going up is in the front, and the stairs are in the back. As are the students. College students walk up our stairs. The bold and the beautiful ride down their escalator, almost statuesque standing still with a cell phone in their ear and their gym membership paying off. Almost regal the way they stare through you, full of sushi.
The glass windows provide a nice panorama of the restaurant's contents. And its contents stare at me as I swipe my student ID past the scanner. No, I haven't shaved for a week. No, I haven't cut my hair in a month, no, two months. No, I'm not here for the sushi. The lock disengages and I step into the lab and disappear. Serial mice, UART, and memory mapped IO awaits.
--
Construction runs rampant in Phoenix. Its hard to look down on urban sprawl when all you're building on is desert. Phoenix itself is located in a monstrous desert valley, of which the city has plenty of area yet to fill. So unlike New York, or any geographically limited area, Phoenix continues to grow outward.
Tempe is just another suburb of Phoenix. Its only claim to fame are the 45,000 college students paying their tuition and attending football games. Oh yeah, and its man-made lake running underneath the highway and past the power plant.
The town is trying to make a name for itself as a decent alternative to settling on the fringes of the valley. However, property values are so high that mere mortals and small business owners can't cut it. The only single-house properties are run down shanties that are waiting for somebody to die and give up the property rights. Only high-end businesses can afford the leases on downtown space, replacing the cheap bars and pizza that college students love with restaurants with wine menus.
So how does a city make a name for itself? An obvious solution: build condos. Condos priced from $300,000 to $4,000,000. Condos meant to attract a higher-class, more affluent population to the area. And apparently it is working, as every lot/slot they've planned has been bought. Oh, how they flock. Twenty minutes away from endless golf courses. Ten minutes away from the football stadium. Five minutes from $20 steaks. Countdown to the high life.
All this while ASU's numbers continue to rise every year. And every year there is a housing crisis trying to find holes for incoming freshmen bank accounts. And every year parking becomes a little more horrendous, the current car-to-spot ratio somewhere around 5 to 1. An obvious solution.
All so the rich and perfect can have their golfing condo. Their weekend desert getaway. Beautiful view of Tempe Town Lake and the rest of the Valley of the Sun. Close to fine dining and regal shopping. Thriving nightlife, a great educational opportunity at your doorstep, not to mention being able to pick up a football game just down the street. Space limited, so call today.
The affluent American's dream.
----
"Buroh. BURLO! BUHTO! BUDITO!"
I'm screaming at the top of my lungs driving down the highway. Goddamnit, I can't do it. I just can't. I can't trill my tongue. To trill, to roll your tongue I guess you call it. Kinda like what you do for the 'rr' in Spanish. Where your tongue rapidly bounces off the roof of your mouth as air flows over it. It isn't possible. Don't you dare try and do it now, you're just trying to spite me. I swear, I hate it. The inability. The...the, now I can't think of the word.
Keep trying. I'm sure the guy in the Civic is enjoying me yelling at my windshield. My Spanish teacher had a word she used when she was learning to trill...
"Ar-ey. Array. AHRAY. Arré"
I blink. What the hell?
"Ar-ey." No, that wasn't it. "Ar-ey."
I thought I did it. I swear, I felt it for just a second.
Ok, backtrack. What'd you do?
Tongue in the front of your mouth, touching the back of your teeth. No, that wasn't it, otherwise I couldn't breathe out.
I had it. I had it, damnit.
--
I don't understand why I like to write. More often that not it frustrates me to no end. One moment I will have a brilliant story, an interesting phrase, a cool word to use (like 'coterminous'), and then next I'll be staring at the text cursor blinking expectantly. Spitefully.
And really, it takes a lot of time. I'm an engineer. I have to take classes specifically to make my writing as dull and uninteresting as possible. Seriously. Chances are a lot of thoughts and ideas I try and communicate can be expressed in a sentence or two. But then it would not be writing, it would be listing. And you would not be reading, you would be scrolling through the pictures. Just a fact.
I can't decide, however, if writing more makes me any better at it. Other than grammar and spelling and other syntax (hah), it is content that makes any writing decent. Something to gleen, to take away from the piece and not feel as if you've wasted time.
So I guess the question is: is my writing substantial? Is there anything to it? Or am I just another blog, generating meaningless and contributing to the further collapse of the Internet.
I've told some people that I've aspirations to be an author. Maybe write a book. Tell a story. A screenplay would be fun, I've always been interested in movies, and always wonder how some people sleep at night with the scripts they write. Maybe I've told less people than I'm thinking. But the thought is there.
--
I'm angry at myself. I can only imagine how far I'd be able to run had I kept it up over the summer. Two miles? Three? Would I finally experience that endorphin high that long distance runners love?
Why was quitting even an option? I started to try and control my blood pressure, which was unhealthy for my age. Sitting at a computer screen all day its no wonder there isn't more wrong with me.
I kick rocks into the canal all the way back. I clap at the birds and make them fly away. Bah. Stupid birds.
You'd think I would've known this would happen this summer. Now I'm just angry at myself and my poor planning.
Then the oxygen gets back to my brain. My vision widens, and I start thinking clearer.
I realize that quitting now would be the mistake of my lifetime. Especially considering how far I've come already.
I start to slowly jog back from the third telephone poll in. It hurts. A lot.
But I feel better when I get home.
--
I don't have any idea what I want out of college. I really don't. Don't ask me. I got this far. It never occured to me that something might happen after all this mess. And what might happen might not necessarily be what I want.
I can learn as much as I want about computers. Operating Systems. Device Drivers. Networking. It is within my grasp. Chronologically and mentally. I think I have that gift. But I am an ungrateful recipient. There are so many other things I want to do with my life. So many other things I find fascinating, amazing, and truly interesting. And it is now that they all come to me, begging for my attention.
These last few weeks I've been getting these perilous realizations. That I'm burning out. I'm going to get out of college and hate what I do. And it will be all that I can do. I'll be out of shape, mentally and physically. I'll settle. And settle for less than what I can do. And I'll be unhappy.
And that I'll be alone. I'll be looking in the classifieds for a place. Fine dining. Entertainment. Complete with a life. I'll live in my business clothes. Eat out because I can't cook, and be served by the faceless many wearing black and getting paid to smile at me. Take up golf, maybe. Pretend that I'm interested in football.
I hate football. I can do better than that.
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