@russell
Enter Cassidy, perusing a packet of papers, and Spencer, pushing a blackboard, to a basement lecture hall at a prestigious university in mountainous Idaho.
How say they? To push this board into place upon its casters was issueless as prayer, but the pack looks, by your perusal, another burden altogether.
This syllabus is insult.
Tell us, what are we to divine of this void upon its wheels by milky stalk and with a native, scientific wit?
I am elsewhere.
Apply yourself, lest you leave me ponder two mysteries; what we are to accomplish here, and what bothers else bother you.
Nothing, nothing.
To adopt the manner of a closed book in your self-same idleness is, as standing water, injurious. That which is, in essence, nourishment will breed ills if indolence is not translated into courses and furls.
Let us see to this a learned tribunal tasks our talents with making doctrinaire. Mark in chalk the sawtooth wave function, for that elementary line of caps and slides is where the syllabus says we must commence.
Heavens! Are we set to a task lowly as this in being asked to nurture the idiotic youngest ilk enrolled in this academy?
It looks grievous, looks it no less grave.
Cheer up, ’tis nothing more than a job to be done. Apply yourself to resignation or resign the better part of your mind to their request; no more than a lesson plan all compact is asked, which we, in mere hours, can devise.
A job would betray no casualty, but I decry this casuistry conscription. What just rewards are furnished me for bartering away this gift, my intellect, within these asphyxiating confines? A basement lecture hall they pad the coffers and endowments by is my padded cell. The mule would call this task indignity, this packet the burden to break him past endurance.
One would first have needed demonstrate endurance past before one takes this task as one and one is more than two, but a burden too terrible to endure.
I have surely been mocked and stung by the dean more than this mocks and stings me now. You are right to joke. It is no great matter. Only how strikes it you?
The higher you ascend by deserved merit, the less it looks you esteem those standing not feet from you, equal in years, albeit my years are not provided for in the most enviable grants yours secure. Sawtooth wave fns. strike me as no less elementary, you may believe, than they do you; but these favors spoil you, while we without grants, publications, speaking posts at seminars, are more than familiar with drudgery at the boot of lady science than are we familiar with the light of her torch.
Of course, I do not doubt your ability in this, only I see now why our one-time colleague, Jefferies, a scholar beyond compare, found the least particle of chalk dust to be an allergen unconscionable.
By chalk, they pawn the better part of our minds in educating undergraduates, a task less important than we are due. As dust to dust is as well due us as any mortal to waste away upon this earth, engaged always in tasks looking on the surface no more than trivial, we will make do, be dutiful.
Doubt not I recognize an undergraduate’s need to learn these tricks in the infinity of creation, such that these scribbles are every bit their playing as Fourier’s, but our breath upon these ears is of no greater use than antics at recess, a waste of us as was our time wasted in barroom antics last night.
Last night is as memorable to me as recess’ ladders, slides and caps, and so I do remember, only foggily.
Your performance in the tavern was extraordinary, even for the night it was. Looking more a holiday than the return to academic term it marked, by this morning light, I can be sure no few astute sirs are nothing fit for equations but, by headaches acute, nurse speeches and touch at their lips nervous.
This lip has never known a blemish. Methinks I mourn science but gain a talent else, in discretion, and discern latent in this rudeness love’s injury, afflicting your cares with a sensitivity not dissimilar to the fright of herpes for which you chide me.
There was no lip I fell in contact with, save for that of my glass. I was ne’er insouciant in drink as I have been in thinking lately, and nursed misery over cold draughts and drowned care as the fly in one’s cup, that, which is lost once touched, is lost assuredly, struggle as it may.
Enough now of this dreary dust to dust. We are not like the mayfly bound to brevity. See here how this series transform these ticks to tambourines and cardioids.
Spencer lists the following
In the grand scheme of things, these are mere scribbles.
To those we are to teach, there are mysteries and difficulties extreme. Trust we, Cassidy, from the freshest scholar and his pimples to the very boasts of science that are gray and approach the grave, could do for an explanation for what ills us all. I act the squire, here for you, for you say there is no mystery to this wave function, but explain how you could conceive of so simple a thing as this as hardship, and you would find you do not know yourself.
Attempting to make the sticking points easy as scripture to the nerdy flocks makes me envy the harlequin their humiliation. That is all.
Knowing all, it beggars sense you take this trick for cause for sufferance. Cassidy, from the orbit of thine self, as from these spheres laid at your feet, you are marvelously distracted of late, and the humor of it must amended be.
