My assessment of a person's intelligence

is heavily, heavily based on their writing. I know, on a practical level, that there are many different kinds of intelligence, and someone far more brilliant than me at math or science or just about damn anything might still be a sloppy writer. But I can't help it--if I read a person's writing and I don't like it, it makes them appear stupider to me. Some people say that art is a window to a person's soul. If that's the case, then I think writing is a window to their mind. How can someone think deeply, reason thoughtfully, if they can't put those thoughts down? Or, on an even more elementary level, how can someone so smart have failed to pick up on the basic syntactical and grammatical rules that are drilled into our heads since childhood? I would imagine that someone of greater intellectual capacity than me could not only form coherent sentences, but play with the intricacies of language in the same way they play with ideas or equations. Doesn't the problem of how to phrase a thought stir the same intellectual curiosity?

Sigh. It seems like there is a negative correlation between putting a premium on intelligence and valuing good writing.

Uh oh

My senior project advisor, regarding my job in the SIG lab over the summer: "Don't fuck up, because my ass is on the line."

Shit just got serious.

Snatched from the jaws of death yet again

A beacon of hope in the form of two timely extensions has emerged from the murky depths of certain doom. Thank you, Steve Lane and Sanjeev Khanna, for saving the sanity of the mysterious stranger who only occasionally graces you with its presence. The phantom walks for another day.


On a side note, I have been occupying myself with an interesting but glum question: is passion and the theoretical drive towards it enough? Is there really hope, or am I just fooling myself and dragging down whatever poor sod is burdened with me for no reason? In other words, should I continue doing what I love in the expectation that things (well, I) will improve, or should I just face the reality that this is something I will never be able to succeed at?

I break my hiatus to bring you

http://www.marieclaire.com/sex-love/men/

A sex column written by a guy. Don't ask how I found it; I get very creative with my time-wasting.

It's interesting, not because of the content (nothing too enlightening and frankly, pretty bland), but because of the way in which it's written. The columnist is clearly a good writer--he has good phrasing, the sentences flow nicely, and his word choice is varied and intelligent. But, he is also clearly a lazy bum. In fact, the articles read a lot like mine: the basics of competent writing are there, but with zero effort or care. They feel rushed, like he pulled each one out of his ass 10 minutes before the deadline. And in a way, that dedication to minimal effort makes me relate to him. I wouldn't necessarily care to know the guy in real life, but I feel somewhat happy knowing that there is someone else out there hiding their aversion to hard work under a cloak of impeccable grammar and a passable grasp of the English language.

Anyway, back to my real mothertongue: C++, baby.

Hiatus

I am going to hold off on posting for a while, because my entries are going to generally be of the too-much-work, hate-my-dancing, life-as-I-know-it-is-over kind, and that is fun in the sun for no one.

As an offering of peace and regret, here is an axolotl.

I want one.

Sleep

I've been sleeping for the last few nights on the couch in the SIG lab, using my coat as a blanket. At first I could only get in a couple of hours at a time, which was good given the work I have to do. But I have been sleeping more and more, even when I'm not tired. Because for some reason, the dreams I have while sleeping on that couch are the best kind. I fall asleep in the lab and wake up in a world that is exactly the same but richer, fuller, with little happy surprises that are so rare in real life. Somewhere under my stale wool coat is a portal to an alternate universe where all the things that could never happen to me do, and I can't help but escape to it.

Song

I would complain about the fact that I have no one for this song to remind me of. But, I do. I have the people I would complain about it with. :)