I can expound upon love

like
Emily Dickinson could about

traveling, trains,
precise position and velocity of a given quantum particle and

death.

Are there conversations

or
(you're never sure why) moments
that stick in your memory,
bumps on the surface
disturbing the smoothness
each time you run
your fingers along
time's skin?

In Front of the House That Would Be Occupied by a New Tenant Come Spring

she planted tulips.

The Squeaky Wheelchair Gets the Grease

     "I'm applying for a position as the assistant to the Diversity Director at Purdue," my friend Evan told me when I asked him what job he had interviewed for.
"Good thing, too! Purdue needs your help with their diversity.  We need to see some more colorful characters there.  The problem is, they mostly draw from just one age demographic: it's all the 18-24 crowd," I told him, "You need to start hosting bingo nights.  Get a hold of that, at-risk 65-89 crowd.  We've gotta get them off the streets before they fall to vandalizing out of boredom."

     He thanked me for my advice, and expressed his regret that he had not thought to suggest such during the interview.  I told him it was probably good that he waited until after he was hired, as it might come across as intimidating for the Director to be approached with such brilliant ideas for program improvement during an interview, when the assistant position was really only supposed to pertain to desk work.

     But now, as I think back on my college experience thus far and imagine ways in which I can help increase diversity on my own campus, I can't help but think realistically about the dim possibility of any of my suggestions becoming realities in any campus or community.  The problem is that those 65-89 who are at-risk due to boredom, feeling underestimated and devalued by their society, and angsty at how little control they feel they have over their lives, will never be properly attended to.  And this is because, unlike the obnoxious backlashes that teenage youths have learned to lean on for attention, the elderly have never made a stand for their own cause.  Until they begin to give society a clear reason to realize the overlooked, wasted potential the retired population has as members of the community, there will remain a distinct inaction and unawareness of their condition.  Until grandma gets up out of her easy chair, goes out at midnight, and smashes in some windows, there will never be a reason for the community to fund more free adult-care activities, and involve senior citizens in community outreaches.  We need more knitting clubs, weekly baby-holding sessions, story-telling invitations from schools, and free cat-care clinics for those among us who have already given their best years to bring up the generations beneath them.

     If vandalism of public buildings and shoplifting Depends is the only way we're going to start seeing free transportation to and from water aerobics classes, then I say, by all means, buy grandpa a can of spray paint and a dark beanie.  Obviously, until our community organizers sense a financial threat from a particular age demographic's destructive backlash, they will do nothing to provide for them a way to feel appreciated as an integral part of our society.

My Toast to the Unexpected

There are countless different definitions of the word "friend," and while some people use that word to refer to anyone they've interacted with at least a handful of times, others reserve that word as sacred -- only applied to those whom they trust and share a bond with.

I joke that someone is not officially my friend until they've seen the movie Troll 2. (I'm kind of obsessed... I hold yearly Troll 2 parties which involve a large variety of green food, as well as a pre-movie speech, in which I prepare the Troll 2 virgins for what they are about to experience.)

In reality, the best definition of friend I've heard of is truly cheesy, as all attempts at describing such things are, and I love it nonetheless:

"A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart, and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words."

Most people take years to get to know the music behind who you are, but on a rare occasion, a few seem to know the beginning bars of it right away. 
....
But really, this is all a little too abstract, isn't it?  There's got to be a tangible sign, a quantifiable checkpoint during that journey from acquaintanceship to friendship, hasn't there?

I can think of one.  And it's very trivial, indeed.  ...Maybe even more so than Troll 2.

Whenever I save someone's number on my phone whom I've just met, I add an epithet onto their name so I can remember who they are so I don't accidentally delete them from my phone later because I don't remember who they are.  Example: "Greg from ISU Swing," or "Beth from ENG308," etc.  But, say I get to become better acquainted with that person.  It gets to the point where, one day, I'm about to text one of my dear friends, and I see that their name on my phone still includes that tagline, which is now entirely unnecessary. Obviously, I delete it, and then it's just saved as their name.  Often, as only their first name, even though I know I'll probably meet other people who have their same name.  For now, I'm not worried about that.

I know I'll remember them.

And, apparently I'm not the only one who adds taglines to their new phone contacts.  It makes me realize that we all think we're set -- that we don't need any more friends, and we don't expect the new people in our lives to become anything more than faces we see and make small talk with every couple weeks or so.  We never expect the strangers of today to become the shoulders we cry on tomorrow.


And so, this is my toast to the unexpected,
to the strangers I happened to stop and talk with at a coffee shop
one day when I should have been busy
doing other things or
seeing other people.
This is my prayer of thankfulness
for the people in my life I never saw coming,
never thought I needed,
who have showed me love and given me
reasons to look further than the first (or even fifth) layer
and to know and love anyway
(because I have been known and
loved anyway.)

