Today I received a metaphorical kick in the rear: acceptance to speak at the 17th bi-annual Conference on Solid State Ionics! This round it's in Toronto, June 28 - July 3. The way it fits in my overall overseas overture, I'll most likely be heading straight to Denver from Canada afterward, since my Danish visa expires July 15. Plus, I'd soon avoid having to de-lag three times in two weeks, and go through that ritual only once.
Now, I'm accountable not only to my bosses in Denmark and Colorado to produce results, but also a slew of international conferencing scientists, coming together for a week of swapping ideas, innovations, and business cards.
I've had some difficulties in research these past few weeks, but this announcement has throttled me forward a few gears and knocked me out of the delay-ridden doldrums. Yay!
Speaking at the conference will be my first big event as a graduate student, and I'm excited to put some of the hard work done here at Risø on display.
Ts'all for now, time to work!
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Breeze With A Bite
I was blown off my bike today. The sun was out, the clouds were sparse, the city was bustling, and the wind was on a rampage.
During my ten minute ride to see a friend about going to Iceland, I was caught on my left side by a particularly harsh gust that obliterated my balance. My tires hit the curb at a moderate speed, maybe 10 mph, and I tried to stop myself, but to no avail. Next I was spinning on the sidewalk and a Danish man had stopped his bicycle to ask of my health. I'm really glad it wasn't rush hour and I wasn't on Nørrebrogade, cuz my tumble would have caused a pile-up worthy of the Tour de France. Biking in København is crazy in the heat of commute time! Everyone (mostly) has bells, and almost no one (including I) uses them.
As for the wind again, København just became the "Windy City." It hasn't yet been as strong as it was today, but it's never really gone either, no matter what time of day or what weather. Even out in Roskilde, far from the sea coast, I've been blown back down hills while riding to work. So, more appropriately, Denmark is the "Windy Country." Given my limited world travel experience, this title is probably prematurely assigned, but after today, I can credit this nation's weather with being the first climate to literally knock me down. Roadrash notwithstanding, the whole experience was exhilerating.
During my ten minute ride to see a friend about going to Iceland, I was caught on my left side by a particularly harsh gust that obliterated my balance. My tires hit the curb at a moderate speed, maybe 10 mph, and I tried to stop myself, but to no avail. Next I was spinning on the sidewalk and a Danish man had stopped his bicycle to ask of my health. I'm really glad it wasn't rush hour and I wasn't on Nørrebrogade, cuz my tumble would have caused a pile-up worthy of the Tour de France. Biking in København is crazy in the heat of commute time! Everyone (mostly) has bells, and almost no one (including I) uses them.
As for the wind again, København just became the "Windy City." It hasn't yet been as strong as it was today, but it's never really gone either, no matter what time of day or what weather. Even out in Roskilde, far from the sea coast, I've been blown back down hills while riding to work. So, more appropriately, Denmark is the "Windy Country." Given my limited world travel experience, this title is probably prematurely assigned, but after today, I can credit this nation's weather with being the first climate to literally knock me down. Roadrash notwithstanding, the whole experience was exhilerating.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Fredag Bar, Enigmatic Heiko, Excess Modifiers, Nørrebronx
I've been feeling uninspired to write lately. Thankfully, the drought is over! There have been some upslopes on the adventure pulse this month, and today, because I've found blogging much more interesting than studying the defect theory of ceramics, I'm finally sitting down to relate them to you, Dear Reader.
Fredag bar every week at Risø continues to provide chances for bettering my pool skills, spectating the intense fooseball tourneys, linguistic smörgåsbord (a Swedish word actually), and enjoying beer cheaper than Coors Light (à la bartender) and many times tastier. This past Friday, a Swedish woman living in Göteborg (midwestern coastal city) scolded us for complaining of the sleety high-wind weather of Thursday eve. I rode my bike home in that storm for 5 minutes, got thoroughly drenched (with the help of a city bus spraying gutter water like a tidal wave) and cold, despite my warm bundling, so I was a bit ruffled by her admonition. But, when she told us that in Göteborg wintertime, temperatures rarely get over -15 ˚C and the sun is up from 9-2, we all shut up. Which was good, because we were in the middle of a heated pool game. It was an international match--U.S.-China v. Sweden-India. Whenever Corin (the Swede) missed a shot, her "Queen's English" turned into a rapid-fire stream of Swedish curses. When I sank the 8 ball for the win, she was especially vocal. No hard feelings at Fredag bar though; we're all mild-mannered scientists.
