Fascinating
article about designing circuits and electrical components via evolution. The researcher was able to design a super-efficient array of circuits through many generations of random variation in configuration. He cannot precisely explain how the configuration actually functions, simply that it met his criteria after a few thousand generations.
I had a dream last night that I electively spent weekends in jail because it forced me to write undistracted for hours on end.
My semester is over finally. I got 835 out of a possible 850 in my Literary studies class.I submitted the story below for my final project, it's take-off of the novel
Howards End in which a sort-of despised character's past is revisited. It was fun to write and I think came out well:
“Ne Crois Pas Que le Mari Lui Ressemble”“Dearest Ruth:
My time in Cyprus has been productive. And the purchases I made in real estate years ago have proven wise. This year will be generous to us. I will be returning to you on the 12th, and I eagerly anticipate it
Yours,
Henry Wilcox”
The note would go out tomorrow, and in a week's time Ruth would receive it sitting in her chair and delicately slit the envelope open. She would read what he had written, Henry's desperate plea masked in formality, nod complacently and file it away with the dozens of other brief and formulaic notes he'd sent over the years. But he doubted that a smile would crease her face. The same stoic nature that had attracted him –the way she abhorred the levity of other women he knew-- had grown into a chasm in which he threw meager tokens of his affection. This note, the occasional compliment, a peck in the morning on his way out to business. He threw these tiny things in and wanted them to gather into a heap.
Henry had a silent moment. He didn't stir from the enormous oak desk; he passively looked at the dim painting in front of him. The Lt. Colonel he was now doing business with always ensured that Henry spent the night in the plushest officer's suite available. The coastal property he owned on Cyprus was critically important, and though no allegiant to the British military would admit it, without Henry's land the operations of the Suez would slip further and further from their control. The canal was the carotid artery of Arabia, and his scrap of land was the best place to position the huge guns. The best place to from which to launch ships.
Henry finally stood and picked up the oil lamp. He was unsure what to do with himself. The note was not yet gone, and so the anxiety of unalterable communication cast out to Ruth was not yet tangible. He unfolded it and read it again.
“What can I add to this?” he asked aloud, to the anonymous figure in the painting. To the greasy shadows in the light of the oil lamp. “What can I say?”
Though dark, it was still early. And whenever abroad he had difficulty retiring before necessary. He had some dim sense that he should be out haunting Cyprus, meeting local merchants, finding bombastic investments under a rock. But the island had become a chore. Insolent Turks threatening to steal (though Henry took some pride in that his wits had prevented him from being a victim) in the very way they looked at him. The tiresome boat-ride in choppy Mediterranean waters. The ongoing glad-handing and Scotch distribution to various uniformed officials (God Bless the British Empire but Henry could only respect the privates for their youth and duty, or the generals for their skill and ambition).
Scotch.
Henry stood from the desk and went to the trunk at the foot of his bed. He had hired a Turkish boy to carry it from the boat, and when the boy had finally eased it off of his back and onto the floor of the suite he had quite literally scoffed at Henry's modest tip. What does a Turkish boy need with more than a shilling anyway?
From the trunk he took out a bottle. He had brought an entire case, as was his reputation, to celebrate the closing of a large deal. There remained three bottles to carefully transport back to Britain for the next venture. Henry rarely drank it himself, only when a recipient offered him a snifter, but there was a night to kill. And he knew it would help him sleep.
Henry poured himself a glass. Two fingers as he had seen General Walsh pour the day before. And the first swig brought something not quite comfortable, but at least a pinprick in his throat to remind him of who he was and a slow burning sensation out to his fingertips. Another swig and he realized how weak he was against alcohol, how susceptible. The third, and last in the glass, and the Scotch wrapped its arms around him the way that Ruth never would without some awkward prompt.
He poured another and took it on a pace around the suite. Sniffed it and walked to the window. The base was dark, irreproachably dark. Here and there the occasional flicker of light, some soldier or officer writing a heartfelt letter to his sweetheart, covertly while their bunkmate brushed his teeth. Saying things they would never say in mixed company. He took a drink.
The British Empire had swept into Cyprus years ago and flattened what had been a Cypress grove, or an oak forest, and put up canvas tents and ramshackle facilities. Used the timber to erect the general store over there, the mess hall, Henry's suite. Pushed some Greek farmer, whose family had tended the land since Mycenae, north into the Turkish part of the country. This was one of the Empire's strongholds, Henry thought, from here they could keep an eye on the Ottomans, even the Germans if they were audacious enough to encroach. This place was essential in the destiny of the British Empire.
Why couldn't Ruth see that? He wondered, as he took a drink. Why couldn't she see that he was part of something vastly important. It was something that had always bothered him. She would accept anything he said, but the things that required her enthusiasm always fell short. Why didn't she hail him when he returned to Howards End, embrace him tightly, futilely but gently ask him never to leave again?
Scotch.
The base was dark. He could wander it and breath some sea air, he thought. Go unnoticed. One more glass of Scotch and then he would venture out there, a walk might do him good before he slept.
He put on his topcoat and a hat, eyed himself in the darkened mirror, and stepped out the door. He paused there for a moment, uncomfortable in spontaneity. He nearly turned back, but winced at the thought of his letter to Ruth, his feeble, unrequited reach, staring up at him as he drank another Scotch. The sky was enormous over him the way it never was in London. There was always some row of buildings narrowing the view, pushing the horizon to a smaller and smaller rectangle of sky. And the stars. He looked up for a long moment at the stars and didn't try to explain them. He took in a deep breath of Cypriot air and abruptly sneezed. There was something in the air here that his nose and throat rebelled against.
