Storijaesoehae

the man was there inside the dream but couldn’t be seen, and I wondered after if he was part of a dream or a spirit. maybe I won’t know or maybe I will try and find out through the Akashic, the record that always documents all things everywhere about everybody. He had senility and I said to the lady, ‘I should check on him as he has wandered but would like to address him out of respect by his name.’

‘The name is Storijaesoehae.’

‘What?’

‘Say it. You can say it. And say all the vowels.’

I went to the room down the hall and just called him ‘Sir.’ He was okay. Awake. Sitting. He looked to me like an older Gurdjieff, the strange mystical teacher, or William Saroyan the writer, again, in pictures of him as older. 

then I left the doorway, and I wondered later if he was real or imagined. I thought of him as a spiritual father of the woman, a concept I’d not heard of but might have existed. she knew his name after all. 

whatever was true, they had called for a wind and snowstorm, and they were correct as it was all crashing w/confidence against the upper windows by then. The forecasts also said this one was going to be bad, worse than usual, and were issuing weather warnings. 

I looked outside and took a deep breath, thinking, nearly always thinking…too mercurial for many reasons, mainly the star I was born under. The snow and wind increased and there was a whistle in the air, a whistle like some spirit from a novel or something. You have heard this whistle if you think about it for a moment. 

Let it all happen, I figured, for if it’s going to be winter let it be winter proper. 

____

Letter from open palms

You are an experience
that shivers away from my outstretched hands.
Dances upon my fingers, teasing me,
“I am something you will never have.”
Pulls on my arteries telling me,
“you are nothing. Nothing at all.”
Bruises the walls of my mind, tormenting me
with its laughter, singing, yelling, crying–
I am left with my blankets in the middle of the night,
looking to the figure past the glass
who says nothing,
nothing at all.

without Shame

In the absence of my cramping hands,
I run like a deer, no worries of headlights,
no Shame in my freedom.
I soak up sunlight like a sponge,
much more than what is necessary,
no Shame in my gluttony.
I let words spill out like tiny waterfalls,
no Shame in my impulsivity.
Whether that be good or bad is not up to me;
whether Shame be good or bad is not up to me.
Still, I am guilt-ridden,
I can only close my eyes and
think of a world without Shame.

The Intersection of Combinatorics and Biological Systems: A Computational and Molecular Analysis

Abstract

This paper explores the fundamental role of discrete mathematics, specifically combinatorics, in understanding biological structures. From the quaternary logic of DNA to the complex folding patterns of proteins, combinatorial optimization provides the necessary framework for modern bioinformatics. We analyze the mathematical constraints of the genetic code, De Bruijn graphs in genome assembly, and the combinatorial explosion in phylogenetics.

1. Introduction: The Digitization of Biology

Modern biology has transitioned from a descriptive science to an information science. The biological cell functions as a complex information processor where discrete units (nucleotides and amino acids) are arranged in specific sequences. Combinatorics, the study of counting, arrangement, and permutation, provides the language to decode this information.

2. Combinatorial Logic of the Genetic Code

The most striking example of combinatorics in nature is the triplet codon system.

2.1. Permutations with Repetitions

The DNA alphabet consists of four bases: \mathcal{A} = \{A, C, G, T\}. To code for 20 essential amino acids, the sequence length n must satisfy the condition 4^n \geq 20.

If n=2, then 4^2 = 16 (Insufficient).

If n=3, then 4^3 = 64 (Sufficient).

This redundancy (64 codons for 20 acids) allows for synonymous mutations, providing a combinatorial buffer against genetic errors.

3. Graph Theory and Genome Assembly

In DNA sequencing (Next-Generation Sequencing), the laboratory can only read short fragments (reads). Reconstructing the full genome is a combinatorial puzzle.

3.1. De Bruijn Graphs

To assemble a genome, bioinformaticians use De Bruijn graphs where:

Nodes represent (k-1)-mers.

Edges represent k-mers.