Why we stopped coloring and started getting our taxes done on time

I think that, at one time or another, we were each really good at something for our age.

The scary thing about attempting to create anything past the age of 17 is the fear that our tiny sliver of genius was only waiting for the years to catch up to it, and it was never anything more than that.

Oh, the revelries of youth.

She is (nineteen) knitting
shaking her fist at
the television
(she knows every player by name)
all day long we've been
watching
the French Open --
a sport neither of us
knows
how to play.

Pompeii

I feel the first flakes fall, it's that
time again.

You’ll be buried in the dust
from my skin shedding if
you stick around.

I make messes and then clean them up.

What do you do to avoid studying for finals?

Myths about Math

People are often surprised when they find out I'm a math major, because I don't strike them as "the type."  I used to take this as a compliment, implying that I don't fit the stereotype (I've never played dungeons and dragons, I'm terrible at chess, and I shower).  But recently, it's started to bother me that there so many stereotypes about mathematics and mathematicians that go unquestioned.  I would like to take a moment to clear up some myths that have passed as fact for far too long.

Myth #1
Mathematics isn't all that interesting, and it is only useful if you're going to be an engineer or a statistician.

--->  If you open your eyes and look around you*, mathematics is fascinating, because it is everywhere.  From the design of the chair you're sitting in, to the proportion of the margins on the pages in the books you read, to the arrangement of which teams play which (and when) in every sports tournament ever conducted... there is no escaping it.  In addition to what is man-made, i.e.: traffic lights, employee schedules, works of art, and the design of auditoriums, there is also mathematics that can be found in nature.  Entire books have been written on the math we can trace out appearing in flowers, birds' wings, and spider webs. Yes, you will need some knowledge of calculations to do your taxes, but math encompasses much more than calculations.  You will also need mathematics to throw a good party, which brings me to my next myth:

Myth #2
Mathematics = calculations.

--->  All you have to do is look up "Mathematics" in any dictionary or even Wikipedia to have this assumption contradicted. Wikipedia states that "Mathematics is the study of quantity, structure, space, and change."  I would amend this and add that Mathematics is also the study of proportion, relationships, patterns, and logic.
1+3=4 is no more the substance of Mathematics than red + yellow = orange is the substance of art.

Myth #3
Mathematics isn't as complex or organic as fields in the liberal arts, like Philosophy or Anthropology, because math problems have just a single answer in the back of the book that is either right or wrong.

--->  How useful would it be to make math books for academic use that did not have answers that were either correct or incorrect?  As students are beginning to learn methods for solving problems, they need to have a way of checking whether they are using the methods correctly.  In real life problems that mathematicians face, there is no answer in the back of the book.  It becomes less about "finding the answer" and more about finding a way that works.  In other words, mathematics at the early academic level does indeed have a binary result: you either have it right or wrong.  Beyond this stage in learning, the mathematical process takes much more complex forms.  Often, it is less about finding the solution than it is about creating a path towards an ideal solution that is already known.  In addition to the organic and creative process that mathematics is, it's questionable whether you can consider math entirely separate from studies of the humanities in the first place.


Myth #4
Mathematics is its own separate field.

--->  Someday, I will dedicate an entire post to disproving this.  This fall, I am taking a class that is specifically focused on how the study of Mathematical Sciences has overlapped and intertwined with the rest of humanity's story.  The logic implicit in psychology, the statistical foundations of sociology, and the proportions inherent in art attest that mathematics is hardly separable from other fields of study.
I will say that this myth has continued due partly to the fault of mathematicians themselves, or at least the majority of mathematicians in academics.  If I could pick one department at Ball State that is the least likely to network with other departments to create projects or exchange resources in an effort to broaden their students' abilities to work with others of different skill sets and view points, it would probably be the department of Mathematics.  This is disappointing to me especially because I feel that mathematics is a field that is and always has been collaborative at its best.

Myth #5
Mathematicians have horrible spelling, punctuation, and grammar in general.

--->  This one is true.  I like to think that I'm an exception to this rule, but if I am, I am the ONLY one.  The only. one.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keep an eye out for more myth-busting, because I might add to this list.  For now, I'm going back to my math software homework; this rectangle isn't going to maximize itself.

