Nonsensical is a word in the dictionary. Sensical isn’t.

Halloween is here. I am planning my pumpkin carving. I am not an ardent fan of pumpkin in dishes, so carving is really the only purpose I can think of for it.

Met an old colleague for dinner. I had forgotten that he tends to come with copious quantities of beer consumption. I stuck to cider for the most part, but then I could not resist the microbrewed variation that tasted like Rodenbach Grand Cru, which is the only beer I can actually claim to tolerate without grimacing.

Planning to get out of the suburbs for a weekend getaway. I hope the rest of the suburb dwellers don’t have the same idea for the same weekend.

I hear that the season four of Sherlock may be finally coming soon. I liked the first season, but my interest has dwindled after I saw the declining quality as the seasons progressed. Mixing crime-solving and reality TV don’t make a good show, for me.  Cumberbatch’s arse is still a fine, fine thing nonetheless.

I have some pairs of tickets for the holiday season. I had bought them rather optimistically thinking of Sibelius’s internship plans earlier this year. Now, though, it seems as if I will go home for Christmas, and he will go home for his Christmas. So I have to drag myself out of inertia and take the tickets to exchange them for something else during the next year. They must be used to my flakiness by now at the box-office.


I have seen many kinds of men in my life and my life’s work. Some are more interesting than the others. Some stand out in memory’s pages, while the others fade, unremarked upon. The reasons vary – some are brilliant, some are kind, some are financially savvy and build empires from dirt, some are breathtakingly handsome, some are afflicted by tragedy, some afflict tragedy on those who come to like them, some are exceptionally skilled at charming every woman in the vicinity, a la Casanova, and the list goes on. I remember the exceptional ones.

When I first came to California, there was a cathedral in the east bay area, and a bishop there. He had found me in a pitiable state, and in deep despair. Perhaps in all my life nobody had treated me kinder. Later, our exchanges were more equal, and I continue to be affected by his powerful kindness. It is difficult to be kind to those who don’t buy into your life’s work, and I had never been very good at religion, and he had not minded that. He understood people and how they worked. His kindness was born of that, I daresay. How could you be unkind when you understood the frailties of the human condition? My life’s trajectory has approximately followed his prediction than mine, so far.

One of my mother’s relatives built a real-estate  operation, a highly profitable one, and he had started out with nothing. It is a strange story, but an inspiring one. It was no American dream, but it was a dream that he built from sweat and toil all by himself. While his personality baffles me, his financial acumen impresses me.

There was a professor who taught me the magic of Kalman’s work. He died too early. It was a tragedy. Some say that it was an expected one. He is still dearly mourned by those who knew him. He had been brilliant.

STEM fields in some of the more meritocracy-oriented colleges back in the nation I hail from often have an imbalance of men to women. I was impressed, incredibly so, when I heard that one of the alumni from such an institution had managed to tick off all the women in the class, one after the other. In such an unbalanced supply-demand situation, it is an impressive feat. I am scandalized, in that I have never understood the serial love bandwagon that modern life sees as the norm. I don’t really believe that we love different people in different ways, and that there is sufficient room in our hearts for everyone at the end. Perhaps it is my incapability. I have needed years to seal shut the past, perhaps because I love in the same way again and again, and there is no room in my mind to put it all together in some sequential, streaming manner. Revolving doors are beyond my puny heart. I can tarry a while, linger here and there, and offer what paltry substitutes I can offer in the gloaming, but nothing true and whole can come until the night has passed.