I made some friends at the International Church of Copenhagen a couple weeks ago. We're mostly foreign students studying abroad and fall into the 20 and 30-somethings category. I find a lot of common ground to revel on with them, and am excited to see what adventures come our way this spring. Tentatively, I'll be going to Iceland in June with some of them, and maybe down to Berlin in the nearer future.
To make sure I get work done this afternoon, I've decided to split up the description of this group of friends I've merged into, and present one or two of these wonderful people here each post. Today, I give you Heiko Schluter. His origins are still a mystery to me because whenever we talk, I get so wrapped up in the deep and interesting dialogue that I've not yet fount out most of the basics. His surname sounds German to me, though I'm not positive. His accent is so similar to mine that he could be a midwest U.S. suburbanite. All this mystery I plan to solve at some point. Facebook stalking has proved inconclusive, as he's more ascetic with his profile than I am.
His stories have been rivetting. Heiko's life (the slices of which I've heard so far) has been beyond cool. He lived on St. Croix for 10 years, where his brother had moved after hurricane Hugo, to help residents rebuild. There, the Schluter I know honed his painting abilities (his job) and designed boats (his hobby). He also dabbled in biodiesel production out of his home. We chatted about eneryg policy, history, literature, religion, science, flying fish, building catamarans, rescuing buildings from monsoons, and the theories of Sanskrit scholars. His painting is very impressive. He works mostly in acrylic from what I've seen on Facebook (an album of an exhibition featuring his work) and fills his creations with resonating vibrancy, exacting perspective, and meticulous detail.
Heiko Schluter. Next post, David Tiprigan.
-----
My København neighborhood, Nørrebro, has been infamous for gang presence in recent years. Hells Angels biker gangs (no joke) have been squaring off with the ambiguous 'Immigrant' gangs for drug trafficking power, or so the natives say. While it's true there is a high concentration of non-Danes living in Nørrebro, dominantly Arabs as I've learned (evidenced by the 'Starbucks-like' density of kebab houses and birka-clad women), I have yet to witness any hostilities beyond a few heckling youths in my end of town. Actually, I am at the 'end' of it. Across the street, not 30 meters from my window, is the neighborhood of Frederiksberg, a decidedly wealthier part of the city containing no ruckus and abundant in pram-pushing new mothers.
Nevertheless, Nørrebro's reputation for being the 'seedy side' of København has been the inspiration for recent comical commentary by my lighthearted Spanish roommate, Fernando. "We are living in 'Nørrebronx,' my friend."
The humor is dark in light of the recent shootings and civilian casualties in parts of København. Nørrebro was one of the scenes, but no where near me, or I'm just completely oblivious. I've seen a few cop cars, ambulances, and news stations vans in hot pursuit, but I've heard no gunshots and seen no arrests. I think it's such a big issue because these violent events haven't happened hardly at all here. Fernando and Kristian have told me about the history of immigration tension in København and Denmark at-large. Many political refugees from Saudi Arabia, Iran, and other Middle Eastern nations were taken in by the Danish government decades ago. Since then, the numbers have increased, and two generations have grown up Danish citizens. Minimal integration (fault of both the immigrants and the government) has contributed to cultural stress and to a degree of societal polarization. And, like any other unmixing mix of vastly different peoples, violence is the speediest and loudest voice of the strain.
In what I assume to be reaction to the killings and injuries, I rode past a anti-violence protest march today. The hundred and fifty or so members, shepherded by several motorcycle-mounted police officers, slowly made their way across the Nørrebrogade bridge as I biked home into southeast Nørrebro. The banner at the front displayed a gun painted over by the universal 'No!' symbol of a circle slashed by a line. Black behind red. The words were simple and big: Våben Nej Tak (Violence No Thanks). At the flank, a couple teenagers unfurled a second banner saying: Liv Ja Tak (Life Yes Thanks). Concisely profound.
