Origami etc

Origami

Started on another fish tank origami display. This time, I'm using a fish tank my mom doesn't want, so there'll be no fear of her taking it apart again!

Picked up Origami Design Secrets: Mathematical Methods for an Ancient Art by Robert J. Lang.

It's absolutely wonderful. It's not just a "folding" book with only instructions and minimal literature. It goes into how models have been designed and gives tips. The first or biggest tip is this: modify an existing model; don't expect to create something totally original at first. I like that. He writes something to the effect of "no design is sacred", meaning it's totally open for modification or interpretation.

The only thing I don't like is my inability to accurately reproduce those models--I guess "difficult" would be the word, but my biggest problem is getting the proportions just right. For example:

I'm instructed to fold the paper in half and just make a pinch mark at the halfway point. Then, halve that half and pinch again at the one quarter mark. Then, make a crease from the half-way mark, and bring the far corner of the paper to the one-quarter mark.

Problems:
- the pinch marks are nearly invisible on the white side of the paper
- the pinch marks are rather thick, increasing error
- some paper doesn't like pinch-marks: it'll resist the fold unless it's creased all the way.

Ah well.


New origami pieces added to my deviantArt gallery:

Writing

I'm starting a writing exchange with Kevin. So far, I've sent him a link to Stipper and Jo, and he's sent me a poem about dying in a car crash.

Hehe.

He seems to have a morbid fascination with car crashes--or, I dunno, maybe. His film group's name references it; and he's sent in two submissions for his university's literature journal about car crashes. He said the other day that maybe this is why he hasn't got his driving license yet.

Anyway. This poem he sent is...yeah, morbid--unexpectedly morbid. The end cuts off like in Margaret Laurence's Stone Angel.


Kevin

Went to the library with Kevin on Wednesday. We're kinda geeky, but I don't at all mind. He checked out books on David Lynch (he's just finished Twin Peaks) and some DVDs. I took out Origami Design Secrets: Mathematical Methods for an Ancient Art by Robert Lang and The Origami Bible by Nick Robinson.

We talked about English, about literature, about language and communication. We took the same bus back, and I recited part of I Could Be A Poet by Taylor Mali, and some of Stipper and Jo by me.

Stipper and Jo is one of those poems that has to be read aloud for the full effect. When I wrote it, I had in mind a quick pace, and a British accent. I kinda want to perform it one day.

Anyway, so I was reciting poetry on the bus; and I was drinking coffee (actually, a "Black Cherry Pie", which is hot chocolate, espresso and black cherry syrup--delicious!), so I spoke rather loudly and excitedly. I just about missed my stop because of it. A lady happened to get off at the same stop, and she turned to me and said, "That coffee sure got you going, didn't it!"


As I was walking, I thought about how I fit in the world. Sure, at home or at work, I can be ME with very little thought about what people think; but on the street, who am I?

I thought about the way Kevin might see me. When I got my hair cut this short, he was the first one to see it, and he said nothing. None of that, "Hey, you got your hair cut, it looks nice" bullcrap. And I loved that!

I don't know why he said nothing; maybe he's never said anything about girls' hair before? I don't know, but I don't really care, either. I'm starting to see that honesty--"earnest"-ness in him.

Argh, and this is all after realizing/deciding we wouldn't work as a couple. I guess I still stand by that, but I'm freeing up the type/s of relationship we could have.

"Fluid" is a word I'm starting to use to describe myself--to myself, at least. I change, I flow smoothly, I fill empty spaces, my boundaries are ever changing and I am not restricted to one shape or size--ideally, at least.

So, again, I wonder how he sees me. Probably he sees me as that passionate artist sort, which is nice. I wouldn't mind that.


My Faults

I really like myself. I'm very comfortable with who I am, and not...willing / eager to change, so I can be pretty unmotivated / lazy.

I love attention; I'm pretty self-centred or self-absorbed and sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that not everyone is as "open" as I am, so I have to ask them very specific questions in conversation. I'm working on this, though.

I'm often late. Working on it!


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Math Porn!