--

*Yes, that was a Look Around You reference.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-5054356894457127152

My Dissertation on (the Importance of) a Responsibly Planned Future

We should think carefully, painstakingly, dutifully, weightily, wisely about tomorrow

 
tomorrow.






and not (a moment)
sooner

2%

She wanted desperately to give the 2% milk away.
“We’ll give it to Renee.”
I scoff, disgusted at the thought of her trying to pawn it off on the poor little girl who agreed to watch our pets for the week.  “Mom, they only drink organic,” I vocalize in the direction of the kitchen.  I am in the living room, sprawled like a towel thrown on the couch.  There is a point before family trips during which I crumple in the most comfortable place possible and quietly await the storm.  I overhear her on the phone with John, our paranoid neighbor across the street.  He seems wary about the suggested dairy exchange.  She is negotiating with him in the flimsiest way possible.  They are discussing percentages of milk fat.

                I sit up and look at the skyline of suitcases and trash bags stretched full of “just in case” items: tennis rackets, board games, Frisbees… my mother likes to pack for a family from an 80’s commercial.  Not one of us actually plays tennis.  It occurs to me that this City of Preparation will never fit into the tic-tac box that is the trunk of our tiny white Honda. Thus begins the blaming.

                First to raise his voice is my dad, whose job it is to Tetris all of our luggage and baggage into impossibly compact dimensions.  When I say “raise his voice,” I do not refer to the sound decibel, but rather the pitch.  There is a directly proportional relationship between my father’s distress and how chipmunk-like his voice becomes.  This is a family trait.  It is both humorous and frightening.  “Tennis rackets? Monopoly?! Why do we need to bring all this crap?”
My mother holds firm. “I want to play Monopoly.”
All the while, voices higher.
“We’re not going to play Monopoly!”
“Well, I want to have it in case we do!”
The squeal is threatening the glass in the room.
“Becca, why do you need to bring so many books?”  It’s my sister’s turn to make sure the situation resolves itself in the optimum amount of finger pointing and bloodshed. “It’s only a 4 hour drive! What’s in this backpack?”
“Once we get to Columbus, we still have to drive to North Carolina. That’s 8 more hours.”
“Oh.  Right.”  A pause.  “Can I borrow a couple books?”
“Yeh.  I’ve never read this, but I’ve heard it’s good.” I hand her a book that hadn’t made the cut.

“Why aren’t we taking the station wagon?” I frantically interject our parents, who are chewing lightly on the back of each other’s heads.
My mother lets out a your father sigh. “Gas mileage,” she mumbles, spitting out some hair.
Frustrated that no one foresaw this mass vs. space conundrum, I cringe around the room.  I am a silent billboard advertising my displeasure with the amount of realistic planning that has been employed here.
After jettisoning some extra towels, the board games, and shuffling what was in large luggage into smaller bite-sized duffel bags, my father begins to work his magic.  Finally, he has negotiated with the natures of mass and space enough that we are able to close all of the car doors and still be inside the car.

            My sister and I are squeezed so tightly beside each other that we could easily pass for Siamese twins.  My dad is a quietly wounded puppy because he feels he is being blamed for wanting to save on gas money.  Men are kings, but sometimes things happen that remind them they can only move as far as pawns.   My mother is – gone.  She has flitted from the car to remember some necessarily forgotten thing in the house.  Now she is knocking on the door of our next door neighbor who is never home.  I can’t see what is in her hand, but from her posture I can tell: it is the orphaned half-empty gallon of 2%.  By miracle from heaven, Ms. Neverhome answers the door and accepts the offering.  

As we pull away, my dad is still sulky in the driver’s seat.  My sister’s organs are mingling with mine contentedly.  This time, I’m the one to break the silence.  “Dad, thanks for packing the car up.  That was amazing.”
On we drive in silence, until the queen decides to have the last move.
“I fit Monopoly in the back.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wrote this in the car on the way to North Carolina last summer.  I'm pleased to offer you this snapshot of the hilarity and frustration that is inherent in a Jackson Family road trip.

(Quest)ionsques(t)i(o)n(s)qu(e)stionsqu(e)stions

Do you?)

Just lately
when I'm sitting
at the microfilm machines and I
imagine (as I often do) aliens
coming down from the night sky
to ask me about my whirring box
with tiny lines of
intricate nothing-glyphs,
they ask me why I am not off
in some wheel-ship on my way to
the shores of Maine
to watch the sun rise
over the ocean's
rolling lines
of meaning-full something-gasps.


(I have no
goodorevenpoor answer for them.

My Dissertation on Boys, Bent Space, and the Cause and Effects of Solar Flares

They become convinced that you alone
hold the power over their day/and/night,
(and will have you thinking the very same,
if you let them!) silly satellites.
They never see the most obvious thing:
Any star looks like the sun
when it’s the one you’re orbiting.

Every now and then, I have my moments, or weeks, when I think about dropping my math major.  But, I don't think I could ever bring myself to do it.  Math has taught me too many valuable things, and I know it has much more wisdom to throttle me with before this is all over.

