Halfway

Monday.

As the dark hours of night whittle away to the pale hours of morning, I remain in Mathura's room at McCormick trying to create a working Sudoku solver for 6.005. At times I am so tired I don't know what I'm typing, and am surprised, in momentary bursts of lucidity, by what is on the screen. An hour-and-a-half into an attempt to implement a different approach to converge with Mathura (she claimed to be one elusive print method away), during which I drift from semi-tired to head-bobbing-neck-jerking sleepy, I notice that at some point I'd started revising the wrong file, and realize I don't trust a thing I've done. I go back to check everything. Around eight-thirty, Anjali arrives after hooking up with Keith (he's still in her bed) and tries to help Mathura in a way that I cannot (my mind is soup), and I scrap the work and return to my old code. I think, I should have just spent those hours improving my own code. Beside me Mathura has gone from frustrated to angry to hysterical, has called her mother and cried into the phone about the injustice in the fruitlessness of over forty hours of work, about the injustice that certain others had allegedly finished in two or five hours, about the test she has not studied for, and there is nothing I can do but feel sorry for her, for she has been not sleeping for even longer than me over the past days. I do not panic. I am tired but resigned. I plug away, and watch the clock. Soon it is time for my 9:30 political science class, and I debate going. I go. I arrive late. I cannot keep my eyes open. I cannot focus. I try to take notes, I try very hard, but I cannot remember more than two words at a time. The teacher is talking at his normal speed, he is talking too fast. I sink back in my chair and drop my head and let my heavy lids fall. Occasionally I try to wake up and take notes. I know everyone can see that I'm sleeping, it's a small class, especially when the girl sitting next to me repeatedly responds to questions, and especially the TA can see me, the professor can see me, the cute Kappa Sigma guy across the room (who probably think I'm a stalker after I tried to be too helpful in 7.03 freshman fall) can see me. When the class is over, I have no idea what the lesson was about. I see that my notes are useless illegible chicken scratching.


Tuesday.

I'm in E14-244, a conference room in the New Media Lab, for the monthly MMP program review meeting, the one that all the big names show up to. I feel pretty out of place, among giants; my seat is appropriately off to the side away from the table, which is too full. At the front of the room Gerry Sussman is defending his propagator network adamantly, angrily. His face is red, his words nonstop rapid-fire bullets. He is tearing apart Neil Gershenfeld, who is questioning the usefulness of his work. The more questions Neil asks, the more upset Gerry gets. The more upset Gerry gets, the slower he gets through his slides, the more questions Neil asks. They remind me of an unhappy couple - one is too impatient to hear the other out before opening his mouth, the other's honor cannot sustain a momentary criticism so that he must immediately defend himself and attack the critic. They remind me of my parents - the big difference being that Neil remains calm, displaying only slight perturbation in his voice as Gerry gets more and more excited. He is being attacked, sometimes shown wrong, in front of his illustrious peers. Yet he remains calm in the face of fire and brimstone, and continues to question. In this moment I admire him more for his self-control and self-assurance, even though Sussman is smarter. The rest of the room remains silent for the most part, spectating the fight, half-afraid speaking will lead to being swept into the cyclone.

The meeting, scheduled for two hours, is still not over at 4 'o clock because of Gerry's presentation. No one leaves yet, so I stay and watch the clock anxiously. The meeting ends in another half hour, and I dash out to comment my tortuously slow-running Sudoku solver code before the 5 'o clock deadline, and to write a print method.


Wednesday.

3:30, my weekly violin lesson begins in coffin-like practice suite C. The truth is I've practiced twice, but am trying to pass it off as a week of work. Sarita wants to hear the fourth and final movement of the third Brahms sonata. I play; I finish; by a miracle the tricky two measures four before the end are in tune (despite blips in the middle, I end well). "It's a little better..." Sarita allows. Her biggest criticism: it lacks fury. It's an angry movement, and I am not angry enough. I should be physically exhausted by playing it. "I didn't sleep Monday night," I explain. "I spent all weekend on this one computer program." Sarita sighs. "You say the same thing every week," she reminds me. She says this same thing every week, so I know exactly what's coming, I know what she's going to say next. Something to the effect of, Do you realize how crazy your life is? (I'm not criticizing it.) But are you okay with it? She wants to know, am I not concerned about my tight schedule, lack of sleep, constant struggle to barely finish assignments in time? Am I not concerned about... not having enough time to practice? I reply in one way always, "It's just a bad week..." - I had such-and-such assignment which took so-and-so much time, and that's why this week was especially bad. "You say the same thing every week," Sarita sighs. She makes me play the movement again. I try to be angry; I think of Sussman. Sarita says, "That's better."


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