Tonight I went to a social at Alice's ballroom dance studio. The initial joy of being on the dance floor, washed in music and bright lights, was soon marred by the realization that I had lost all my ballroom dance skills. Even during the waltz, my favorite dance, I felt like a jumble of stiff knees and elbows. It took me a couple measures just to remember which way I was supposed to look--namely, not at my partner. Then the rest of the dance was a nightmare of colliding with other couples and losing the beat. I was fine as long as we stuck to a vanilla basic step, but when my partner started on a whole series of open American moves, I was left me in the dust. My partner even counted aloud to me at one point, to my chagrin. As a musician, you'd think that I'd be able to step on beat, even if my steps were wrong! But I was just too flustered.

Later, Alice's partner JD offered me a Cha Cha, so I stumbled through the basic steps, then completely froze when he led me into the fan-hockey-stick. He was patient and encouraging, though, and towards the end of the number my body remembered the syllabus moves I used to know so well. It saddened me to feel like a total beginner--I remember following Silver leaders with ease at MIT ballroom socials, a lifetime and a half ago.

Dancing with JD was a nostalgic experience, and he was kind enough to lead me through several Latin and Rhythm numbers, along with a Waltz that was much less disastrous than my first. JD was recently a Rookie on the MIT team, and his references to our Latin coach and his teaching methods made me smile despite myself. "Swing is an easy dance--c'mon, Armin only made you do triple step a million times." "Body, body, *step*, body, body..." "Spread your wings!"

Getting reacquainted with the dances, watching the skilled couples whirl across the floor, I realized that I missed it all dearly. The high heels, the music, the long practice sessions, and the comraderie. But it is something that must fall by the wayside. I have to make choices about how I spend my time, and my life at Michigan has no place for ballroom longings. In order to master other skills that are important to me, I must shelve these daydreams.

All I can say is, sometimes growing up and letting go is hard.

After a jam-packed semester in Michigan, I return to my childhood home and find it changed by the decorating whims of parents who have an empty nest to fill. It's the little things that surprise me most--not the new leather couch or the shiny wide-screen TV that dominates the living room, but the subdued vinyl mats lining our garage steps, the new dishes mingling with the old in the kitchen cabinet, and the reorganization of stationery supplies in the upstairs study. All the same, essentials are unchanged, and I am comforted by familiar rooms and stairs that I can still navigate confidently in the darkness, guided by memory.

Today my dad and I took a trip into my even more remote past, visiting the Stoneham public library before my dentist appointment. I lived in Stoneham when I was very young, between the ages of one and five, which is really a lifetime ago to a woman who has passed the quarter century mark. Walking quietly through the library, I struggled to find my younger self on the terracotta steps to the mezzanine, or perhaps between the quiet stacks of books. Wandering through the children's library, I thought I glimpsed a young Emi around the knee-high tables and chairs, and I'm almost certain I recalled class outings to the playroom in back. But these images may have been false memories fueled by my desire to remember, strained attempts to time travel with my mind. In the end, I let myself slide back into the present and enjoy the library for what it was.

At any rate, I would love to catch up with people in the Camberville area. I originally planned to be in Boston until January 3rd, but there's been talk of going to Taiwan for Christmas, so I'm not totally sure. Ping me if you are up for lunch, wandering through used book stores, lounging in a cafe, climbing, videogames, or just random conversation. My MIT email address still works, and my cell phone number hasn't changed.

Almost a year and a half ago, I visited Taiwan and my extended family. Since then, I have lost a great-aunt, as well as both my paternal grandfather and grandmother. It was just several weeks ago that I heard my grandmother had died, after a long and painful battle with ovarian cancer.

My grandmother's death is hardly a surprise, and in some ways I am relieved; I know she is no longer in pain. She spent her final weeks in a semi-conscious state, confined to a hospital bed, barely able to keep food down, vomiting to the point that she had to be fed through a tube. This is no way for anyone to live, and I am thankful she is now at rest.

All the same, the finality of her death fills me with grief. Because of her various illnesses, it's been a long time since my grandmother was the person I knew as a young child, but death is far more than the changing of a person. It is not the ending of a chapter, but rather the closing of a book.

( Longer thoughts )
It is a testament to the constancy of her presence in my young life that I cannot remember any airport greetings or farewells, any punctuations in our time together. I simply remember summers in her company stretching on forever, a golden succession of days. Although it has been years, I ache for those lost summer days. I remember warm days that end with watermelon slices and family gossip, then drifting off to sleep with the sound of my grandmother's Taiwanese dialect surrounding me, the warm and familiar vowels blending into my dreams.

