So, I got out of hospital yesterday. I guess they finally had enough of giving me lots of anti-biotics and much more painkillers than could be useful in a lifetime. Now my head's starting to clear up.

My jaw still has screws in it. My cheek still has stitches in it. My chin is still numb; the doctor says it might be permanent.

Oh, the fun one has turning the other cheek.

Anyway, I still have to get my rap group, Knights of the Eastern Calculus, up and performing. So far it consists of me, Frater Churd-Tzu, and my brother, Frater Da3riosu. Frater Nico and Frater Dude are still considering the offer.

I've already signed up on, now I have to record some decent mp3s. My idea is that we do a sci-fi conceptual hip-hop thing, but I don't know how popular that sort of thing is...

I pulled a little prank about a porn website. I know what that means, and this small note about it is all that's worth saving.

Ok, so this is weird. I have a problem with math, I can understand higher spatial maths like Calculus, but I have problems with Algebra. Well the point is, is that I’m in Math 1200 (Intermediate College Level Algebra)-good for me! =) I passed Basic Algebra. ANYWAY so, I was sitting in class, and the teacher was explaining parabolas, a concept I can understand. But the point is that I associate geometric pictures with astronomy.

My theory:

I have this theory about astrophysics(would that be the word...the physical properties of astronomy?), it has to do with black holes, curved space, and destroying energy.

Support for my theory:

Well, ok, so while I was in math, going over parabolas, I thought of my theory…about light being bent and trapped, and then I thought about the parabola. And so, I asked the teacher after class about the parabola. I asked him, “ok, so the paraola in this picture, that point isn’t its start point right? It just happens to bend the most at this point?” He told me I was correct.

That got me thinking about the parabola in terms of it being a line that happened to be bend by an outside source.

Am I on crack? Or could this be true? Can anyone understand what I’m saying? Is there someone with higher math and astronomy skills who is willing to help me either develop this theory, or take me into the woods and shoot me? =)

If I need to type this up better to make it easier to read, please let me know, and if you wish to contact me to talk to me about this farther, you can ICQ me at 121272537, thanks.

Note: I've moved this from Robyn Watt because apparently she isn't well known enough to get her own node. Such is life. Enjoy!


Robyn Philippa Jocelyne Watt was born early on a Wednesday morning on the 16th of July, 1986. She lived with her parents, Roger and Frances Watt, in Brighton until the age of two. Even while suffering from a dislocated hip, she moved with her family to Essex. This became her residence for the next nine years, where she attended Thaxted Primary School; in her own words, "the best in the world." Ever popular, she attracted many good friends before moving up to the Perse School for Girls, Cambridge. She also had to endure a kidney operation and a broken arm.

Personal details

Height: 5ft2
Shoe size: 5 1/2 (UK)
Weight: 7 1/2 stone
Eyes: Blue
Interesting trivia: Robyn has no bed, she simply sleeps on a mattress, in her yellow-themed bedroom.


Robyn has one brother Laurie, who is a fan of wrestling. Her father Roger enjoys bikes and mountains, and his main interest is drawing. Mother Frances is an aspiring painter and has great enthusiasm for Italy: the culture and terrain. Robyn herself is one quarter Scottish, from her paternal grandfather, who died before her birth - but he too was an enthusiast of drawing and Scotland. His wife, who has since also passed away, is described by Robyn as "supernatural". Of her mother's parents, one survives: mother Doreen. Her husband was a powerful pianist, and Robyn follows in his footsteps, playing the guitar, flute and recorder in addition.


Two cats: Supercat and Daisy, and the sadly departed Topsy, Teddy, and Flossy.
Robyn has also owned fish, named Finny and Sparky.

Personal interests

At school, Robyn enjoys art and English, just as her parents did, and has a personal dislike of Maths. In her younger days, she would write many stories she now describes as "crap" but it was her strongest point at the time.

Robyn also has a deep-set belief in Wicca magic, and also likes fairy lights and duvets although I'm unsure if these interests are related. Robyn always tries to keep an open mind about people, regardless of their reputation. Also in her younger days, Robyn desired to be a vet but "was put off by Rolf Harris" - fair indeed. Later, she aspired to become a high-flying journalist and to live in Las Vegas or New York.

She has since furthur re-evaluated and now intends simply to avoid work in any way possible, and "travel the world in a massive bus with lots of music, duvets, glow-in-the-dark stars and food."

She hates any kind of routine, including school, and having lived in her current residence of Cambridge for five years, that has lost all interest for her.

The arts

Favourite book: Catcher In The Rye
Favourite film: High Fidelity
Favourite Disney film: The Little Mermaid
Favourite horror film: The Shining
Favourite television: The Fast Show, So Graham Norton and Spaced. Earlier in her life, she also enjoyed Hobsons and Co. which was sadly discontinued.
Favourite foods: Lemon sorbet, ice cream and Greek yogurt with sugar.
Favourite song: Sunflowers, by Everclear
Favourite album: So Much For The Afterglow, also by Everclear
Favourite places: Mountains, or the desert
Favourite animals: Cats, ducks and giraffes
Favourite saying: "When you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose"
Favourite season: Summer, of course! Her self-described "anti-depressant"
Personal likes: Thunderstorms, badminton
Personal dislikes: Christmas, snow, and falling leaves, and also swimming, despite her former enthusiasm.

