here's mine. I got a 23/25 for it in the trials. I did postmodernism by the way.
also, bonus points for the people who pick out the Smashing Pumpkins reference.
Thirty-Three
The feeling between the participants of the text is mutual: both reader and author share some level of curiosity regarding the potential capabilities of the words that are to follow. I study pseudo-mathematics at the University Of Fairfield, Connecticut. Establishment of fact. Do not assume that fact is necessarily real: in this text, ‘fact’ is merely a component of the makeup of someone’s perspective. To Connor Matthews, I do not study pseudo-mathematics. I study symbols on pieces of paper that do not mean anything, individually or collectively.
Pseudo-mathematics involves three key rules: firstly and most importantly, that preconceptions regarding traditional mathematics must be disregarded. Secondly, space and time are not constant, and finally, not everything is plausible in communication through pen and paper.
We get all sorts of folks here. Stupid blondes that paid their way in, lonely housebound nerds who live with their parents, intellectual males of the highest order who want more out of science, and middle-aged women who are bored at home and study pseudo-maths as an escape from their mundane lives.
What sounds like an interesting group of people to some, sounds like the most predictable bunch of individuals imaginable to others.
“Wipe the slate clean” then. Fifty-two plus thirty-three still equals eighty-five. Those characters disappear before they even existed, and you missed it. “Who did that?”
“You’ve gotten yourself into a mess again, Connor. Standards do not apply here…but that does not mean there are no limits.”
“But sir – “
“There are no buts either, Connor. You must learn to understand that your educators want only the best for you.”
There is slight frustration from all participants at this point, and the fact that I have a terrible headache is not helping anyone. But I’ll answer the question that has been eating away at the both of us before I take a brief nap. There are not two physical beings named ‘Connor Matthews’ in this story. Then what is going on? Well…how many clichés have you counted so far? Here is another: ‘patience is a virtue’.
“I think pseudo-maths is bull, to be totally honest with you.”
“Why? Because it doesn’t have a structure? It has nothing that you can readily hold onto? That’s what I love about it…I get lost in it. It has no boundaries, no edges, no author and no distinct style…it’s just whatever the mathematician makes it out to be. And then there’s the idea that at the very centre of it is this unified…thing…it’s like some sort of holy origin, but it’s only there if you want it to be.”
“You sound like a preacher. You sound like you’ve just come back from an enlightening day at the Church. I think this course is getting to you.”
“I don’t care. It’s a great course. I don’t know. I’m into this sort of stuff.”
Mary is 12 years old. Her mother is twice her age and of Polynesian descent – why can’t it just be politically correct like normal maths? Someone could get offended by this sort of thing – in how many years will Mary be twice her mother’s age?
“Now pay attention. Concentrate on the question. Don’t let it be a brainless exercise.”
Carlos raises his hand. Carlos is 4 years younger than his mother.
“Seven - “
“Wrong. You didn’t think it through.”
Godspeed You! Black Emperor plays on the speakers as I leave the building. I recognise this song but I don’t have a reason why. There is a four-way division: Lift Yr. Skinny Fists, Like Antennas To Heaven... [00:00 - 06:15], Gathering Storm [06:15 - 17:25], "Welcome To Barco AM/PM..." [L.A.X.; 5/14/00] [17:25 - 18:40], Cancer Towers On Holy Road Hi-way [18:40 - 22:32].
A sample refers to a value or set of values at a point in time and/or space. The defining point of a sample is that it is a chosen value out of a continuous signal. The sample need not be discrete or digital (a common misunderstanding), but just like this sentence, the song is a series of fragments, blended together to make something new…a reconstruction of the past. Blink and you will miss it.
“Hell, move your eyes and it’s gone. It’s distorted. Everybody knows Chinese Whispers.”
I sit in my car, driving down the silent highway. A burnt orange sunset follows me home, with blemishes of pink amongst the clouds, as if to prove some sort of divine intervention has taken place. But the Church is a thing of the past. So my radio tells me. This is not just any radio, either: it’s a digital radio. Technically, I receive the signals before they’re even aired…somewhere along the line we lost our sense of time, and the time zones were abandoned in our collective absent-mindedness. The sky has turned a rich blue, like velvet, and the holiness of the whole spectacle seems to fade like a burnt-out flame. I reach the automatic garage door to my one-story suburban cottage, and five-hundred and seventy-two thousand mathematical equations occur simultaneously.
And what of translating foreign text books? It’s a political-institutional problem of the university linked to the values of traditional teaching…don’t you know anything?
We have digital radio, but no television. It appears that was just a phase. We now have this headset-type gear that attaches to our head and covers our eyes, without blinding us from everything else, through some clever contraption. Life imitates techno-babbling cyber-geeks who sit at home and usually come up with the best ideas anyway. The author of long-gone company Microsoft’s Windows is not who you think it is, after all.
“Sir…?”
“Yes Martin?”
“Well sir, I’m having a problem with this course.”
“Well it’s supposed to be difficult – that’s the idea. We’re showing you new ideas that you haven’t seen before. It will make sense soon enough.”
“No, it’s not that. You see, I received a letter from a Japanese friend yesterday. And it said…”
“What did it say, Martin?”
“Well it was a translation of one of the pseudo-maths books, into Japanese.”
“Do you want to talk to me after class about this? We have to move on.”
“In translation, it revealed holes. Certain meanings were lost because they have different connotations in Japanese. Some of the equations don’t even exist in other languages.”
“Do you have a point, Martin? I can discuss this with you, but not at the present moment.”
“Sir, it’s not universal anymore. It can’t work.”
"Martin, it's not supposed to be a method. It never was. It's a study of interest. That's the type of subject you study here."
“But it has to be looked at in context!”
“There is no context Martin! This is what you have failed to see the entire semester. The “context” as you call it is on-going…that is what pseudo-maths is all about.”
The boy shrunk into his chair and the teacher told him he would discuss the matter later. Fifty-two plus thirty-three does NOT equal eighty-five, and the division sign does not apply. The boy was crushed. He spent the rest of his days translating random symbols and equations. Approximately thirteen years later, the boy, who was now a man, took his own life, when he couldn’t take not fitting in anymore.
But I still drive in my car, with my digital radio turned up, because I don’t care. Your grandfather’s dead and I don’t care. School in South America has just been blown up by a bunch of crazy extremists. I don’t care. World War Three and I don’t care. Famous translator found dead, causes unknown, and I still…don’t care. My nice expensive car goes off the side of the road, and I’m happy. Thirty-three minus fifteen still equals eighteen, and that’s about how many seconds I have to go. Seventeen seconds. Seventeen seconds of compassion. Seventeen seconds of peace. Seventeen seconds to remember love is the energy behind which all is created. Seventeen seconds to remember all that is good. Seventeen seconds to forget all your hurt and pain. Seventeen seconds of faith. Seventeen seconds to trust you again. Seventeen seconds of radiance. Seventeen seconds to send a prayer up.
Seventeen seconds is all you really need.
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copyright David Akerman 2005.