Things I've Learned 

[as a Student of Mathematics]

• If you keep getting the wrong answer, go back and make sure you're working on the right problem.
   
• Know your limits.
  
  --->  If you sacrifice being a human on the altar of being a student, it's only a matter of time before you'll be doing pretty poorly at being either. 
  
  --->  Also, know the limit definition of a derivative.  It's just something you should know.
   
• Problems are better worked out with a friend.
  
  
• Sometimes the best you can do is lose every battle while winning the war.
  
  --->  Take the time to understand your mistakes, even if it seems costly on the short term, and you will eventually begin to stop repeating them. 
  
  --->  Glaze over your mistakes, and when the test comes, you'll be in a sorry state.
  
  
• If someone else's answer doesn't look exactly like yours, it doesn't necessarily mean either one is wrong. 
  
  --->  They could be different forms of the same answer.
  
  
• Some things are variables, and some things are constants. 
  
  --->  Don't forget which is which.
  
  
• When you're proving something, make sure the inductive hypothesis is true.
  
  --->  Every topple from an unstable climb started with an unstable claim.

And I'm sure I'll be adding to this list for some time to come. Feel free to comment with your own mathephors of wisdom.

Mountains

Whisperlike echoes,
frozen
still-frame of a sea.
Tumultuous waves
tamed,
cooled to stone by
some sage wizard
ages past.

Tests

There is one thing I like about tests.  There's no reason to bring your book to class.  You won't risk having your phone on, even on vibrate, so you don't need to bring that either.  Your notebook can stay at home, your backpack is unnecessary; you walk to class bare-backed and strangely, uncomfortably  free.

When it comes time, it's just you and a pencil.  You sit down and are handed the challenge to show, after every extra weight and attachment has been stripped away, what's still left.

the White River

In desperate need of rest but too tired to take a nap, I came walking to downtown Muncie.

On the way back, I descended to walk the path alongside the White River.  Ducks began to follow me, waddling expectantly, but I told them I had nothing for them.  The bagels I'd bought at Farmstand were still too frozen to share.  I saw a girl standing on the edge of a the bank where the water rushes over a dip.  She was smoking, and looked to be about twelve or thirty.  I tried to make eye contact with her, to tell her I approved of her mismatched leg-warmers of eccentric colors against the dark, rank background of the river, but she chose to unsee me.

It's amazing what nurturing effects a few trees and some dirty water can have on the soul.  The rush was loud enough to drown out my thoughts for a moment... long enough for me to take a break from the questions, those cigarette burns on my brain.

Seeing an overpass with some bright, inviting graffiti, I walked on.  It became a challenge to keep from stepping on geese poop, and after a while I stopped trying.  Beneath the arch, I sang an old hymn I'd learned years ago.  It echoed slightly, and I wondered if anyone on the street above could hear it.  I wondered whether they liked my voice.

I brought my ipod, but never ended up using it.

Somewhere along the duck poop mine-field, I came to the conclusion that I've spent too much time doing a lot of useless things that seem necessary, but don't do much to make me or anyone else happy.  It's time I begin to resee my life, and make some adjustments as my heart begins to thaw from a difficult winter.

I had left campus with no destination in mind but distance.  As I climbed the hill up to the road home, I knew I had come to the river to be rewashed.

How you've changed.

I saw your face
in a photo in a showcase.
Your hair was longer than
it was when we first met.
You fit
into
a tiny 4x6.
(My mind is playing tricks cause I
remember you a bit
bigger
than that.)

The Stranger

I tapped your shoulder in the dark
and you turned cheerily,
spoke a greeting through the night
"And who, friend, might you be?"
I stalled reply.  Though I could see
your features clearly (with
the moonlight to my back), mine
were totally eclipsed.
So you began to guess at me,
a silhouette of black,
but soon forgot the game as we
wandered our way back
together. We went on regardless,
talked along the road,
and joked about our politics.
But as we neared the end,
I was grieved by all of this.
For we were better far
as strangers than we'd ever been
as what we were before.

(Potential Love) vs. Kinetic Love

There is but one way
in which love can be wasted:
and that (is
to never
give it.)

Setting

The blank page before the next chapter
the breath before the darkest dive
The simplest touch set your horizon on fire
and in our meeting there was
 a b(e)gi(n)ning (d)ominating the sky.

I was once a stranger to you.

Was your life

simpler


B. efore you met M. e?

things) questions

I ask you (I search for those
things) questions
you just asked me.

I pretend

to be interested in
the answers (you don't know how to tell me).

Out of My Mind

I can't





                                get you.

another year begins.