The first thing I remember about my dream is being in a prison, dank with the scent of hopelessness and eternity, cold in way that you can't escape with more rough prison blankets. Then an escape, a collective rising up of so many souls who have been pushed too far. They have made us faceless, held us back for a time that we cannot count, but now we are too strong and too many. As we reach the final passageway to the outside, passing through a living curtain of anemone-like creatures, we blink in the pale light that reaches us. Not the warm yellow light of the sun, but the milky white of a full moon, watching over our nighttime prison break. One last stairway passage to go--a long winding progression of cold metal that is nearly rusted through in places. We stream over the steps, and with our goal so close to us, we start to be afraid. Will they really let us go? Our fear is not without reason--there is poison here, a slick brown and green ooze they have left for us. Some of us falter and fall, but I see the doors now, and I see snow falling outside. Something is wrong--I hear shouting, and the glare of spotlights nearly blind me. They have recruited Alien Ones to capture us at this final checkpoint, to crush us while we are in sight of freedom. A trap! They let us get this far only to snatch us back. Those of us still conscious and strong enough to fight back roar with anger. I will not be taken. Not now. I take the doorway at a run, and a huge air vacuum machine tries to pull me back. Wings, we need wings, I think as I struggle against the vacuum. Then I am a bird, a huge eagle, flapping my immense wings, and I am flying away into the starry sky with my fellow escapees. The last vestiges of my dream are a silhouette of wings against a bright moon, first real with feathers and sound, then pixellated and on a flat screen. "You have beat the final boss," the screen says, and I wake up.

[I began writing this two weeks ago.]

The leaves at the edges of trees are just turning colors, their startling borders of gold and crimson growing with each passing day. As I walk down the sidewalk, the pavement crunches with fallen leaves, and I am surprised that autumn has tiptoed in this year without my noticing. I have been so busy with personal changes---academic, social, emotional---that I have not seen the world changing around me. The weather outside is turning crisp and clear, the kind of day that makes you want to get lost in an apple orchard, eating one tart red fruit after another, hunting for late berries and four-leaf clovers in the underbrush.

It is on one of these apple orchard days that I visit Micajah's house of itinerant musicians for a long-delayed jam session. The trip through quiet neighborhoods takes me back a semester, and my initial reservations disappear as I pull into the playground across the street. I can hear the throbbing of drums as I walk up to the front porch, and my heartbeat quickens. When the door opens, I'm greeted by one of the housemates and three enthusiastic dogs. I lead a merry tangle of fuzzy limbs and wagging tails to the basement, where Micajah and his friend Ryan are plugging away.

Although it's been months, Micajah, Ryan and I pick up the musical threads with relative ease. Ryan lays down a simple motif with his electric guitar, Micajah adds a drum pattern that slowly grows in complexity, and I come in with a fiddle melody when it feels right. We let the music push and pull us, flowing through us rather than being actively molded by our hands. The result is an organic mix which, although not always perfect, is always full of life. The music tells of wide-open spaces, stars on a moonlit night, the bated breath of twilight, and the sunrise smiles on the faces of old friends. In the midst of so much change inside and around me, it's comforting to note that the unifying power of music remains the same. My thoughts quiet, and I let myself be carried along by our collective spirit, my body a mere conduit for the song.

I have always been petite. In fact, let us not mince words--I have always been a scrawny little thing, last picked for teams during gym class, singled out by sneering gym teachers, and taunted for my small size by my peers. When I started doing gymnastics in elementary school, I was a hopeless case. Week after week, I struggled with my pencil-thin arms and legs, trying to mimic my strong, graceful classmates. Next to them, I must have looked like a Daddy long legs trying to lift acorns. It took weeks before I had enough muscle to do the simplest things. But I kept with it, determined and stubborn, until I finally mastered the back bends and walkovers that came so easily to others.

And now? I'm a lot older than I was when I first wandered into a gymnastics class. As a grad student, I'm way past the years where I have to bear the brunt of a gym teacher's scorn. Since those years of required PE classes, I've tried all kinds of sports and outdoors activites that require strength, flexibility, and agility. The list is long: figure skating, rock climbing, ice climbing, slacklining, Ultimate frisbee, water skiing, cross-country skiing, American Jiu Jitsu, etc. I'm not half bad at a lot of them, and each has given me skills that make it easier to learn new sports.