Fredag bar every week at Risø continues to provide chances for bettering my pool skills, spectating the intense fooseball tourneys, linguistic smörgåsbord (a Swedish word actually), and enjoying beer cheaper than Coors Light (à la bartender) and many times tastier. This past Friday, a Swedish woman living in Göteborg (midwestern coastal city) scolded us for complaining of the sleety high-wind weather of Thursday eve. I rode my bike home in that storm for 5 minutes, got thoroughly drenched (with the help of a city bus spraying gutter water like a tidal wave) and cold, despite my warm bundling, so I was a bit ruffled by her admonition. But, when she told us that in Göteborg wintertime, temperatures rarely get over -15 ˚C and the sun is up from 9-2, we all shut up. Which was good, because we were in the middle of a heated pool game. It was an international match--U.S.-China v. Sweden-India. Whenever Corin (the Swede) missed a shot, her "Queen's English" turned into a rapid-fire stream of Swedish curses. When I sank the 8 ball for the win, she was especially vocal. No hard feelings at Fredag bar though; we're all mild-mannered scientists.
I made some friends at the International Church of Copenhagen a couple weeks ago. We're mostly foreign students studying abroad and fall into the 20 and 30-somethings category. I find a lot of common ground to revel on with them, and am excited to see what adventures come our way this spring. Tentatively, I'll be going to Iceland in June with some of them, and maybe down to Berlin in the nearer future.
To make sure I get work done this afternoon, I've decided to split up the description of this group of friends I've merged into, and present one or two of these wonderful people here each post. Today, I give you Heiko Schluter. His origins are still a mystery to me because whenever we talk, I get so wrapped up in the deep and interesting dialogue that I've not yet fount out most of the basics. His surname sounds German to me, though I'm not positive. His accent is so similar to mine that he could be a midwest U.S. suburbanite. All this mystery I plan to solve at some point. Facebook stalking has proved inconclusive, as he's more ascetic with his profile than I am.
His stories have been rivetting. Heiko's life (the slices of which I've heard so far) has been beyond cool. He lived on St. Croix for 10 years, where his brother had moved after hurricane Hugo, to help residents rebuild. There, the Schluter I know honed his painting abilities (his job) and designed boats (his hobby). He also dabbled in biodiesel production out of his home. We chatted about eneryg policy, history, literature, religion, science, flying fish, building catamarans, rescuing buildings from monsoons, and the theories of Sanskrit scholars. His painting is very impressive. He works mostly in acrylic from what I've seen on Facebook (an album of an exhibition featuring his work) and fills his creations with resonating vibrancy, exacting perspective, and meticulous detail.
Heiko Schluter. Next post, David Tiprigan.
-----
Nevertheless, Nørrebro's reputation for being the 'seedy side' of København has been the inspiration for recent comical commentary by my lighthearted Spanish roommate, Fernando. "We are living in 'Nørrebronx,' my friend."
The humor is dark in light of the recent shootings and civilian casualties in parts of København. Nørrebro was one of the scenes, but no where near me, or I'm just completely oblivious. I've seen a few cop cars, ambulances, and news stations vans in hot pursuit, but I've heard no gunshots and seen no arrests. I think it's such a big issue because these violent events haven't happened hardly at all here. Fernando and Kristian have told me about the history of immigration tension in København and Denmark at-large. Many political refugees from Saudi Arabia, Iran, and other Middle Eastern nations were taken in by the Danish government decades ago. Since then, the numbers have increased, and two generations have grown up Danish citizens. Minimal integration (fault of both the immigrants and the government) has contributed to cultural stress and to a degree of societal polarization. And, like any other unmixing mix of vastly different peoples, violence is the speediest and loudest voice of the strain.
In what I assume to be reaction to the killings and injuries, I rode past a anti-violence protest march today. The hundred and fifty or so members, shepherded by several motorcycle-mounted police officers, slowly made their way across the Nørrebrogade bridge as I biked home into southeast Nørrebro. The banner at the front displayed a gun painted over by the universal 'No!' symbol of a circle slashed by a line. Black behind red. The words were simple and big: Våben Nej Tak (Violence No Thanks). At the flank, a couple teenagers unfurled a second banner saying: Liv Ja Tak (Life Yes Thanks). Concisely profound.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Farewell February
The daylight stays with me a little more and more. I saw the sunset as I left work for the first time since arriving in Denmark. It was magnificent and well-colored, though I didn't feel inspired enough to lay out another 500 or so words on the subject (see February post).
Today is Saturday, the 28th of February, the finale of that one truant month so eager to be gone, proclaiming nonconformity in its shorter span. I wonder where it wants to go in such haste? Some holiday for the months gone by? A retirement retreat where Feb '09 will join its older siblings for eternity, after time stamps an one-way punch on that ticket? Or, less romantically, into the oblivion of the living generations' ever-decaying memories.
