My grandfather once confided in me that the only regret in life he ever had was that once, decades ago, he thought he was wrong.*

• He also convinced an unsuspecting fellow that jalapeños were ‘Mexican pickles’ that ought to be eaten whole.

Yet another bone crushing day at work; I can’t say that debugging JSPs is the most fun I’ve ever had. (Strunk and White would undoubtedly get on my case for the previous clause, as it is non-committal. In their mind, I should say “Debugging JSPs is not the most fun I have ever had.” This would imply that a stand is being taken, as opposed to what I said, which is in reality a way for me to imply that it is not fun without actually committing myself. This is academic kung-fu.)

A break from Quicksilver was had last night, in order to read through the final issue of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and the second issue of 1602.

I have jettisoned Proteus from my system, replacing it with the open source Adium. Not only is it being actively developed, it is much gentler on system resources and doesn’t have a tendency to spontaneously stop working.

Coming into to work this morning, the subway was filled with a fraction of the people that usually are on board during the week. The office was the same, and I found myself wondering whether or not I had missed a holiday. By lunchtime the level of bustle had reached something approaching normal, but for some reason I feel that something interesting happened today and I didn’t get the memo.

While 90% of Boston was off celebrating Manman Aloumandia (or something similar), I was locked in a contest of will with my code, which refused to behave properly. Progress was made; however, ten or so hours of my day are nothing more than a blur of debugging, recompiling, and analyzing.

Finally, I present a page devoted to the subjunctive mood in English. I still have nightmares of a midnight visit to the truck stop (for there was only one) in college, flushed from a day and night of Greek, and answering “What do ya want, hon?” with “I should like a cup of coffee and an omelet.”

I’m about 200 pages into Quicksilver. It’s well written and engaging, but I find myself having to come up for air more often than I generally do with Fiction. It is a book that requires, or at least rewards, careful scrutiny of every sentence.

Stephenson has turned his vision from the future to the past. In doing so he seems to have adapted the pace of older works. Time is taken to develop and explore the peripheries of the main story arc, to dwell on location and scenery; time that would not have been taken in earlier works like Snow Crash. That he is able to slow down his pacing and still retain such an engaging presence is a testament to Stephenson’s craft.

There is no danger that I will blaze through the novel like wildfire through a balsa wood factory; I would be disappointed should that happen. Each time I sit down with the book I emerge well nourished, and the prospect of having, at the least, another week in which to enjoy the unfolding of the story is rather comforting.

For your listening pleasure.

There’s an interesting place where one can tell that what one feels is not entirely the same as what is. It’s one thing to say “Nobody really understands me!” and another to say “I feel as if no one understands me, but I am aware that were I to approach this rationally, I should find that many people are indeed able to understand me, as what I am going through is common to the human condition.” The former, for example, is shorter.

The latter is more interesting. It is as if reason surfaces long enough to note that one is unreasonable before boarding a cruise ship and taking a holiday, leaving one with an unwieldy ball full of emotion and the knowledge that there’s nothing really underneath it all.

EGO: “Heu! I’m [insert negative emotion here].”

SUPEREGO: “No you’re not, not really. Of course, you’re welcome to feel that way, but once you clear your head up a bit… well, I don’t want to spoil it for you.”

EGO: “Why you little…”

SUPEREGO: “Say, look at the time! I’m off to Nice for a week. Clean up after yourself, there’s soda in the fridge. Ta!”

EGO: “Bugger.”

Abraham’s bosom assist me, I’m vertiginous o’er a thesaurus. The good folks at Nisus have released the Nisus Thesaurus for free, and is it cracking.

How commoving can a thesaurus be? First off, it’s semantic, so one see synonyms for a “neat” organized by meaning (as in “clean”, as in “bang-up”). It is kind enough to define the word in all its various meanings. From the starting word, one can get more or less specific, moving, say, from “thesaurus” to “reference book” to “book” to “publication.” Antonyms and related words are also browse-able.