Excerpt kinda, because I haven't written anything beyond it

There are times I feel his sweet, calloused hands gently across my face, my neck. He whispers something intangible as he presses his lips quickly against my cheek. We kiss; wet, sweet and breathless; kiss again. I can feel him radiate heat; the smell of sweat mingles fancily in the warm air. Soft satin, cool to the touch, stretches beneath our forms. I run my fingertips down his chest; the hair curls slightly more from moisture. His broad chest, exquisitely muscled and blanketed in textured but pliant skin; it feels wonderful beneath my touch.

It's usually at about this time that I must look up, breathless, into those brilliant blue eyes; brush some hair from his face; feel the curves of his jaw and the dimples of his smile.

"Sometimes I wish you were a woman," I breathe into his face. We kiss again.

Writing

Sometimes, I write math porn. And, what's cool: I'm not alone! Joey Comeau writes math porn, too. His is different from mine, obviously.

Also, there's this gallery.

My math porn is different, because I know of at least three very attractive people who are proficient in Math, and it drives me nuts. There's one idea that I keep trying to make into a finished, polished story, and publish it, dang it!

I have at least four versions of Strip Calculus running right now. Not one is finished; and I doubt any will finish soon. However, I have been working on version "2c" lately, and it seems the most likely candidate.

With any amount of luck, I'll be uploading it soon.

--Charissa

Reminiscing

I found my old poetry box from grade twelve English.

I carved it from an old Nintendo system. Heee. My brothers weren't exactly thrilled about that.

But now, two years later, it's amazing.

Mostly, it's amazing what I could write and...create back in those days...

Charissa Reminisces About Highschool

When I was in highschool, I was totally arrogant. I thought I was da shizz. I was invincible; omnipotent; amazing stuff. I wasn't afraid of anything. Whatever I wanted to do was justified by my wanting to do it.

Not so anymore. I don't know what caused that; was it James, was it the Army, was it the lack of school; my desk job reading scripts... I can't talk anymore. I stutter, I stumble, I have no vocabulary. I doubt myself, I'm noncommittal, I'm lethargic.

And I have no social life.


Reflections on the Poetry Box

I made a poetry box in grade nine, too. It looks like a "hat box", people keep telling me, and it's covered in red fabric. On the top is a large piece of white paper with the small-written word "PRETENTIOUS". Hah!

I like the Nintendo box, though.

I was going for a sort of "It is past, but it is to come" or "The past will meet up with you again soon" or "You'll remember me in (fifteen) years."

Contents

Editorial - "FREE Rolex, Viagra and Designer Handbags!!!"
about spam and ham and e-mail stuff.

Short Story - "Alex's Art"

• horrible, horrible piece of crap I squeezed out just before the due-date.

Monologue - "Banquo's Descent"

• portrayed as a typical blog, complete with profile picture, "biography" and calendar of updates.

Narrative Poem - "Stipper and Jo"

• stuffed into the sleeve for a 8 + 1/2 inch floppy disk.

Cinquain - "I hate spam"

• in the pink "e-mail" envelope

Note Poem - "I just wanted to say..."

• in the pink "e-mail" envelope.
  
• our teacher really liked this "I just wanted to say..." concept; as though a poem could be a note left somewhere--or a note left somewhere could be a poem. I have no love for this "poem".

Sonnet - "Sonnet no. 1"

• this really was my first sonnet. I'm so happy it turned out almost exactly as I wanted. My only annoyance is with "Thus, twenty born in time soon die in dearth" which is supposed to mean, "Even though 20 infants are born at the same time, they die in a bad / unfulfilling life.
  
• it is attached to a Lego flying-vehicle, which is a toy of something that doesn't exist yet. I wanted to be sort-of representative of "something from your youth will meet you in the future" and have a sort of "You were once happy--purely and innocently happy. That was called Joy" to fit with that last couplet. Mm.
  

The "Your.Blog.Net" is a monologue. Monologue can be read here; snippets of it can be viewed here (Flash).

Stipper and Jo can be read here, with an explanation at the bottom.

Inside that pink envelope are two poems:

I hate spam, a Cinquain

>>OPEN

Get a FREE car!

Your Diploma Awaits!!

Miss Tiffany Wants to Meet You!!!