There's that sense of importance in the moment again. I get it in my head quite often, at times when I've slowed down from the bustle and business, and thoughts start to stroll in the 'quiet hours' of my consciousness. The feeling that makes me want to seize the day anew and accomplish and learn, knowing this second, this minute, this hour and day, will never be before me again.
I think the current age of "undo," "edit," and "back" buttons brings this mentamotional (mental-emotional) state into sharper focus. So much of my daily life involves computers (this weblog not among the least of these engagements) and a pervasive theme is the general lack of permanence. Roads, buildings, books, cars, bathtubs, bed frames, baseballs, and planes--all human artifice decays and fades, but I'm more accustomed to their longer lifespans. Not online, or even offline (i.e. word processor documents). Here, in the universe of bits and bytes frolicking and marching about on silicon-copper landscapes, everything can be changed, utterly, irreversibly, completely, and no trace of the past is left. I can delete this blog post and not even digital dust will remain (barring some ghost file archive in Blogger's servers, but you know what I mean). All this virtual cosmos is but a shimmer and shade in front of the hard earth and open sky.
So, all that babble down to this point: I sometimes feel numb to the finality of reality. Sinister whispers in my mind repeat over and over, in habit long ingrained: "Don't worry about being lazy today, not pushing for that extra inch, holding back, going home early, giving up on that task; just hit the 'redo' switch and tap your bottomless 'mulligan' reservoir." I am disturbed and unsettled to see these words on (digital) paper, the first time I've ever drawn attention to this aspect of my personality. I find it bitter, and not the good bitter of a fresh coffee roast, the sour and stale bitter that calls for nausea and bile to join.
It's come to me this morning, the last day of February, on the cusp of swinging into time with the 31 days of March, that I've let so many days pass un-seized. I'm thankful for deadlines and professors today, because my time here with the Danes is winding ever downward to zero, and there's much work left to do, experiments to design, manuscripts to develop, proposals to write, and homework to complete. Usually when I mentally address those last few statements, some irritatingly diligent gland in my body secretes the Elixir of Lethargy. This potion dulls my senses and amplifies those sinister whispers, seeking to drown out my inspiration.
Yet, all of that theory is just a fancy and frilly way to externalize my predicament. There's no gland of course; I believe it's me and only me. I have no dichotomy, no split intellect, nor any extra persona(e) lurking in my vast and chaotic id. At least, that's how I feel, and look, I'm back to the start--feeling. No more time to spend blogging today! Now for honor! Now for work! Now for wonder and adventure! Hail, my mind, to me!
Farewell February...
Today is Saturday, the 28th of February, the finale of that one truant month so eager to be gone, proclaiming nonconformity in its shorter span. I wonder where it wants to go in such haste? Some holiday for the months gone by? A retirement retreat where Feb '09 will join its older siblings for eternity, after time stamps an one-way punch on that ticket? Or, less romantically, into the oblivion of the living generations' ever-decaying memories.
(shhhhhhhh....*pop*)
There's that sense of importance in the moment again. I get it in my head quite often, at times when I've slowed down from the bustle and business, and thoughts start to stroll in the 'quiet hours' of my consciousness. The feeling that makes me want to seize the day anew and accomplish and learn, knowing this second, this minute, this hour and day, will never be before me again.
I think the current age of "undo," "edit," and "back" buttons brings this mentamotional (mental-emotional) state into sharper focus. So much of my daily life involves computers (this weblog not among the least of these engagements) and a pervasive theme is the general lack of permanence. Roads, buildings, books, cars, bathtubs, bed frames, baseballs, and planes--all human artifice decays and fades, but I'm more accustomed to their longer lifespans. Not online, or even offline (i.e. word processor documents). Here, in the universe of bits and bytes frolicking and marching about on silicon-copper landscapes, everything can be changed, utterly, irreversibly, completely, and no trace of the past is left. I can delete this blog post and not even digital dust will remain (barring some ghost file archive in Blogger's servers, but you know what I mean). All this virtual cosmos is but a shimmer and shade in front of the hard earth and open sky.
So, all that babble down to this point: I sometimes feel numb to the finality of reality. Sinister whispers in my mind repeat over and over, in habit long ingrained: "Don't worry about being lazy today, not pushing for that extra inch, holding back, going home early, giving up on that task; just hit the 'redo' switch and tap your bottomless 'mulligan' reservoir." I am disturbed and unsettled to see these words on (digital) paper, the first time I've ever drawn attention to this aspect of my personality. I find it bitter, and not the good bitter of a fresh coffee roast, the sour and stale bitter that calls for nausea and bile to join.