He started to walk. That was the point after all. There was no plan, but rather than move towards the fringe of the base he gravitated toward its center. There were a few more spots of light there, he could see. An outlay of canvas tents with lamps burning inside; glowing embers silhouetting the activities of soldiers inside. A cramped game of cards here, a young man reading there. All backlit and disconnected; like watching the goings-on within the womb.
There was a pleasure in moving anonymously. No pretense, no shaking hands, no attempts at friendly conversation straining to remember names. No need to puff up one's chest or carefully sit in a chair. No willfully exuding the Wilcox manner, such that whoever sat across the table from him would be intimidated into agreement. Just walking, in the dark. Observing, feeling the slight chill on the back of his hands and the tips of his ears.
After several moments sort of drifting around the base, Henry found himself at the door of the officer's bar. Austere and olive-drab like all the other buildings, a faint jingle of music inside. He wrung his hands briefly, straightened his back, and marched in.
All measures had been taken to simulate the classier establishments back in London. A long brass-railed bar, polished paneled walls, low-hanging lights shrouded in stained glass, a thin mustachioed man in a tie and apron. In the far corner a man in a disheveled officer's uniform plonked away at a piano and took sips of brown liquor. The Empire had nearly three hundred boots on the island, all the grunts designated as stand-by or cheap labor and the commanding officers (the sullen fellow at the piano and his colleagues) providing oversight to various small construction projects. Henry had noted early on in his dealings that the presence there seemed excessive and the men bored. The higher-ups danced around the issue, and seemed to look over their shoulder or out over the sea towards the Ottoman nervously at the faintest mention.
The only officer Henry recognized nodded to the bartender, who waved him in. Another Scotch was necessary. And hopefully a friendly conversation with someone. He sat down next to a thin woman turned to face the back of the bar; she was talking to a youngish, German-looking officer. Or rather listening and interjecting with little affirmatives. The man was on the verge of boasting, Henry thought, and blatantly tried to impress her with military jargon. Henry instantly hated him. Hated the way the young woman twirled her hair or jostled the ice in her drink and beamed at him. He only saw the back of her head, so he couldn't be sure, but her posture suggested some kindling admiration.
The Scotch went down easier now. Henry exchanged a stilted pleasantry with the man that vouched for him, one bleary eye on the woman and the petulant twerp next to her. He willed her to turn and look at him, to give him an instant of her attention. The man prattled on to her incessantly and Henry thought he saw the woman's head bob quickly down in exhaustion. He was putting her to sleep.
Henry ordered another drink, feeling the hand of heart-burn reach up from his stomach and rake its claws on his throat. His motor functions took on a sloppy ease. The bartender made a joke and Henry laughed a bit too hard and pounded the bar once sharply with his fist; like a gavel commanding the world to appreciate that tired bit of humor. That dastardly weasel was still talking to her! Henry thought, aghast.
Finally, the young man broke for the latrine and the woman turned to face the bartender. Henry tried to imagine how he must look, exactly. He was getting on in years, but still fit. His wrinkles looked distinguished and not archaic, if he remembered correctly. And his strong brow and chin was generally considered handsome. . .
“You must be Wilcox,” the woman said. She reached her hand across in a jangle of cheap-looking jewelry. She wore an elegant enough dress, some fashionable shade of green Henry knew, but it was a size too large. It hung on her awkwardly. As did the mislaid string of pearls around her neck.
“I am,” and Henry took her hand. Planted a gentlemanly kiss on the back of it. He looked her solidly in the eyes now. Not unpretty, he thought. Though certainly uncouth. An image of her nude wormed its way into his mind, hinted at in the way the dress draped across the stiff lines of her skeleton, he tried to squash it. “And who might you be?”
* * * *
Jacky. That was her name. Henry remembered it now. She still lay in the bed behind him, softly snoring as morning sunlight began to spill in and Henry sat at the enormous desk with his head in his hands. She was the daughter of one of the lieutenants on the base, on holiday from London. She was impressionable, stupid even (if one neglected courtesy). The entire evening came back to him in stages now. She had introduced herself, and he had complimented her on something arbitrary. And then she asked him to tell her about business. She had leaned over and grasped his forearm when he talked about his business conquests in London and abroad and he had not recoiled. He exaggerated a bit here and there, perhaps nothing outright false, but arranged just so.
He turned and looked at her now. Distinctly less attractive at this hour; her make-up smeared off and crusted on the pillowcase, her eyebrows heavier and ears bigger than he remembered. The luxury of his suite had come up, though he couldn't recall which of them had broached it, and she had looked at him enraptured. And that had been followed by a stumble over the grounds, her lithe arm wrapped in his. He made some comment about the vastness of the sky over Cyprus, and she had cooed at how well he spoke. They barged into the wrong room at first, her hand his trouser pocket. He had gathered his few remaining wits and finally lead her into his suite. Another round of scotch at the table, her begging to hear more and groping his arm like a statue's.
Finally, he succumbed and they fell into his bed. Tangled and struggling to remove clothes. And afterwards she had held him as she fell asleep. Just wrapped both of her arms around him and said: “Henry, you may be the most amazing man I have ever met.”
He wasn't sure what to do now. A sense of dread and confusion mixed with an ungodly headache. He would have to take steps to prevent this from becoming a scandal. Ruth would never know, to be sure, but if publicized to anything beyond speculation business with this arm of the Empire would be untenable. It would be impossible to have a professional lunch, for instance, without snickering or a cloud of gossip over his head. He'd worked so hard to attain a position of respectability and dignity. As straight as an arrow; he had always demanded this of himself. And now?
The letter to Ruth was still on the desk, the corner stained when Jacky spilled her last drink. He picked it up with a thumb and finger, it felt cold and cheap.
“Oh Ruth, what have I done?”
