North Georgia Conference: Fill & Download for Free

Yes, but I often regret telling it.It does come back to haunt you, so to speak.I am semi-retired now and I don’t care what others think.Twenty-five years ago, I went to a conference in the north Georgia Mountains. We stayed at an old farmhouse converted into an inn. We overbooked the place, so I agreed to sleep on a cot rolled onto the second-story veranda.No one drank that night, I know for certain, because we asked. No liquor stores around for 50 miles. Five of us played Trivial Pursuit, and went to bed.Twice that night, I dreamed an infuriated little girl stood at the foot of the cot, rattling the frame. The first time it happened, I shot up in bed, thinking what a weird dream, but I managed to fall asleep again. The second time, it spooked me. I have never dreamed the same dream twice.This time, I slept through the next morning.Two colleagues slept in the rooms adjacent to the veranda.The next morning, I wandered downstairs to breakfast, and discovered them sitting together at a table, staring at me bewildered and concerned.Both had awakened to the sound of my bed rattling violently.One reported he thought I was having seizures (which has never happened in my life). According to him, he came into my room, found me awake, staring up at the ceiling. Apparently, he asked “are you okay?”He said I replied “fine,” but I do not remember.I started to tell them about my weird dreams. The proprietor at the inn overheard our conversation, sidled up to our table and asked…“Oh, so you saw her?”To make a long story short, my dreams comported with the experiences of many quests before me. He summoned a waitress over to our table who had seen her.She asked, “what time did it happen?”I had no idea, but one of my colleagues recalled looking at his alarm clock, and claimed it was three in the morning. She went ashen and stammered,“That’s…when…I…saw…her.”When I tell this story I receive a range of responses, from a sneering close friend, who said “so you think you are psychic?” I am not psychic as far as I know.One doctor labeled me “psychotic” based on this on experienceIt infuriates me to this day. I cannot tolerate their narrow diagnostic lens.Did it hurt me? No.It is a consistent experience? No.Did I think I saw a ghost when it happened? No.Did we converse? No.The experience so spooked me, I returned to my apartment in Atlanta, and slept with the lights on for three nights, praying to never see a ghost again.One guy got up in my face, flustered nonsensical, calling me a liar. We were at dinner with a group of friends. I simply stood, excused myself, and left.I can remember another eerie experience.But I did not see or hear anything.Two decades ago, I attended a fundraising event at the notoriously haunted Charleston Jail, which opened its doors in 1680. Pirates, slaves, Union soldiers and most famously, America’s first female serial killer, Lavinia Fisher were imprisoned and tortured in this colonial prison. Some of her story is more legend, but historical records show she was hanged there.That night, the large crowd of drunken people enervated me. No one else wanted to accompany me, so I wandered upstairs alone to visit an art exhibit. The second story was empty, except for me. With no bar or buffet upstairs, no one wandered upstairs. I turned left into this room, and…It felt like I walked into a microwave oven.The air thickened and electric, bristling with menacing energy.It stunned me enough that I balked at the door.I thought, note to self, this is your imagination and it will not get the better of you. I forced myself to walk to the furthest corner of the room, examining an African mask on display. The malevolent energy intensified.I lasted about fifteen seconds, rushed out the room, so unnerved I went straight home. Was it my imagination? Perhaps. Personally, I have come to believe that some places hold energy. Are ghosts dead people? If I ever get the chance to ask, which I hope never happens, I will pose the question and let you know.What confounds me?There are millions of lucid, functional people with ghost encounters.Most critics go to church on Sunday, claim to believe in an afterlife, but sneer at the paranormal, demanding scientific evidence for common human experiences beyond their conventional religious beliefs.People can think I am nuts if they want. I have stopped giving a royal shit.At least I am not a cowardly hypocrite.It happened, but what is it and what does it mean?I have no idea.