>>Delete

and

I just wanted to say...

I have longer hair now
and I'm
some two inches taller.
Mom says I'm getting fat.

I still like Chopin and Ellington
but I've started on Radiohead and
Orbital.
I found your Pink Floyd collection.

see you this summer.

Attached to a Lego^TM ship is a sonnet. It can also be read and appreciated artfully (pfft!) here.

Sonnet no. 1

Wild, screaming and bloody was I at birth,
Where nineteen other mothers might share screams.
Thus, twenty born in time soon die in dearth:
Our lives, all substance, wealth--no thoughts, no dreams.

We're beaten gently by nurses, sometimes
If our independent lungs refuse air.
We cry, bewildered, not knowing our crimes,
Suck in air to cry--we breathe unaware.

We grow, we learn to love, live, and commit;
Somehow, our brains can overcome all frays:
Nights unsleeping; throes of death's counterfeit,
'Til all giv'n effort untangles ablaze.

How'ver wraught with pain and with griefs to cloy,
It is life and I live and it is joy.

In other news

I tried to donate blood again today. Augh, disaster! The nurses poked around my left arm a bit, trying to feel for usable veins/arteries. That took ages. They finally found one, but it was deep down and they were a bit worried. I'm not sure if it was foolish, but I told them to go ahead anyway.

OUCH. She hit a nerve, and it sent a bolt right up to my thumb--like when you "hit your funny bone", except there's a 2mm metal tube sticking into your arm. Ooooch! Out of all the times I've tried to donate, that was the ONLY PAINFUL experience! She withdrew.

After some ice and a brief cool-down, I suggested they try my other arm. My blood-test-doctor is very good and can always get blood out of this one, very visible vein off to the side. Unfortunately, the nurses couldn't feel the vein. Since the alternative was to blindly poke into the centre, I mentioned that, at least you could see this vein!

Well, seeing wasn't enough. They tried, but it just wouldn't bleed fast enough.

I ended the day with a very, very, FRUCKIN' SORE left arm (still hurts when I move too much), and a few millilitres less blood. Fruck!


Sleepy time!
--Charissa

Some Writing!

http://blog.wolfram.com/2007/05/the_mathematica_behind_televis.html

In my previous post, I linked to Mathworld because it's awesome. Well, I'm linking it again because it's awesome, AND has ties to the television series NUMB3RS, which is totally hoorays!

Also, I thought I would post this snippet from my collection of "smutty Math stories" that I write from time to time. This one is old, but I wuvs it dearly:

Short fiction: Models (Incomplete)

Oh, you don't need any help now, do you?, he asks mockingly. He's leaning low by my side; his face is close to mine, gazing across to the quickly scrawled initial value problem. I finger the corner of the paper, thinking distractedly. I can feel his warmth on my skin. He's closer than I thought, so I don't turn my head to reply.

I've got it, I tell him dismissingly, I've got it... In nervous habit, I press my lower lip to my teeth, biting my lip.

We've been here at least two hours, exchanging questions and explanations and waxing philosophical with our esoteric dialogue. We're indulging in our two greatest pleasures at the same time, and as an extra treat, I'm nibbling some dark chocolate.

He rights himself and walks across the kitchen. He's probably stretching himself out and getting snacks; I can hear him yawn.

I hear him open the fridge and see him, in my mind's eye, for I'll not indignify myself by staring. I wonder what he'll get. He'll always find a way to pleasantly surprise me. At least, until I can recognize his pattern.

I used to intimidate people with the way I predicted them. If I wanted a favour done, I wouldn't ask, but tell the person, "You're going to get me a large coffee from the cafeteria if I give you three dollars." Usually, the first reactions are to take offense and rebel against my suggestion, but I wouldn't have said it if I thought it would not work, and, with little effort on my part, she'll bring me my coffee, and my $1.50 change.

Wilbert was the first--and only--person I could not accurately predict. The first favour I told him was in Math class. "You'll bring my exercise book?" He looked at me as though trying to understand my own pattern, and then went off to fetch it, with a slight smile. But when he returned with the book, he did not give it to me. Instead, he stayed standing at my desk, reading the exercise book casually.

