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Curriculum Vitae

CV

Education

University of Florida                                                                                                     2008-2014

  • Graduated with a B.S. degree in Metallurgy.

Relevant Accomplishments

  • Collected a range of electromagnetic waves and subsequently used sophisticated information processing techniques to integrate them into a coherent subjective experience.
  • Identified the frequency of several million compression waves in media such as air and recognized a complicated pattern emergent from among the noise. Discovered techniques to replicate strings of compression waves in an orchestrated fashion to store and transmit data within them. Used these techniques to maintain an extensive communications network that allows for information accumulation and the refinement of algorithms that determine best course of action in real time.
  • Carried on complicated physical tasks such as: harvesting energy from ingested organic material, acquiring and transporting oxygen to necessary tissues, thermal regulation, and walking.
  • Certified in full independence as regards the excretion of waste into culturally acceptable receptacles (fully potty trained).
  • Turned eyelids inside out which totally grossed out your little sister.

OOPs haikus

On being stuck in my own mind forever and on being stuck talking about it forever

encapsulation;
can’t access private members;
of object ‘Human’;

But on the bright side

encapsulation
at least human objects can
access global truth

Image

Nail on the head

after_add(2)Nail on the head

You hit it (semi-complete)

The Faucet Engineer

The faucet dripped. Its problem was that it couldn’t stop working. It couldn’t turn itself off for a moment, stuck with itself for eternity; stuck with its own incessant drip drip dripping. The engineer, caught up in the incessant click and whir of the machinery of his own obsessive mind, trying to phrase every turn of his life as a problem to be solved analytically, was momentarily distracted by the drip. He was pulled out of himself for an instant, just long enough to glimpse the human tragedy of the faucet’s condition. The faucet’s problem was that it couldn’t stop working.

He shed a single tear, and in that moment he was one with the faucet, and he made a vow:

“I will design a better faucet that never leaks, whose water is always warm and welcoming, who doesn’t tarnish and calcify and get tossed aside for a newer model.” He pronounced aloud, “I will become a faucet engineer.”

 

The above is what I prefer to think happened with regards my college professor, the ex-faucet engineer.

But he was a silly man, who was probably the shoddy faucet engineer who designed your eternally leaking faucet in the first place. It was probably his magnum opus, the culmination of years of research and design.

Baldie Lox

Goldie lox was very fair

with cream cheese skin and salmon hair

One day she B-&-E’ed the abode of some bears

And made herself comfortable there.

When surely enough they eventually caught her

They shaved her head totally bare.

Then they spread the remains of young baldie lox

Onto a bagel along with gruyere.

They topped her off with some salmon locks

Then baked her to a nice medium rare.

mmmm just right.

Meaningless contradictions like ‘pointless circles’

As I get older I eat up more and more ideas that only weigh me down and make me fat. And then you’ll say I’m well rounded.

As you get older you eat up more and more of the culture until you’ve seen the same point from an increasing number of angles, rotating around the same ideas until you’ve encapsulated them and you’re even less sure what to think than ever. And they’ll tell you doubt is the seed of knowledge or faith. Good luck.

As I get older I see new things less often, often I see the same things differently, and then differently again. Circling around the same damn problems, the only conclusions I meet seem to say that earlier solutions were actually problems. Mitosis of problems. There are new things out there to see, countless like the stars if only you could get there. There’s nothing new, you’ve experienced all the primary colors and the rest is nuance and subtle variation on a theme, falling somewhere, falling on the color wheel somewhere. I’ll repeat myself again, but not exactly, in thought and word and action, because I’m a pattern propagating. I’m only as real as a ripple. I’ll never repeat myself, nothing ever repeats, change is all that’s real.

As I get older I don’t think anything without having previously thought the opposite and knowing that I’ll again think the opposite and then the original, but maybe with caveats. Oscillating with time and going nowhere but around the muse again, I seem to be running around Euler’s imaginary circle. My head becomes full of contradictions and every “third way” turns, turns out to be stupid. A counter-contrarian, no, a knee-jerk third-wayfarer, and also a staunch moderate you can be sure never thinks for himself, but thinking for yourself isn’t all it’s thought to be. It’s often reinventing the wheel. No, it’s often more like building your own furniture. What has it gotten me? As if I’d ever thought for myself. So maybe it’s a good thing after all. I don’t even think thinking’s as great as it’s thought to be. But if I started to think less the spring would yank me back to equilibrium and I’d think that not thinking was the reason for my decline. I constantly feel that I’m sinking, failing, or less than I was, and I ascribe different reasons to it. It’s because I’m looking backwards, into the past, so as I’m thrust into the future I feel the air rush around me and perceive that I’m falling, sinking. Or maybe it’s because I’m actually sinking, because I’ve been not thinking enough of course, or rather, too much. Yes, it’s because an analogy is never true and thinking spins round and round and makes for a shitty compass, and a poetic image is not a map. I tried to ignore or fight that feeling and I decided it was fearful, then I tried to accept it and give it a hug and decided I was being indulgent. I threw my hands up and then chastised myself for being so apathetic. I tried to focus outwardly and felt I was failing others. So…

I’ll get older and give up on all this and pull my head out of the clouds. And then you’ll say I’m well grounded.

expression is futile

To try to dissect your emotions with language is to apply a scalpel to a liquid. Better would be to allow the grains of experience meld seamlessly with your essence, sweetening it by dissolving like sugar into coffee. Remember that no matter how sharp you think you are, a spoon still serves better than a scalpel when its function is to stir, to agitate, to integrate experience, memory, and emotion into self. Better would be to live a life as fluid as the self, not analyzed, not spent clinging to handfuls of liquid and then pounding your fists in frustration when it slips through your fingers.

Why can’t I say what I mean? It seems that every time I try to speak in earnest what comes out is a lie. I don’t mean a lie, but what comes out just sounds wrong. Maybe I’m doomed to perpetual facepalm.

It’s just that expression is difficult, maybe impossible. You can easily tell when someone is being sincere and trying to open up. The sense of desperation and grasping at straws is palpable, admirable even.

Is there a single person who isn’t born desperate to tear their chest open and bare their soul to another? But after all this time I haven’t found anything inside my own chest but a homunculus trying to tear open its chest. By that I mean that maybe the problem with expression isn’t that I can’t find an appropriate mechanism for communication but rather that there simply is nothing there really to express in the first place. Or at least that the only true thing is the desire to convey myself, that at least if I can do that then connection is possible and I won’t be alone. Certainly people can sense the desperation radiating off of me as I try to say what I mean. But what I wonder is whether I am desperate to convey something or whether I am desperate to believe that there exists something for me to convey. Is my identity anything other than a desire to express my identity?