A Little Near

"After years of finding mathematics easy, I finally reached integral calculus and came up against a barrier. I realized that this was as far as I could go, and to this day I have never successfully gone beyond it in any but the most superficial way." -- Isaac Asimov

Its all my freshman math teachers fault. As my first college professor, she told me I was fast, bright and had a mind well suited to calculation Then that guy from the machine shop showed me his homework and I devised the clever solution of gleaning theorems from the answers in his notes by reverse arithmetic. Heck, it was fun. So I took a couple of math classes and wowed em all at least, at the technical college level. Somewhere along the line they told me I had great promise. I bought it, and began to seek my combinatorial niche. In astronomy class we were trying to solve the gravity question with a really basic calculator, so to do a cubic root; I inverted the root value and did division to simplify the problem, then tricked the arithmetic algorithm by raising the answer to a decimal exponentit worked: The crowd went wild. So, I enrolled in the Bachelors of Science, Mathematics program at the University, and reality struck me squarely between the eyes: Calculus I, first semester; Professor Stick pummeled me with my own ineptitude. By week three I questioned my very foundations week six found me frozen under the numbing influence of mental desperation. Somehow, I scraped by on excuses and gut effort Next term, I let the world of Newton slide and immersed myself in some Gen. Ed. Courses, allowing myself one elective math course to wound lick. Other maths came and went Linear Algebra, Geometry, a brief affair with Stats and Probability which lasted about as long as a shooting star while the Calculus crept around on the fringe of my consciousness, waiting to slay me. The inevitable
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confrontation came over a summer course stint, when a great and mumbling, but remarkably witty Professor opened my inner mind to the flowing beauty, the prescient sublimity of the Infinitesimal quantity the nothing that is I was graphing the saddle and the torus again. Hours idled away as I found new and creative ways to avoid the rigor of number crunching, opting always for simplification and the linear translation of tougher problems. Ill never forget in Mathematical Problem Solving when I thought I had genius tapped: I posited that the Pythagorean Theorem could be expanded to the equilateral triangle by dividing the equation in half and manipulating transformations on 1/2 edge shadows. This was all well and good; I only needed the area of each equilateral triangle shadow. You all know the basic drill: half the base times the height, done three times. Well, for the equilateral case the height is not known, by induction in fact, it can only be had from known angles by a complicated geometric formula which is arcane to Pythagorass theorem and is the only way... regardless, no connection was made, and I drew a far simpler corollary to the original and stepped off stage with out a bow. Then came the wall: Number Theory wham, there was simply nothing left. Modular arithmetic was graspable but the whole Real number proof and Well ordering principle left me grasping for something akin to a simple fraction. The Chinese Remainder Theorem provided me with the same fleeting thrill as learning how an abacus works, only to remind me of how I consistently let that knowledge die of atrophy. I was reaching the edge of the permuted window That is when the dreams began; I would peruse each new semester schedule like it was a wine list and I, a connoisseur without a penny to his name Real Analysis, Abstract Algebra, Graph Theory and that penultimate thrill: Differential Equations. I
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would scan the prerequisites and know that my own hobbling transcript met the criteria. Then, in an unscheduled interview with cerebral pride, my mind would to inform me that I must be able to do it, after all Ive got the prerequisites. But I know folly, failure and my future in math all sum to the state of nonplussed indemnity. Even so, History of Mathematics lures and urges with its scholarly paper and miles of sophisticated yarns of rediscovery, tempting me to bite off yet again, more than I can chew. To be published, that what all this sport of math is about: Striving to leave ones name across the annals of the mental sport of the proven clever. I knew I was beaten and that the distance my inherent mathematical prowess had been able to carry me sans studying had been truncated; I wisely withdrew, apprehending the precipitous fall of my GPA. Now I only dream in numbers. I see everything cascading around me in integers, squares and elusive primes. I locate Fibonacci series and Euler nine-point circles in the world at large. I consider the sun a point source and time warp the earth into the murky black of deep space to prove two parallel shadows meet. Laughing at Euclid, I conceive of spherical triangles whose precocious interior angles sum well beyond the rigid confine of 180. I muse gratuitously about the absurd relationship between Fahrenheit and Celsius, like they were ridiculous Norse deities locked in an eternal battle of Whose right? I cant approach an intersection without recalculating sums of probabilities and cursing the civil engineer who would have arrived at stoplight Zen, had he only increased the difficulty of his calculations by a single order of magnitude. Then, there is the grocery store. Did you know how difficult it is to derive the best bargain in paper towels now that they have select a size sheet perforations? The calculations swirl before me, each one getting me closer but sucking the time as I crunch and guess and dont pick any. The pressure builds; women pass