"'Exercise fifty-eight," he said, "question one."

He had a soft voice; soothing, really, but simultaneously evocative.

"'Find an acute angle x such that tan of ninety minus x equals cotangent of eight plus one-third x.' Hm, now that looks like a fun question. Let's see. Tan is sine over cos, and cotangent is cos over sin. Cross multiplying gets the sines and cosines on different sides, but if they're moved to one side, it makes a cos double-angle identity, and from there..."

And I just stared at him.

His mind was so analytical; always calculating--but in a haphazard and chaotic way, which still let him appear calm and intense. Finding his patterns would be the most captivating and satisfying task I'd set for myself yet. Not that I'm obsessed.

I have an unfinished model. It works, but it is flawed. It can predict 90% of his actions, but not thought process behind them. I think I can refine this model by the end of the month. It has taken too long already.

...to be finished at some later date.

...later
--Charissa

Checklist and Dream

I want to make a checklist of things never to do as a teacher. The first item on it will be: "End a sentence with 'Right?'" I wonder how obvious is my inspiration.

Never:

• End a sentence with, "Right?"
  
• Ignore advice or suggestions.
  
• Think I know everything.
  
• Think I don't need help doing anything ever.
  
• Touch a whiteboard with my skin.
  
• Lie.
  
• Be half-assed.
  
• Not have a lesson-plan.
  
• Use someone else's lesson plan without going over it beforehand.
  
• Ask if material is either too easy or too hard.
  
• Talk loudly when frustrated.
  

Avoid:

• Talking about teaching when students are nearby and still.
  
• Silencing students--especially when it's not affecting the entire class.
  
• Treating everything as though within my power.
  
• Treating everything as though out of my power.
  
• Talking just outside the classroom door as though it were private.
  

Endeavour to:

• Be available.
  
• Be responsive; quick to respond.
  
• Be helpful.
  
• Be enthused (no problem there!)
  
• Use many methods.
  

I had a dream this morning

I had a dream this morning, about someone from "long-ago". I've blogged about him all over the place, always trying not to use his real name, so I guess I'll do that again. Let's call him Lexus, because he's luxurious in a sort of way.

Backstory:

When highschool started for us, Lexus came to our school for Grade Nine Math although he was in grade eight; and for the rest of my highschool career, it was that way. In grade nine, though, everyone called him smelly and a grade-eight-er and a show-off; and it was mostly true.

From what I've gathered: he played chess competitively until about two years ago; was a lifeguard; was very athletic, being on volleyball and curling teams; played baseball in the summer; had terrible communication skills; liked to be well-read; had an amazing imagination / ability of imaging; and, of course, was fantastic at Math.

Around grade eleven, he joined the school choir, and this is probably when I first noticed him.

I mean, during the annual Jazz festival, I had taken a photo of him sleeping on the bus; and I had already noticed that he played trumpet in a very precise manner and as though there were something very funny--a sarcastic "inside-joke"--to his precision. But I had never paid much attention to him until he joined the choir.

Being one of the few male voices, his seat was near the back, and it happened that he stood almost directly behind me. His voice had the same sarcastic timbre as his trumpet-playing, and Chris once had to point out to Lexus that it isn't by forcing that you sing lower and better tones!

So, I heard his voice more. And I also saw him more (though I'd seen him in Grade Ten Pre-Calculus), and through this, came to be infatuated.

Then, in my graduating year, there was a slight problem in my schedule. Because of the courses I wanted, I was forced to take Pre-Calc before Calculus. Of course, my previous grades and having a father who teaches Math (badly) once a week quickly convinced Admin that this would not be a problem. It so happened that Lexus had the same happen to him.

We took Calculus together, then; and somehow, the three of us with this scheduling conflict sat mostly alone on the same side of the class (it was a small class, about fifteen).

Obviously, he began to mean something to me; I noticed and fell in love with details of him--the way his hair made his eyes sharper; the curve of his nose; the way his facial hair started simply as fuzz on his chin.