The problem of finding the original DNA sequence is transformed into finding an Eulerian Path (visiting every edge exactly once) within this massive graph. This reduces the complexity of searching through n! possible permutations of fragments.

4. Combinatorial Explosion in Phylogenetics

Phylogenetics aims to reconstruct the evolutionary tree of life. However, as the number of species (n) increases, the number of possible tree topologies grows factorially.

My name is Shahlo Rustamova, daughter of Ilhkom, a passionate and ambitious student born on June 8, 2007, in Shakhrisabz district, Kashkadarya Region, Uzbekistan! 

I am currently a first year student of Shahrisabz State Pedagogical Institute on the basis of a state grant. I have earned several educational grants and awards, and I am an owner of national Biology certificate.  

With a deep interest in leadership, public speaking, and writing, I continue to work hard toward achieving academic excellence and inspiring others in my community.

NEW YEAR’S RESILIENCE

In the garden of grit, where shadows stretch,

Weary vines climbed through thorns of the past,  

Each task a tempest, each moment a wave,  

But beneath the storms, the roots clenched tighter.    

Wounds like constellations, pain etched in stardust,  

I tread softly on the stars of my battles,  

With a heart forged from fire, I rise,  

A phoenix unfurling wings against the horizon.    

I glance towards the edges of humanity,  

Where houses tremble like leaves in a gale,  

And children cradle hunger like a secret,  

While hope drips like honey from the skies.   

For I carry an ember, a spark of tomorrow,  

In the crucible of compassion, I harden my resolve,  

With the sun as my compass, I stride into dawn,  

Determined to dismantle the darkness with each step.    

Amidst the chaos, I gather the broken shards,  

Crafting a mosaic of dreams yet to bloom,  

The country of compassion calls me forth,  

And I answer with the drumbeat of courage in my chest.    

So let the New Year be a canvas unwritten,  

With colors of resilience, where challenges weave,  

An artist of hope, I paint my destiny,  

Knowing the dawn is only a heartbeat away.   

***

THESE DAYS OF CELEBRATION

I saw many of these festive days at the end of the year.

I saw bags weighing down hands,  

Decorations and lights that sparkled,  

And I saw the city like a bride adorned.  

I saw the sun and the moon descending to Earth,

Eyes and hearts of people igniting a rainbow,  

I saw embraces and kisses full of longing,  

Endless wishes that cannot be counted.  

I also saw the beggar’s hands like a cancer metastasis,

His statue frozen by the roadside of a noisy city,   

Eyes that remained a mist of rain of sadness,  

And his look of pain – a frost that freezes you.  

I hope that the coming New Year will see it,

And change the statue for a more beautiful one,  

To see also the indifferent, cold soul of people, 

And I wish to grant them a warmer heart.

THE TURNING OF THE PAGE

The year now fades, a closing book,

Of rushing streams and quiet corners.

We turn our heads to look behind,

At all the moments, sharp and kind.

So gather up the laughter’s chime,

The silent tears, the borrowed time.

Each thread is woven, dark and bright,

Into the fabric of the light.

We stand upon the threshold’s gleam,

And step into the newborn dream.

With lessons held and spirit worn,

We greet the coming, hopeful morn.

We Were Not Taught How to Hold the Future

They taught us dates

before they taught us consequences.

How empires fell,

but not how to catch ourselves

when hope slips on wet floors.

I grew up learning that history is past tense,

as if it doesn’t knock on our doors every morning

wearing our faces.

My country wakes up tired.

Even the sun hesitates before rising

as if asking,

are they ready today?

We are a generation fluent in survival.

We know how to laugh during blackouts,

how to fold dreams small enough

to fit into pockets with holes.

We know the price of bread

and the cost of silence.

Nobody warned us

that growing up would feel like translating pain

into productivity,

that resilience would become a compliment

used when repair is too expensive.

I write because talking fails me.

Because some truths are too heavy

for ordinary sentences.