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by and simply grab a pack of rolls, I want to warn them: That one is outrageous, Stop! But I am mute, my mind a mime in silence crunching, stalking calculating. After my near panic attack at the grocers, finding the most economical route home becomes a delicious distraction. Driving through the geography of the plane, like in Disneys Tron, I spot slightly canted, diagonal alleys and smoothly avoid lighted intersections. I casually cut over low-bermed corners on an arc that makes all the difference in the world. Oh, did I mention? Brake wear and tear counts too! So, four-way stops are my genius; I just roll right through, oblivious to courtesy and tact. Heaven forbid an unexpected dead end as I scream the death to city planners and extended street names those which stop and start up again two blocks later; you now the ones I mean and even then, Ill try and pull the u-turn without stopping, if I can In admirable time, I always arrive home; and try to unwind my mind but I cannot I observe the height of the flame on my gas fireplace. I begin experimenting with the gas valve, twothirds, three-quarters or five-sevenths open, I try to find the optimal BTUs output with the corresponding least gas burned. I erect elaborate vents, guiding the air flow with green and grey ceramic tiles on the heater: Terrazzoic artwork, purposefully contrived. Looking down, the pilot light is just giggling and sputtering, burning as little fuel as possible without puffing out in a munificent wink. Why are my knuckles so cold? The organization of the book shelves is killing me; should I index size, subject or author? Perhaps color is best the calculations are always spinning. I am reminded if the M. C. Escher print that shows workmen carrying sacks of flour eternally around a staircase that never began and wont end until time itself concludes. The books just keep migrating, and the vinyl, oh, man! The vinyl: Alphabetic or genre, who could find any thing that way my son soberly suggests we deck the walls with them in any order and go visual1,000 lps hmmm, that would plaster
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the living, dining and kitchen too retro 70s for me. Im a space saver and an appreciator of the absurd he reminds me that I dont really want a solution; I just want to find unsolvable trivialities that boggle and perplex the mind. Perhaps he is right What about the hot to cold water ratio in the shower? Did you know that with the right shower head you can take a shower that costs less that running the dishwasher? The key is, oddly; no cold water. What does cold water do but cool off the water you paid to heat? What is the point? I just crack the cold, squeak the hot on a touch further, and bathe to oblivion in my affordable trickle dip. Speaking of money, when I need some, and Im far away from home, a scintillating conundrum comes my way. The choice is to pay up to three bucks to withdraw a twenty from an ATM, thats 15% right? Not I, those blood sucking leeches can snort dust. I pull out Five-hundred in cash and laugh at the pittance theyre left with; a ridiculous .06% they may as well be paying me. I laugh as I cruise out of the foreign bank like King Midas, and proceed to spend 40 times what I meant to. Why not, my money was almost free! Finally, my mathematical mind plagues me to try and reason with that lingual alchemist; my wife. I do love her, well beyond the pettiness of words but oh, can logic enter into a snarled and irretrievable state in her presence. I open a pleasant evening chat with her about the benefits of machine washing versus sink: I reason that the large bowls and pots ought to be laid in the bottom of the sink while the glass and flatware are gently rinsed on top of them and placed into the waiting machine. The splashed rinse water fills the myriad cookware and with a spot of soap, the whole lot is squeakily cleansed and we both agree that density is the key on dishwasher loading. I return, a few minutes later to find her nearly finished rinsing a few stubborn pieces of flatware over an empty sink with gallons
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of my toasted water shining the copper of the waste pipes, to no gain. I gawk, plead and ask why. She says simply, obviously, it makes perfect sense to you, that is why I agreed. For me, Im not sure. Three articulated hairs spring form my ever shinier pate and float through the glare of my vision. Two come to rest on the kitchen sink which is abandoned, for me to wipe, with no thought by the logician the third spins along in a graceful half parabolic trajectory, slipping noiselessly to the floor. As I set all in order, the patterns and lines of the wall tiles catch my eye and my mind is immersed in the infinite possibilities of fractals and Im off