It's come to me this morning, the last day of February, on the cusp of swinging into time with the 31 days of March, that I've let so many days pass un-seized. I'm thankful for deadlines and professors today, because my time here with the Danes is winding ever downward to zero, and there's much work left to do, experiments to design, manuscripts to develop, proposals to write, and homework to complete. Usually when I mentally address those last few statements, some irritatingly diligent gland in my body secretes the Elixir of Lethargy. This potion dulls my senses and amplifies those sinister whispers, seeking to drown out my inspiration.
Yet, all of that theory is just a fancy and frilly way to externalize my predicament. There's no gland of course; I believe it's me and only me. I have no dichotomy, no split intellect, nor any extra persona(e) lurking in my vast and chaotic id. At least, that's how I feel, and look, I'm back to the start--feeling. No more time to spend blogging today! Now for honor! Now for work! Now for wonder and adventure! Hail, my mind, to me!
Farewell February...
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Perspective
xkcd no. 505 is perspective.
When I read this comic some months back, most of my conscious thought was swept into nostalgia's wind tunnel, to a day during my junior year of high school when I finished a novel from the library. It was "The Gunslinger," first of the Dark Tower series, and one I'd selected at random from the stacks (ignorant I was and fated to become a Tower junkie soon enough).
I used to do this a lot when I was back in Englewood--ride my bike down to the biblioteca pública, find a quiet corner, and stroll the lines and lines of fiction, metropolises of stories encased in paper, on foundations of aluminum, silently bustling under the keen eye of Mrs. Jones (why is always a woman?).
Arthur Clarke, Heinlein, Brooks, Bova, Adams, and dozens and dozens more I can't recall; I picked out "The Gunslinger." I think its cover hooked me (well done public relations!). It took a few months to read it; I wasn't as enthralled as I am now (finishing up no. 4 today, junkie to the core and back again). So captivating (and skin-crawling), full of heart warming (and freezing), and riddled with blood-pumping (and spurting), frighteningly wonderful, and a 'drug' worthy of addicted servitude.
Long way about from the start of this post, there's a scene of perspective at the end of this Stephen King masterpiece (the first installment of his magnum opus, sans contest) where a universe is contained in a burned blade of grass and time flows without rhyme, reason, or boundary. I'll write no more on the details, for the spoiler alarms'a buzzing.
I get exquisite pleasure out of losing my mind in these glimpses of infinity. Tip o' da cap to Mr. Munroe and his stick-figuring webcomic...another in the blissfully long line of creators to dazzle my senses (with a spice of humor to boot!).
When I read this comic some months back, most of my conscious thought was swept into nostalgia's wind tunnel, to a day during my junior year of high school when I finished a novel from the library. It was "The Gunslinger," first of the Dark Tower series, and one I'd selected at random from the stacks (ignorant I was and fated to become a Tower junkie soon enough).
I used to do this a lot when I was back in Englewood--ride my bike down to the biblioteca pública, find a quiet corner, and stroll the lines and lines of fiction, metropolises of stories encased in paper, on foundations of aluminum, silently bustling under the keen eye of Mrs. Jones (why is always a woman?).
Arthur Clarke, Heinlein, Brooks, Bova, Adams, and dozens and dozens more I can't recall; I picked out "The Gunslinger." I think its cover hooked me (well done public relations!). It took a few months to read it; I wasn't as enthralled as I am now (finishing up no. 4 today, junkie to the core and back again). So captivating (and skin-crawling), full of heart warming (and freezing), and riddled with blood-pumping (and spurting), frighteningly wonderful, and a 'drug' worthy of addicted servitude.
Long way about from the start of this post, there's a scene of perspective at the end of this Stephen King masterpiece (the first installment of his magnum opus, sans contest) where a universe is contained in a burned blade of grass and time flows without rhyme, reason, or boundary. I'll write no more on the details, for the spoiler alarms'a buzzing.
I get exquisite pleasure out of losing my mind in these glimpses of infinity. Tip o' da cap to Mr. Munroe and his stick-figuring webcomic...another in the blissfully long line of creators to dazzle my senses (with a spice of humor to boot!).
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