11 mathematicians in one room. Communication is a problem. 11 Americans. 11 native English speakers attempting to explain math. English is messed up. No one in this room understands the dynamics of interpersonal communication. Systematic approaches. Scientific methods. The complete lack of human understanding

Sometimes I wonder if anyone can see it well. The obvious to me about me. The focus is so strong on rubrics, numbers, equations. The desire is so strong. I want this. An invisible vision it is. We are all egomaniacs. It is nearly required to be here. We are all experts in our field. Some more than others. Some I’m  not sure how, yet they are the self-proclaimed. We talk ourselves up. We lie, cheat, bend the truth. We are self-proclaimed good human beings. I am one of them

It occurs to be me that this is a very pessimistic way of looking at our mission here. We ARE good people. We are doing good in the world.

68 Americans isolated in the middle of Rwanda. It was bound to happen. Incessant urges. Teenage hormones long since forgotten, accelerated and multiplied by alcohol. I’ll be the first to admit that we were both really drunk. Would this have happened otherwise? Is man’s greatest pitfall once again to blame? If such is the case, I embrace it. Who gives a shit. This is good, Life is good. Africa, teaching, adjusting. Now the new relationships are forming. I did not see it coming. Should I have?

So many chalk numbers. Delinearization. Non-central thoughts. I have a hard time following him even with my English fluency and math training. The students have no idea what he is saying. We sit in back while he discusses in front, chalk in hand, Tongue in cheek.

I find my mind wandering. Shitty desks. Nails perturding, squeaks and rotting wood. The walls are always the same beige-green color. They are inescapable. She haunts my thoughts in the most peculiar, amazing ways. I cannot stop to pull myself back to reality. I feel her shape in mine, the slow draw of her breath as her chest rises and falls. Sensual hands on my leg. Her neck. My hand. Her hand.

When things fall, they usually do so in a constant matter. Gravity. 9.8 m/s. Straight down. This is what I am used to. This is different than my gravity. Centrifugal motion is not usually gravitational. Yet I find myself falling around the same object continually. These are the days of my life.

Did alcohol impair my judgment? Or did it simply drop the barriers I had set up to keep people out? 3 days. A 3 days’ notice that I would enter this endeavor single. There is an element of truth to the notion that she simply makes me confortable, that I yearn so badly to not be alone in this world. We process, adjust, and reapply. No interpretations. We fail to grasp the truth of the tiny facts we process. More than that, I yearn for her; she makes me happy. Radiant beauty. She grounds me while making me feel alive. She is horrible for the steadiness of my heartbeat.