My latest dabblings have been in the martial arts vein--first judo, and now Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is all about groundfighting, which I love. One of the best parts about Jiu Jitsu class is surprising my grappling partners with my strength. People twice my size look at me and expect a delicate flower, someone they can toss all over the mat as they please. Then we start rolling, and they're taken aback. As a feather-light beginner, I'm not going to win, but I'll put up a good fight. "She's stronger than she looks," people say warningly. "Don't go easy on her--she'll hurt you!"

This is my victory.

I will always be petite. I'm not going to beat you in a bench press competition. My arms will always look like they could be snapped in two with the first good gust of wind. This is my body, and to a large extent, I can't change the way it looks. But sometimes, I can change what people assume about someone who looks as small as I do.

I found a very sweet everything2 node on falling asleep next to someone else.

It's all so true :)

You are such a mix of the playful with the serious.

When we sit down at the IHOP booth, you pick up fallen bits of my hair and investigate its tensile strength. A quick pull turns one half of a strand into a hook, and you expend much concentration in trying to pick up other bits of hair with this new tool. I do my best to help, loading additional segments onto the hook. When we tire of playing with my hair, we start batting around bits of straw wrapper, and when these makeshift projectiles vanish under the table and into neighboring booths, we turn to larger pieces of paper for entertainment. Namely, our napkins and napkin holders. These are ripe with origami possibilities, and my napkin soon becomes a paper crane, while the napkin holders become IHOP-logo-emblazoned paper airplanes. Thus do we pass time until our food arrives. Over the meal, we discuss the merits of religion, why people are hungry for belief systems, and whether or not believing in God represents weakness. We wander through concepts of family and then somehow end up on the topic of Nietsche by the time we walk out the door. In the car, our philosophic discussion turns into light-hearted talk about Brazilian fight-dancing and bizarre instruments, banter which brings us to Raft's driveway. When the car rolls to a stop, our eyes meet with a smile. I lean over to hug you goodbye, breathing in the smell of your deodorant and cologne.

Closing notes to another beautiful phrase.

After combing the racks of World Mission Thrift Store for flannel button-up shirts and other serendipitious items, Kathy and I hasten to procure food. As Kathy's car pulls away from the thrift store, I remember that the radio is broadcasting Berlioz' "La Damnation de Faust" this afternoon, so I fiddle with the Datsun's quaint, analogue dials to get the public radio station. My timing is perfect--the radio broadcast emerges from the static just as Marguerite's "D'amour l'ardente flamme" aria begins, and I sit back with delight. "I think I might have to stay in your car to listen to this aria," I warn Kathy with a grin. We sit in the parking lot outside of the Italian fast-food restaurant, eyes closed as the sweet sound of the mezzo-soprano draws us into her anguish. We are like past generations that knew nothing of the television and the internet, enthralled by a crackly radio, letting the music weave a story in our minds. You need not understand the words to understand the timeless story of love and longing--pain and joy mixed until one is inseparable from the other. The notes and the phrasing cut me to the quick, and I experience the beauty as a sharp, tangible ache in my chest. For a few moments, time is suspended within the sustained notes of Margeurite's aria, and there is nothing else in the world.

Like sand through a sieve, my mind slips away from me. Weeks interspersed with all-night observing runs, exam grading, research deadlines, a new interest in Judo, and a trip to Pictured Rocks have left me chronically sleep-deprived. The fatigue and inability to think straight are showing--in the past month, I have lost both my cell phone and my wallet. All nearby buildings and bus services have been contacted, but there hasn't been a single lead. Neither object has turned up in a lost and found, and my email inbox is silent. It's as if both objects have been swallowed up by the tides of inattention, leaving me to rebuild at least two years of collected phone numbers and accumulated odds and ends. I feel eerily light, as if the bustle of the present has forced me to shed the baggage of so many past experiences. There is nothing to do but invent myself anew.

Addendum: Hah! Having given up my wallet for lost, it promptly showed up at IM West's main office today. Win!

Last week, I woke up one morning with a chill on my skin. Rolling up the window screen and opening the skylight, I was met by the chipper morning air and the sight of crisp yellow leaves fluttering onto the green lawn. Autumn, in all of its burning glory, had arrived overnight.