The obvious answer is that you will have had less opportunity when it comes to research and making valuable connections.That being said, these things are not impossible to obtain.If you'd like to make good connections, attend conferences. While I was at Dalton State College (a fairly unknown College in North Georgia), I attended the American Astronomical Society meeting in San Diego, California and was able to meet Dr. Meg Urry, the department chair of physics at Yale, Dr. Sean Carroll (CalTech), Leonard Susskind (Stanford) and more. I also made many friends my age that aren't places like Harvard, Berkeley, UCSD and more!None of them knew where Dalton State was, but were more than happy to discuss physics and research opportunities with me. Dr. Urry even highly recommended Georgia Tech to me and is part of the reason why I am here.A great way to experience top notch research is to apply to as many REU’s as you possibly can! Don't be concerned about whether or not the REU you are applying to is “too prestigious.” A friend of mine who still attends Dalton State, got accepted to Harvard Medical School’s REU. If it's possible for someone at Dalton State, it is certainly possible for you.

Yes, but I often regret telling it. It does come back to haunt you, so to speak.Now I am semi-retired and I don’t care what others think.Twenty-five years ago, I went to a conference in the north Georgia Mountains. We stayed at an old farmhouse converted into an inn. We overbooked the place, so I agreed to sleep on a cot rolled onto the second-story veranda. No one drank that night, I know for certain, because we asked. No liquor stores around for 50 miles. Five of us stayed behind, played Trivial Pursuit, and went to bed.Twice that night, I dreamed an infuriated little girl stood at the foot of the cot, rattling the frame. The first time it happened, I shot up in bed, thinking what a weird dream, but I managed to fall asleep again. The second time, it spooked me. I have never dreamed the same dream twice.This time, I slept through the next morning.Two colleagues slept in the rooms adjacent to the veranda.The next morning, I wandered downstairs to breakfast, and discovered them sitting together at a table, staring bewildered and concerned at me. Both had awakened to the sound of my bed rattling violently. One reported he thought I was having seizures (which has never happened in my life). According to him, he came into my room, found me awake, staring up at the ceiling. Apparently, he asked “are you okay?” I said “fine,” but I do not remember.So I started to tell them about my weird dreams. The proprietor at the inn overheard our conversation, sidled up to our table and asked…“Oh, so you saw her?”To make a long story short, my dreams comported with the experiences of many quests before me. He summoned a waitress over to our table who had seen her. She asked, what time did it happen? I had no idea, but one of my colleagues, recalled looking at his alarm clock, and claimed it was three in the morning. She went ashen and stammered, “That’s when I saw her….”When I tell this story I receive a range of responses, from a sneering close friend, who said “so you think you are psychic?” No, I am not psychic as far as I know. One doctor labeled me “psychotic” based on this experience alone.It infuriates me to this day. I cannot tolerate their narrow diagnostic lens. Did it hurt me? No. It is a consistent experience? No. Did I think I saw a ghost when it happened? No. Did we converse? No. The experience so spooked me, I returned to my apartment in Atlanta, and slept with the lights on for three nights, praying to never see a ghost again. Yet, one guy got up in my face, flustered nonsensical, calling me a liar. We were at dinner with a group of friends. I simply stood, excused myself, and left.I can remember one exception, but I did not see or hear anything.Two decades ago, I attended a fundraising event at the notoriously haunted Charleston Jail, which opened its doors in 1680. Slaves, Union soldiers and most famously, America’s first female serial killer, Lavinia Fisher. Some of her story is more legend, but historical records show she was hanged there.That night, the large crowd of drunken people enervated me. No one else wanted to accompany me, so I wandered upstairs alone to visit an art exhibit. The second story was empty, except for me - of this I am certain.I turned left into this room, and it felt like I walked into a microwave oven.The air thickened and electric, bristling with menacing energy.It stunned me enough I balked at the door. I thought, note to self, this is your imagination and it will not get the better of you. I forced myself to walk to the furthest corner of the room, examining an African mask on display. The malevolent energy intensified. I lasted about fifteen seconds, rushed out the room, so unnerved I went straight home.Was it my imagination? Perhaps. Personally, I have come to believe that some places hold energy. Are ghosts dead people? If I ever get the chance to ask, which I hope never happens, I will ask the question and let you know.What confounds me?There are millions of lucid, functional people with ghost encounters. Most critics go to church on Sunday, claim to believe in an afterlife, but sneer at the paranormal, demanding scientific evidence for common human experiences beyond their conventional religious beliefs. People can think I am nuts if they want. I stopped giving a shit. At least I am not a cowardly hypocrite.It happened, but what is it and what does it mean?I have no idea.