Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Publication: Reconfigurable Computing


My senior thesis work was cited by Hassan A. Phillips in his April 2003 Master's Thesis:
Design and Implementation of a Reconfigurable Computer for Simulation of Turbulent-Induced Flocculation Models
My April 2001 thesis, "Re-configurable Computing for Flocculation Modeling," is reference 31.

The Phillips thesis is online:
Dr. Clay Gloster was his Master's thesis advisor, and my Senior thesis advisor (lucky us!) at Howard University.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Alexander and the raj


Part I:
If you've seen the many negative reviews of Alexander, and want to read a more balanced and intelligent opinion, try this blog:

Part II:
I wrote a thousand-word blurb this morning, inspired by my Asoka-inspired dream. I love and hate it so I don't care what anyone thinks.

Spring Fling
Written on December 6, 2004
There was nothing wrong with her. Her stomach was a ripe color. Not caramel. Lighter. Irish crème. But yellower. Ah, I don’t know colors. But darling, isn’t it marvelous, this thing that stretches like a gourd, between the two halves of her clothes. And dances like a gourd in play. It moves, a testament to God. There is such a thing as perfect. Perfection: not tiny, as though the guts had been removed. No. At the base it’s sturdy and fleshy. Ripe. And where it starts, at the top, it’s long and lean. It’s lean, yet full. I can’t detect any bone as she swank-swank-swanks across the floor with cold drinks for everyone. Then her mother sends us to bed.
It’s boring in our room. It’s time to sleep. Sleep? My travel partner is a friend I love so well, have known for so long, so long that we don’t talk; we "do" together. I came here with him. That’s why I am here – to be near him, where I belong. We belong around each other like two crows. He has a white suitcase. I had a tan-colored one like that when I was very young. Or maybe it belonged to my baby sister. Or maybe it was the family layette bag. Soft suitcase, leather-like, with buckles. In white it looks like a pimp. (Or the bag of a pimp.) I should have had white boots to match. But the raj always carries our luggage, so maybe he should have a white ensemble to match.
I don’t really want to sleep any more. I don’t know what time it is or how long I’ve been asleep. Sunil likes to sleep with his left hand in his boxers. There’s sweat on his sheets. My face is beyond sweaty. It has white slime just beneath the surface and if I don’t wash it more often, there’ll soon be a lot of acne living on it. I haven’t had a lot of acne in…twelve years. That’s one good thing about America – it took away my pimples. I know that the people in the house will make a lovely breakfast, but I must clean myself first and wear clean clothes. I’m wearing a Nautica shirt today. Ah but the raj…he likes to sleep with his left hand in his boxers. I know he’s not sleeping.
It’s not breakfast time - far from it. But a young boy emerges and feeds me anyway. "If you need something, they are in the next house," he says. I like the food. I have only two more days of this pampering. The young boy leads me to the next house. People are playing. There’s talking, with a lot of moving of hands and hips and eyes. And laughing. There are hands on hips. Hands clapping, Lovely skip-skip-skips off to change the music. Now she’s dancing.
It’s the same milky gourd as before. This time, however, its boundaries are lined with a different fabric – the cloth is yellow, but also looks red. (I don’t know my colours.) On her navel, the sun is surrounded by a star. Like the picture in that fable about the sun and the wind. (Except that here the outlines are in red, not white.) And she moves. Hop-skip-stop. She knows how to move, this girl. Like a belly dancer plus a hip-hop dancer but all diluted to this soft, sweatless cadence. Like a temple dancer. What’s a temple dancer?
We return home for dinner but Sunil has eaten already and the girl has disappeared so I eat alone. I like this house. The food tastes very wholesomely good. The girl has reappeared and wants to help clear my dishes. But "no way, I can handle it." "OK." "May I ask your name?" "Sunita. And you are?" (Well, you know me.) I take the large tray to the kitchen and the boy leaps to take it from me. This girl is lovely. Liberal. I return from the kitchen to get my glass of water. This girl is lovely. Liberated. She stands at the table. She is very close when I reach for my water. So I ask her something, anything – "what are those bells?" She is very close when she tells me about the bells.
I’ve always wanted to do this but my courage, courage, is only good for other things. She has just kissed me now. Me! God. She is beautiful. She kisses me again. What does she want? I don’t know. I start feeling her mouth at the corners with my lips. My lips are like sensor balloons. Her tongue is licking my lips and around my lips and I think she wants in. This instant that’s not so hard to do. Her tongue is in my mouth. I hate losing control. She’s surveying – teeth, roof, teeth – I feel her moving, now she’s moving over my tongue. It’s regular, it’s predictable, it’s like viloo, viloo.
Enough of this taunting. I get in the ring too. It’s not viloo, viloo anymore. It’s chaos. I want to catch her tongue. When I do, it’s viloo, viloo again. But I’m not gentle. I’m mad. I want her tongue. I’m holding her to me now. I want her very tightly against me. I’m pushing her bottom up and in towards me. She is too. Oh I want to breathe. But not until I'm out of breath. I’m taking it all from her – her tongue, her air. She stops, and turns her eyes up into mine, and smiles. We laugh, sort of breathe and laugh, and she kisses me again. I start to kiss her. We know the drill now. I am not gentle. I could bite her, but I don’t. I only pretend.
We’re moving together now. I remember the first time I moved like this - first it had been lovely, then a fat baton sprung between us in his jeans. It must have hurt to have such a big part of him trapped in his clothes. Today it’s a girl. I’m kissing a lovely girl. I’ve always wanted to do this, but my courage…She has her hand in my shorts. What does she want? I think she likes shaved clean. She likes it. I can tell. God! I am beautiful. Her finger is sliding into me. Now she’s leaving my vulva, my shorts. She looks at my face as though I am strange. What does this mean? Now she’s leaving the room.
The next day after lunch I asked her if she’d like to kiss again. She was shaking. She couldn’t hide her trembling rage. Where were my breasts…and how come she had never noticed my breasts? I wished she would cry so I could kiss her and calm her. Instead there was "breasts" all through the house. Mercifully, nobody was home to hear. (Sunil had gone to his meetings, Sunita’s father was at a conference in California, and I think both her mother and brother were working; but maybe the young boy was home.) I told her I was sorry, and maybe we should just kiss. She shouted something I couldn’t understand and left the room in a hurry.

Monday, December 06, 2004



I just saw the movie. It's the first time I've cried in the opening scenes of a movie. Angelina Jolie (Olympias, the mother of Alexander) did that to me.
Colin Farrell as Alexander...he's a renegade, he moved me in his madness. I want to love like he loved. Feel like he felt. Win like he won. Fight like he fought. Oh God. (I wish, for his sake, that Colin was more like Alexander.)
Now I'm going to watch Asoka, in which Shahrukh Khan stars. Heard about him, but this will be my first time seeing him on screen.
Tomorrow, I'll do some work-related stuff - write my first SOS program, meet with my awesome officemate, find out if I can help anyone with final projects for class...