Autumn! The season of change, of ephemeral beauty, of fallen apples rich with the memory of warmer days. Every living thing readies itself for the coming cold. The squirrels on the rooftop are full of frenetic energy, knowing that their days of stockpiling nuts are numbered. Birds grow restless, alighting on powerlines and treetops, only to flutter off en masse moments later, driven by some instinct. Trees burst into flame, putting on one last display of color before winter comes with her pale snowy blankets.

As I make my commute to and from campus, my eye is drawn to single leaves lying quietly on the ground, dressed in unrealistically bright hues. My eyes trace their contours with reverence, as though they were fine pieces of art in a museum. As I stroll through the landscape, I revel in the wind at my back and the pale sunlight on my face. When I breathe in the pure, thin air, I breathe in camping in the countryside, climbing in West Virginia, and the varied golds of Kentucky forests in November.

Every time I step outside, a shiver of joy runs through me. I have to restrain myself from jumping up and down like a gleeful child. Autumn is the season of change, and autumn is the season of Emi.

Two Thursdays ago, I stopped studying early and joined Matt O. and his music major friends on Raft's rooftop deck. Imagine, if you will, a group of people gathered for an evening of comraderie...

A merry fire crackles in the open grill, tendrils of smoke rising up to tickle our noses. We roast marshmallows for Reeses s'mores, an unorthodox, impromptu concoction dreamed up by Matt. Conversation is easy, simple and sweet, like the melted sugar at the ends of our sticks. Rosy cheeks and eyes crinkled with laughter frame the warm campfire circle--we are an island of light in the soft darkness of an autumn evening. Matt suggests jamming, so I go inside to grab my violin while he brings out his guitar.

Jamming with a bevy of talented music majors is something everyone should experience at least once in their life.

Matt and I play folk songs and pop songs, accompanied all the while by a heavenly chorus of improvising musicians. A rousing gospel song wakens the blood in our veins, until we're all rocking in our chairs and tapping our feet. When we play "Let it be," everyone smiles in recognition, and the mood becomes more pensive. During the chorus, the sopranos soar above all the harmonies, their voices defying gravity and floating between dissonance and consonance. We are layer upon layer of sound and joy, ever-growing ripples spreading through the still air, fireflies flickering in the dusk. It breaks my heart to be part of something so carelessly beautiful.

These moments are fleeting, and they can never be recorded in all their fullness. That is a large part of their charm. Thankfully, some things endure: the peace, the sense of trascending mundane life, the warmth of human connection. These are the things that stay with you and make you smile, days and weeks afterwards. These are the things that leave you humming "Let it be" on a Saturday morning, as you file clean dishes away in the cabinets, finding a quiet space in the midst of so much uncertainty.

Nathan once told me that I was unusually stubborn about holding to my own principles when faced with the pressure of one's social surroundings. Recent events in my life have proven this to be the case, but I don't know if I'm always happy about it.

The past two years of my life have brought many fine adventures. The more I live and experience, the more I seek the unknown. Here in East Lansing, this philosophy has led me to everything from impromptu bar gatherings to the Sunday musician's post at a Lutheran church. These new environments are full of little unexpected decisions to be made, forks in the road that one must size up in an instant.

Do I take the shot foisted upon me by the others at the bar? Do I take Communion with the other musicians at the Lutheran Church? The most socially correct answer to both of these questions is, "Yes, go with the flow and do as the others do." But I can't do things that don't make sense to me.

I won't take a shot that I don't feel like taking, I'm not supposed to taste, and isn't supposed to get me drunk. The only reason you would urge me to take this one shot is either because you simply wish to impose your will on me, or you hope that I will take another and another and become ridiculously drunk. I am not a fan of either possibility. So I will refuse even if it's the awkward, hostile thing to do.

I don't like the idea of taking Communion when I'm not even a baptized Christian, let alone a Lutheran who belongs to this church in a position other than Sunday musician. Protestants believe anyone can take Communion, but their symbolism isn't mine. So I will sit quietly at my music stand while the other musicians and parishoners file to the center of the room to take their bread and wine. I would rather endure the furtive stares than go against what feels right.

And this is why I fail.

I've the pluck to throw myself into the unknown, but I won't compromise my ideals to make the way easier. I have no doubt that most people, given a moment of reflection, would respect me for my decisions, even if they interfere with the comfortable flow of social interactions. But like all people, I don't just want respect. I want to be accepted. I want to be liked.

I want to be loved.