Because poetry is the only place

I am allowed to be unsure

without being called weak.

They say the future belongs to us,

but they forgot to leave instructions.

So we improvise!

with borrowed courage,

with borrowed time,

with faith stitched together

by hands that are still shaking.

If this poem sounds unfinished,

it’s because we are.

Still becoming.

Still choosing softness

in a world that profits from our hardness.

We were not taught how to hold the future,

so we are learning

with open palms,

and hope that refuses to sit down.

The Soaring Eagle                                  

A flock of crows in dark disguise,

With jealous hearts and spiteful cries,

Ascend to claw the eagle’s flight

But falter in the blinding light.

They do not know how high he flies,

Nor see the wisdom in his eyes.

They grasp not purpose, strength, or grace

They only chase what they can’t face.

The eagle climbs in silent might,

Riding winds to endless height.

The crows grow tired, drop one by one,

Their foolish game is lost and done.

A noble soul, so pure and wide,

Will never drift with envy’s tide.

It walks alone, but walks with fire

On paths that reach forever higher.

You are the eagle, calm and wise,

Above the noise, above the lies.

You do not fight with birds below;

Your silence says what words can’t show.

No answer to their bitter breath,

No counter to their rage or death.

You rise instead beyond their call,

Where only quiet skies enthrall.

They shriek and flail, they mock and sneer,

But all dissolve when you draw near.

And with compassion, not with pride,

You watch them fall, and gently glide.

The sky is vast, the stars are few

Not all who flap can follow through.

So now I ask, with heart made true

Where do your wings carry you?

And where does your spirit settle into?

Poet Dr. Kang, Byeong-Cheol is a Korean author and poet, born in Jeju City, South Korea, in 1964. He began writing in 1993, publishing his first short story, “Song of Shuba,” at the age of twenty-nine. He released a collection of short stories in 2005 and has since won eight literature awards and published more than twelve books. From 2009 to 2014, he served as a member of The Writers in Prison Committee (WiPC) of PEN International. Additionally, he worked as an editorial writer for JeminIlbo, a newspaper in Jeju City, Korea. He holds a PhD in Political Science and currently serves as the Vice President of The Korean Institute for Peace and Cooperation and vice president of Jeju PEN. Moreover, he holds the position of founding President of the Korean Association of World Literature.

Wacky New Year to You!

Wham, bam, slam,

Right to the jaw,

Left to the gut,

Wild haymaker and

Bloody New Years nose,

            It’s Peru,

And fist fight catharsis

Clears the air

            For the next 365 days!

Somewhere in history,

Some anonymous genius

            Noticed seasons,

            The cycles of seasons,

And dubbed each

            A year—

 A measurement

            For our lives.

With that,

World-wide imagination

            Kicked in:

Old year, new year;

New year, future;

            New year, hope!

Tradition!

                        Party!

And so the Irish throw

            Bread against walls,

Ecuador burns scarecrows–

            And photos,

Japan smiles, ringing bells

            108 times.

The Swiss drop ice cream,

Thais throw water buckets,

The French eat pancakes,

Russians plant tree trunks

At the bottom

                        of frozen lakes.

Colombians lug

                        Empty suitcases,                

Brazilians jump seven waves,

Estonians eat seven meals,

While Danes hurl

                        Plates and pottery

            At friends’ front doors.

The Brits’ “First Footing”

Welcomes a dark-haired man

            Bearing midnight gifts,

Crazy Scots swing sticks

Stuck to blazing fireballs,

While in the Philippines,

            And Mexico,

All change underwear—

            White for peace,

            Gold for wealth,

Red, of course, for love

            In the new, new year!

Yet in America,

            We keep it simple:

Remember Dick Clark,

                        Watch a ball drop, Kiss.

Then sing Auld Lang Syne

            At the top of our lungs,

Raise many a cup o’ kindness,

Leave our undies

                        Publicly in place,

And have

                        A Happy New Year!

                        Bruce Roberts

            2015— New Years Eve

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