Post by torainfor on Apr 29, 2008 12:35:02 GMT -5
Feel free to pick it apart. I want to learn all I can.
Numbers fall from the sky like rain. I tilt my head back and open my mouth wide. Minty sevens, citrusy threes, earthy fours—each with a taste familiar and rich.
The small figure next to me squints into the sky. An eight bounces off his forehead. He pulls his hood further over his face and shivers deeper into the warmth of his parka.
The numbers splash on the streets and sidewalks and bounce up before tumbling into the flow of the gutter. The current, the jostling, all ordained, never random. One stream joins another, rushes faster. I step into the torrent and watch it separate around my legs and join again. Exactly as it should. The pull of surface tension and the friction of fluid against rough asphalt struggle against gravity and momentum. Tiny little bits stick to the asphalt, safe in the boundary layer. Inches above, their mates foam in the cavitation of the surface.
He understands the flow. He can see the movement, but the numbers are too jumbled. Do the rivulets dripping from the sidewalk add to the surge or take away from it? He stares with big brown eyes, takes a running leap, and vaults over the stream. A heel lands in the thin edge, a ten splashes on his pant leg. He quickly moves to drier ground, shaking it off.
I tromp down the rain-made creek, kicking high. Droplets rise into trajectory equations. Gravitational constants grab hold and pull them back down. My pant legs wick thetas, rhos, and gs. They twist into the formula for capillary action, grabbing with tiny serif hooks and pulling themselves higher.
He follows at a distance, keeping to the protective shop canopies. An occasional two or nine drops on his hand, bites his finger, and slides off before he can identify it.
The gutter empties into a pond. Numbers pour in from every direction, joined by even more x's, y's, z's, thetas, phis, coefficients of friction, gravitational constants, and, the most lovely of all, pi. I dive in, swimming deep until my fingers turn pruney. Quadratic equations spontaneously appear. I replace their x's and y's with the correct values and they burst apart in joy, only to reappear in another form. Memories flood past! “Can I go ahead in my second grade workbook? This is too easy.” "Of course I can figure out how many shingles you need, dad. It's just squares and triangles." "No, mom, you can do algebra. Let me show you." "Linear algebra and vector calculus. After fifteen and a half years, our final math class!" One third, in decimal form, swims past and I laugh at its never-ending tail of threes wagging behind it.
I breach the surface. "Come in! The water's fine!" He hesitates. He pulls his jacket tighter and steps to the shallows. "Come deeper!" He bravely steps in to his calf, a bewildered look on his face. A short equation swims to him: “2-1=”. He draws two fingers, looks back to remember what to subtract, but the equation is gone, lost in the surging and roiling. Impatient with the slow progress of its new playmate, pi jumps out of the fray, coils up his leg, pulls him in. Now he'll get it! To be so lovingly embraced by such a prestigious fellow. He'll have no choice but to swim.
He sinks beneath the surface. Blunt threes and sixes bruise his skin. He tries to pull up, but sharp fours and sevens cut his hands. His wide eyes glaze over at the sight of the chaos. He opens his mouth, calls for help, and drowns.
Numbers fall from the sky like rain. I tilt my head back and open my mouth wide. Minty sevens, citrusy threes, earthy fours—each with a taste familiar and rich.
The small figure next to me squints into the sky. An eight bounces off his forehead. He pulls his hood further over his face and shivers deeper into the warmth of his parka.
The numbers splash on the streets and sidewalks and bounce up before tumbling into the flow of the gutter. The current, the jostling, all ordained, never random. One stream joins another, rushes faster. I step into the torrent and watch it separate around my legs and join again. Exactly as it should. The pull of surface tension and the friction of fluid against rough asphalt struggle against gravity and momentum. Tiny little bits stick to the asphalt, safe in the boundary layer. Inches above, their mates foam in the cavitation of the surface.
He understands the flow. He can see the movement, but the numbers are too jumbled. Do the rivulets dripping from the sidewalk add to the surge or take away from it? He stares with big brown eyes, takes a running leap, and vaults over the stream. A heel lands in the thin edge, a ten splashes on his pant leg. He quickly moves to drier ground, shaking it off.
I tromp down the rain-made creek, kicking high. Droplets rise into trajectory equations. Gravitational constants grab hold and pull them back down. My pant legs wick thetas, rhos, and gs. They twist into the formula for capillary action, grabbing with tiny serif hooks and pulling themselves higher.
He follows at a distance, keeping to the protective shop canopies. An occasional two or nine drops on his hand, bites his finger, and slides off before he can identify it.
The gutter empties into a pond. Numbers pour in from every direction, joined by even more x's, y's, z's, thetas, phis, coefficients of friction, gravitational constants, and, the most lovely of all, pi. I dive in, swimming deep until my fingers turn pruney. Quadratic equations spontaneously appear. I replace their x's and y's with the correct values and they burst apart in joy, only to reappear in another form. Memories flood past! “Can I go ahead in my second grade workbook? This is too easy.” "Of course I can figure out how many shingles you need, dad. It's just squares and triangles." "No, mom, you can do algebra. Let me show you." "Linear algebra and vector calculus. After fifteen and a half years, our final math class!" One third, in decimal form, swims past and I laugh at its never-ending tail of threes wagging behind it.
I breach the surface. "Come in! The water's fine!" He hesitates. He pulls his jacket tighter and steps to the shallows. "Come deeper!" He bravely steps in to his calf, a bewildered look on his face. A short equation swims to him: “2-1=”. He draws two fingers, looks back to remember what to subtract, but the equation is gone, lost in the surging and roiling. Impatient with the slow progress of its new playmate, pi jumps out of the fray, coils up his leg, pulls him in. Now he'll get it! To be so lovingly embraced by such a prestigious fellow. He'll have no choice but to swim.
He sinks beneath the surface. Blunt threes and sixes bruise his skin. He tries to pull up, but sharp fours and sevens cut his hands. His wide eyes glaze over at the sight of the chaos. He opens his mouth, calls for help, and drowns.