It is perhaps unfortunate, then, that I don't want these things badly enough to truly adapt to my surroundings. I am not the charming chameleon in a new land, nor am I willing to burn my former self to the ground and rise as a shining new bird. I am Emi, a stubborn and sometimes disgruntled little dragon, caught in a world that no longer believes in fairy tales.

What is a little dragon supposed to do? I could give in and change. Or I could perch quietly in my tree, waiting for the other dragons. I know they exist, for I have heard the rustle of their autumn-colored wings in my dreams. The memory of their songs still haunts me, and I long to hear this music again.

"Thanks for your help," a tired ISP 205 student tells me at the end of lab, smiling ruefully.
"No problem," I say, trying to sound chipper. I walk away to gather the lab papers and put the class laptops in order. Walking through the dark planetarium hallway, alone for the first time in a few hours, I fight not to dissolve into tears.

I am so unequipped for this, in every way imaginable.

I am twenty-four years old going on about ten, and more optimistic than a room full of kindergarteners. My only teaching experience is with teenagers and adolescents who have their heads in the stars; thirteen-year-olds who read trig and calc textbooks for fun; kids who get teased at school for being intelligent and seek refuge in three summer weeks of frisbees and equations and peers who would rather talk about Hitchhiker's Guide than Dawson's Creek. Kids whose supreme silliness and youth belies their proficiency with science and math. Kids I understand, because I was once one of them.

What do I know about my students here? Barely a few years younger than I, they roll in on waves of perfume and cologne, sporting flawlessly buffed nails, Abercrombie and Fitch hoodies, and model-perfect hair. Some of them haven't taken science or math classes in years, and only want the lab credit. Some of them don't know how to read simple plots. Some of them don't know the difference between words like "calculate" and "measure," and they will fight tooth and nail for credit when no credit is due. Painstakingly, I explain concepts, starting with the basics, pulling in analogies from every corner of life, doing my best not to assume any prior understanding. And indeed, there are those lightbulb moments--moments of sudden understanding and excitement. But it never stops feeling like I'm signalling across a bottomless chasm, trying to explain physics using semaphore. Worse--that I've never used semaphore in my life, but here I am on one side with a bunch of flags, and hell, they're all that I've got.

After each class session, I feel completely drained. Today was somehow worse than usual. I want to curl up, cry, and hide from the world for a while. I want to stop having to try so damn hard to fit into my surroundings. I want to talk to someone far away from here, who won't judge me day by day, who won't tell me I have better things to worry about, who will take my present pain for what it is--simple, childish pain of the moment. The pain of displacement and homesickness.

So I write.

Kathy: I wanted to prove that x^2 would be swamped by the exponential bit.
Emi: Yeah, exponentials usually win.
Kathy: ...Rock, Paper, Exponential!

Matt: one day it will simply be poignant not world ending
then it will be ok
moi: It will. It better be.
Exponential decay!!!!
Go go go!
Matt: YES
moi: Must get shorter time constant!
Matt: e^(-|gothefuckaway|)

I am tired. I doubt the reality of my past and the reliability of my memories. Was my undergrad really all that I remember it to be? Did such a place really exist?

The people around me insist upon the utter normality and rightness of all that we experience here, and my protests to the contrary sound thinner and less plausible each time, even to my own ears. What is reality but what we believe it to be? What is reality but the consensus of a community? If they say it is so, who am I to argue?

Were the lines between Courses 6 and 8 and 18 and all the rest as fluid as I remember them to be? Did I really never hear a jab against engineers or astronomers in my physics classes? Were people really as down-to-earth as I recall? Was it really so easy for me to speak to and befriend strangers? Was it really so expected that people were dedicated scientists/engineers, musicians, linguists, artists, and athletes all at the same time? There is no one to back me up, and I am losing the battle to hold onto another world.

And yet, the fact that I struggle and protest is proof enough that something else is out there, or something else is in me, at the very least. This world within me is real. I can disguise myself all I want, but I will always be rough around the edges, always a little too bizarre to hold up under scrutiny.

I'm doing better in terms of blending in, really. With every new person I meet, I get a little better at adapting to their view of the world. I'm learning to laugh at the right times and use artful omissions in everyday banter. I throw a few curse words in for flavor when it seems appropriate. My hair is of a societally normal length and cut. Right now, I am wearing a fitted, collared shirt and a pair of neat jeans.