Topnotch!

One of those code monkey days. Stroll into work, sit down at the desk, type for 6 or 7 hours, and then look around, blinking. Where has the time gone?

I’m saving the extra special logic for tomorrow. Looking at the specification in front of me, I don’t know if I can make it any more delightful^* unless I throw in some random GOTO statements.

^*The reader is welcome to choose his or her own word to replace this, with my regards.

For some reason the phrase “eldritch horror” is rattling around in my brain, accompanied by a mental snigger. This has nothing to do with the following paragraph.

Through trickery involving eldritch horror (or going to bookstores and handing money to cashiers), I was able to obtain copies of Neil Gaiman’s long anticipated Sandman: Endless Nights and Neal Stephenson’s long anticipated Quicksilver. New works from Neil and Neal are infrequent (though Gaiman has had a flurry of work released or reissued in the past few months), and as such are treats of a high order.

Dramatis Personae, along with Orlando and myself, got a mention in this’s months undergraduate alumni magazine, The DePauw. A picture and everything.

There are already online results of the race Sunday. I finished squarely in the middle of the pack, 72nd out of 149. Not too shabby for one such as myself.

Varia is safely home from Merry Olde England™. She was positively bouncy this morning (as her body thought it was approaching noontime); I wonder if I shall ever see that again. It seems that she had an excellent time. Many Famous Things were observed, many Fascinating Places visited, many Quaint Pubs explored. I look forward to hearing further stories and seeing pictures.

In lieu of being able to go myself, I was presented with a half dozen Crunchy bars, a cut-out Celtic helmet modeled from the Sutton Hoo treasury, and a band of four fierce one-inch-tall Viking warriors, presently guarding my studio with their pewter lives.

I’m waiting for the starting gun to fire. Standing in a crowd of hundreds of people, trying to stay calm and relaxed, I attempt to listen over hundreds of conversations for the sound. In vain, I stand on my tiptoes and look ahead to catch a glimpse of what is happening.

No gunshot issues forth, but suddenly the crowd lurches forward, and I go with it. We are a serpent wearing a thousand athletic shoes. Propelled forward, I ask myself what I am doing for at least the tenth time — But it is too late to stop now, and I am off on my first road race, the “Big City Five and Dime.” being held in my own city of Somerville. I remind myself that it will all be over in ten miles, and I will likely escape this experience unscathed and a better person for it. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t finish last.

As the first minutes of the race progress, the mass of runners dissipates as the faster runners pull ahead and the slower runners lag behind; it is in this way I end up running next to Mike, who has the exact same pace as me. Assaulting a hill, we exchange witty remarks. After a while, we exchange names, and from that point on until the finish line, we are partners.

We run, and we talk. The day is beautiful with blue skies and a light breeze. Mike, a veteran of many races, gives me hints and advice, and regales me with tales of martial arts and boxing. I listen, delighted, and tell my own stories. The miles flow under our feet and before I realize it the finish line is in sight. I do not finish last; my final time is a respectable 1:27:47. Mike and I shake hands, congratulate each other on a good run and go our separate ways. It is over.

It has been said that the first race, like many firsts, is not easily forgotten, and no matter how many races will be run in the future, none will compare to the first. I do not know if this is true or not; however, if it is true, this race can be fondly and honestly remembered.

Some things don’t get easier over time.

I have lived in Boston over three years now, and I until today I had not visited the Museum of Fine Arts. After today’s expedition, I regret not having gone sooner; the collection is varied and extensive, and four hours was not nearly enough time to explore in-depth what was on display. The red figure Greek ceramics and an exhibit of Japanese stencil work caught my fancies in particular.

I shall return.

In the fall of last year, I thought it would be an interesting exercise to start an online journal. The first goal was to force me to write on a regular basis; the second was to give distant friends and relations some inkling as to what I was up to.

That was one year ago today. By now the journal has, like all habits, woven its way into my life. I don’t know if my second goal has been met, but the first certainly has.