I know not how I will find cheer in drudgery. The well of my sole delight, cosmology, is rumored to have run dry, dry as the voids I study, a void where no light returns once lost to the event horizon. Must you, too, make fun of me for an inability to think?
We require a trek with nature, as she, not solipsism, is our tutor. Outward those class doors, anything akin to the function here cribbed exists in polyglot, manifest, preponderating company. In nature, the self-communications are spontaneous and natural, unlike this equation, needing not be understood but very simply overheard. The sooner are we through, the better are we settled up, off to delights less academic.
Of course, I simply dour ever the more at the death-knell of this frequency, recalling how estimably, like the fish the stream, I lived deep in the current of our summery science, on the subject of which I could do no wrong.
Not to play the muddler minnow too close to the log, but you were a nightmare this summer, all but useless, full more of complaints than of hypothesis, and acted out a dumbshow to which the universe was indifferent, your colleagues furious.
I found no god in heaven could explain my tedious waste of time spent in study.
Much indeed depends on our discoveries. But, we might teach these factors extempore before a gathered class, and still feel secure in our livelihoods, whereas, for this that ills you, I am the lecturer who has long been at study on the subject of what grieves Cassidy.
I was not myself cognizant you took up the cause. My case makes you a pitiable scholar if ever there was one.
I will be owed. You will remember between August third and August fourth of this year that you laid claim the latter day suddenly was unbecoming hot, when yet the instruments in the lab would have had a harder time discerning a difference in degree than you did that day.
I recall.
Allow me to make the recollection for you, albeit at your expense, for you said “Today feels like one of those exhausting hot days, in which an inkling of the will must double to outpace oppression and gain any advantage of thinking. Today, exhausting hot, an inkling of the will must boil before it be the engine of a thought, and those thoughts weak, like I,” and variations thereupon, as if the expressions were in common vogue.
The minutia escapes my memory.
That which gets done reflexively traipses the remembrance of others for far longer than the wheels of Pharaoh’s chariots could hope to intercept. But again, between August third and August fourth, the weather decommissioned the instrument the academy puts its greatest hopes in, namely Cassidy.
Yes, what of it? Had really this been so aberrant?
Not of itself, but now we brace for fall, and note the time between has not been free of the formation of other oddities. It was then I deduced something else more than the mere rotation of the earth. It was a lecture given by the young Veritas that the night of August third gave way to you distraction August fourth, when thinking your mind had flown, dissuaded, as it was, by matters more of the heart than of the heat.
Astute enough; that is the very card. My memory that could not account of my bemoaning the slights of nature, as you attest I had done, take from that time every nuance that Veritas possessed.
Nothing for the way you groveled could be learned by the summer’s research, and so we had to become scholars of Cassidy ere’ we could make much of the universe.
Her most casual glance superseded even my most thrilling insight into the cosmos at the time. Much though I am her table mate and first choice of peer-review, our discourse has been limited to my desires that would, given a hint, which is in absentia torturous, cast our scholastic cautions all aside.
No the nature of it possesses the greater intrigue of innuendo as parcel in its terms. Tell to a one-time student of the seeming consequences between you two.
Imagine my lamentable situation, in that a mind, which has trained itself to the pinnacle of definiteness, should experience that condition as would make me want of poetry. No words for what it is, I understand only that her face, which I certainly see of its flesh and contours, does sometimes humor me to a greater sensation. When it does, it masks our encounter in a sultry red, for that when she smiles, 'tis red, but cut by a hint of blue those lips exude, for when she looks off innocently, the red of an impressionistic signal grows powerfully enticing and deep.
Marvelous. What kind of scheme is this?
When we talk of science, or else that it would be apparent, I but hardly listen and watch her form words, while elsewhere I am conscious of a very humming red. Then, when innuendo, our interest, puts hormones in my neck, I experience a concoction overall red but with consistent pigments that are existence, impossible it seems, a hue beyond hues, one active and evolving. I am bold when this lets on, and I get a greater billow of her herself than of her mind.
Nothing yet has come of this? It sounds near a boil, or, as it were, like a bell that brings two congregants from diverse walks to one office.
None, nothing, for that I could not gauge if she has sensations that are as grandiloquent.
Boldness would be the very gauge; try her. Fear not, for we might leave these sawtooth waves behind, and to the woods apply ourselves this season between fall and fall’s antecedent. I know Veritas practices archery at this hour, and where.
Color me convinced. Let us set off where casters cannot follow and let forgetfulness be our fellowship.