Below the hems of these jeans, however, are my bare Chaco-tanned feet, there for all the world to see.

This is how we build. Day by day, one house dinner at a time, the whiskey eggs and the eggplant parmiagiana weave their aromatic magic over twelve disparate individuals. A look around the table gives a rich cross-section of humanity: we are budding biologists, physicists, doctors, lawyers, musicians, economists, photographers, and communication majors. We are Christians, anarchists, feminists, atheists, Bhuddists, and rebels without a cause. Some of us haven't integrated a function in years, and some of us have never been drunk. Some of us have lived in Michigan our whole lives, and some of us have reached East Lansing as the terminus to years of wandering. Despite all this, we manage to meet over the sturdy wooden dining table five nights a week, to banter and linger over meals, building up a repertoire of inside jokes.

Then there are the impromptu music sessions out on the roof and in the living room, with instruments from Classical, Rock, and hippie traditions. Evenings and weekends find us carpooling to Gone Wired to hold study parties, where we take over whole sections of the cafe with our textbooks and laptops. Last week I managed to cajole housemates into joining me at the local crag, rekindling old climbers' enthusiasm and inspiring others to begin. In turn, I was inspired by Gerg and Kate to troop over to Judo club today, where I let the ghost of Jiu Jitsu fade into the present. A house cider mill trip is planned for next weekend, and there will be much frolicking and apple-picking and wine-tasting.

Make no mistake, it's not all fun and games--there's all the house to be cleaned, meals to be cooked, bills to be paid, and twelve opinionated individuals to coordinate. We disagree over policies, we get cranky, and we forget to do our chores. Working through this, too, is what a family does.

For that is what we are, to my surprise and delight--a family that is being knit together with each passing day. A family where I am starting to belong.

It's been an exhausting week, but despite that--or perhaps because of it--there have still been some moments of sharp beauty.

On Thursday I jammed with Steve for the first time in weeks, and it was a much-needed breath of fresh air. Walking to the Cata bus station, a million thoughts running through my tired brain, I noticed I had a missed call from Steve. When I got him on the phone, he told me he was at the park near my house, and he had his guitar.

Say no more! I was there within a half hour with my violin slung across my back.

The weather was perfect: pale blue sky graced with a few clouds, lightly crisp air around me, warm grass beneath me, and a gentle breeze that played with my hair. We hunkered down beneath a tree, letting its shade embrace us, and we played our hearts out as the parkgoers enjoyed their frisbees and footballs. Every now and then, people would stop to greet us and express their enthusiasm for our tunes, and by the end of our jam session a small group was sprawled out on a nearby picnic table, heads tilted back and eyes closed to drink in the sounds of the fiddle and the guitar. Steve crooned out all his classics--Old Crow Medicine Show, Nine Inch Nails, John Denver, and his own pieces--while I wove my notes into the guitar strums like flecks of sunlight into a forest stream. We ended with a wordless rock song he'd written while drunk, a freewheeling number with no structure but the landscape of emotion we brought to it. My violin wailed in the stratosphere while the guitar set up complex, ever-shifting rhythms beneath it. Everything was magnified and inexpressibly beautiful in those moments--the dappled sunlight on my violin case, the rustle of leaves above us, the frustrations of the week, the ache in my throat.

The more I live, the more I find that music is the way I connect with people. When all else fails, when I am tongue-tied and awkward beyond belief, when I cannot identify with the experiences of those around me, I can still find this pure way of understanding and being understood by my fellow human beings. We all need to feel and emote, after all, and if we cannot speak of such things, at least we can share the colors of our dreams.

David G. says, "You can't be sad every time you see a friend!" and of course he's right. I just can't help but be childish about these things. I know this isn't normal.

Missing people means not telling them you wonder about unanswered emails, even weeks and months after. Or that it still hurts to avoid eye contact when you pass them in the hallway. Or that you still read old cards now and then and have to stop because the memories are too loaded. Or that you daydream about dancing Viennese Waltz because of them. Or that you listen to the music you recorded together on a low-quality mp3 player/USB stick/voice recorder over and over again, closing your eyes to smile and remember how it was.

We all have our silly little secrets, and these are mine.

I'm doing review for my quals, and I'm looking for a good text for 8.044 material--we used Reif during the class, but I was not a fan. Any physics people out there have a thermodynamics/statistical mechanics textbook they did like and can recommend?

I feel like I've been buying physics books like a fiend this summer...