I also started a graphic journal, because I wanted to capture details. Fridays were our treat-days, where we all took turns bringing treats. One day, we had chocolate pudding--or maybe Lexus just brought his own, I forget--and he spilled some on his bright yellow shirt. I heard a slight commotion, and turned to see; he and lifted his shirt to his mouth to clean it off; and, lest I be obvious, I had to turn back, when I saw his abs.

I eventually wrote a journal entry, which turned out to be a poem:

Math and Symbols

I'll be sitting in class, and you'll
be behind me, where I can't
mentally undress you.

Not
that it stops me from trying, but
it would be so much more satisfying,
I think,
if I could stare at your body. Or
at your face while you
puzzle over a new problem.

I love that expression on your face:

It's not quite "relaxed",
it's not quite "intense",
but it's almost
pouty,
as though all the
muscles in your face just went dead
and limp like
your entire being
is focused on the problem
and you can't spare the energy to look
awake.

You make me want to shout and sing and
write bad poetry,
but I don't feel words can actually
articulate all that I want
to express.

I want
to write it out in large and esoteric
math and symbols:

"YOU ARE THE LIGHT OF MY MIND, YOU INSPIRE
AND CHALLENGE ME, YOU KEEP ME BURNING, AND
ALSO, YOU ARE GOOD-LOOKING."

But I wonder
what you would think of that,
and, if I gave you that
paper with my heart translated
into math and symbols,
would you find me odd,
and then not
be the same person you
were
in my head?

Eventually, I realized someone was going to notice the way I couldn't even look his direction with a straight face.

I wrote him a letter to a similar effect as the journal entry, mostly pointing out that I found him attractive (mentioning a few to show I was serious); that I just had to tell him because I didn't want rumours; that if he had a significant other, I didn't mean to interfere; that if I was being too bold, he should let me know, because, "since when are you afraid of girls?"

This was pretty disastrous, but not at first.

It was entirely my fault, because he didn't send any sort of reply, and I ruined the whole thing a few days later by first giving him a "secret" note telling him I'd phone tonight, and then phoning.

When I'd been put through to him, he said slowly that he was going to tell me that tonight wouldn't be a good night to call. It was then that I learned he had a girlfriend; and my lack of response betrayed my expectations. I think I managed to say, "Oh," and, after a pause, "Have fun with that". I forget what happened immediately after, but we eventually hung up and nothing was much changed, save that I couldn't look his direction for embarrassment instead of infatuation.

I'm not sure what happened after I graduated. In University, I heard short second-hand stories about how he had a girlfriend, and such-and-such happened to them, so now such-and-such took place. I visited the highschool once--a class he took, too. He made a point of announcing something about his girlfriend--but, at this time, I was dating James anyway.

I've heard from someone he used to play chess against, that perhaps he's now in the University of Waterloo, and wouldn't doubt it, with his brain.

The Dream

The dream was confusing, and I remember only to parts. The first part, there was Lexus, James, some others, and me; and we were at some sort of social gathering; and, for some reason, I had to keep it unknown to James that I had a thing for Lexus; and Lexus was making that very difficult, because he flaunted all the things I'd adored. Somehow, the topic turned to hair and sideburns--not quite sideburns, but the hair that grows over top your ears--and I'd called Lexus a hypocrite because he had that, too; and I'd grabbed him by that hair and I think I kissed him.

The other part was after the party, when Lexus and I were alone for some reason. And I remember thinking to myself, "You're not real, and if you kiss me, it won't feel real--I won't be able to feel your lips, your heat, your movement--and I must really stop imagining you." And hen he kissed me, and it felt entirely real--texture, heat, motion and all. And then he asked me if I wanted him to stop being real, and I don't remember what happened next.

Eventually I awoke, very confused because my mind, body, heart and spirit were all pulling in opposing directions so that even inaction fell into one of them.

I'm not sure what to make of the dream. This is the second dream I've had where someone I either love or am in love with has asked me whether it would be okay to be romantic. If anything, this should be a symbol or warning of my own indecision; but it doesn't help that I know not where to go.


I'm not going to let it worry me too much yet. More urgent is:

Tuesday 09:00 - Fitness test

Wednesday 10:00 - get Army gear!

Friday 18:00 - my "birthday party"!

Adieu!
--Charissa