I have an overwhelming desire to build a camp, a construction of pillows and sticks and bits of string, like the ones I built with my best friend in the entire world whose name now escapes me. Cushion castles with biscuits and orange juice for siege rations and plenty of soft toy ammunition to beat back attacks from packs of roaming kittens. Secret escape passages through blanket tunnels leading to toy caches like my stash of grass and the Cray I use to connect to E2. The adult in me says, "You can't just build a camp, you're to old to play castles." but my inner child chloroformed me and locked me under the stairs. See you on the battlements.

It's been dull. The Golden Jubilee seems to have gripped all the people not immersed in Paraguay-China. It's passed me by entirely, not that I'm sad.

Journey up here was bad. £45 at student rates to stand for four and half hours in fetid heat, surrounded by squadies and middle-aged women too embarrassed to say anything. Mate, you've got paint on your shirt. Did you know that? Yes I did. Been painting, Dave? No. You've got paint on your shirt, mate! I know. Here, are you gay? No. Well you look it! Ha! Ha! What do you think of her? She's lovely, in't she, mate? You've got all paint on your shirt, mate. I know. ad infinitum. The stagnant air was filled with troops from all the forces, all pissed or going out on the piss. Trains can be places of contemplation. They can feel like private spaces. I hate standing next to strangers for hours.

I've not done a lot these few days. Watched The Seven Samurai again. So tragic. I said so to my dad, and he's 'but where's the fall?' It's that the farmers, the stupid, cowardly, exploitative farmers, win. I could watch Kyuzo train in the rain for hours on end. His death; you see how much respect true competance commands. The whole cast shut up- truly, a warrior has fallen. Kikuchiyo dies well. He redeems his total lack of dignity in avenging Kyuzo's undeserved death.

I read Candide and Rasselas. Not enough Gulliver, but then I can't stand Swift. I can see him preaching, swaying in the pulpit, neck purpling, foam flecked lips furiously delivering his litany of rage and impotence. He is that inexcusable thing in satire: boring. It's so over-worked. I can't believe I've got to write about the man in 3 weeks' time. I shouldn't be here, come to think of it.

Also saw Jean de Florette. Saddest film I've seen in a while. Just see it, really. Haven't seen Manon des sources yet. Mean to. Cinema Paradiso, Romeo and Juliet (Lurhmann], Hi Fidelity, Seven Samurai. Those four are easy, every time. But number five is always hard. Wayne's World? 1? 2? Seven? Withnail and I? The Night Sun? La Reine Margot? (current choice).

My mother, briefly here in England bought me, amongst Pychon and introduction to Literary Theory, Sigur Ros album, which is sublimely beautiful. It's tough deciding what to listen to, that or the St. John Passion. I don't know if they're on a par musically, but right now I get similar pleasure out of them.

Exams start soon, and I really ought to be more worried. Still, too late now. Mostly I'm becoming mentally lazy. I'll see a possible path of thought and I'll think, yeah I could go down that interesting but fundementally useless sidetrack, or I could not. And put like that I can excuse it to myself. Only, that's what thought often is. A whole series of digressions. That's why e2 is so successful- you can just follow your thoughts through the nodegel. I suppose my problem is with concentration span. I don't even watch TV. It'd be nice to pretend I had ADD, but I think lying to yourself about how lazy you are is pretty crap, really. For example, how many nodes am I 'working' on? The one about how e2 is like The French Revolution, yeah, that one. classical musical education. Religio Medici. Urn Buriall. Reviews of all my classical music. Composers. Authors. Damn, there's so much to do that I just won't. This isn't some agnsty rant, please. It's just a bit frustrating.

I stayed in bed this morning an extra 10 minutes with the rumblings of a node in my head. My sister called between mental softlinks and invited me over for the day. We got movies. We were on our way for food. And then something happened.

Going up a perfectly beautiful road on a perfectly beautiful (although entirely too humid) day, a cement truck was too close to avoid. The last thing I said was "Oh, no."

An inflatable raft of sorts shot out like a bang and suddenly the car was filled with smoke. A fireworkey smell I could not breathe. Two heart beats. "I'm alive, I'm okay." And suddenly it's all about her. I turn to see her, she's slumped over in the seat. Motionless. Shit.

I run to the other side of the car, without thinking about the huge cement truck we just hit. A fleeting glance around at traffic and then I'm pulling her from the car. Oh, no. Oh, Shit. She starts to cry and then I know she's okay. My arms burn, but that doesn't matter. Her face is bloody, her hand is mangled and one look at the windshield tells me that air bag saved her life.

I cradle her as best I can hold a teenager in my arms and I kiss her hair. I'm thanking God and telling her not to worry and ready to cry out for my mommy all at the same time. The police come, the ambulance comes, and we're off. I can't say it in front of everyone--I know the way these insurance types work. So I whisper, real quiet-like, in her ear. "Oh, no I'm so sorry."

I emerged from a hospital exam room three hours later looking like I've tried to slit my wrists. The second-degree burns on my forearms and face are bandaged up now in clean, white gauze. And there's my little sister sitting on a bench waiting for me. Without the blood and tears she looks almost normal. She smiles at me and we walk out of the hospital behind my mother, holding hands. It's a great day to be alive.

Golden Jubilee, London. A good day for queenspotting.

I left the house before 10 am, decided to hop off the tube at Blackfriars, and joined the crowds at Fleet street.

An hour later, the royal procession went past, including the queen and her husband in a guilded carriage.

So now I have seen the queen. Or to be more accurate, over the crowd I saw the top of a carriage, inside which I could make out two figures, one of which appeared to be wearing a broad-brimmed hat.

Then went home to see the rest of it on tv, hoping for more precious moments like the night before, spotting Ozzy Ozbourne and Clif Richard arm in arm and shoulder to shoulder on the pop festival stage during the finale.

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