Math nerds

The Scots are in Toon for a spot of fitba. I haven’t seen so much tartan in a while and now we’re festooned with it. Preamble to the day’s matter. It starts with a joke discovered while prepping for a corporate gig.

There are 10 kinds of people in the world, those who understand binary math, and those who don’t.

This post then divides the world into 2 types:

those who do math or numbers, and

those who don’t.

Basta!

Zo gezegd, zo ge-dikkie-daan. The Dutch are good with numbers.

Math as a tool is as old and unique to us humans as long as there have been humans to wield tools. Just as words in all their combinatorial genius, end up as abstract one time utterances. Euphonic, modulated phrases releasing intoxicating prophecies, a fleeting whiff of paradise or hell.

So numbers and their counterparts, geometry and algebra, create an abstract alphabet for excessively symbolic proofs. A language where any finite-infinite definition is simultaneous, and parabolic to boot.

More fiction has been written by, for and about science, than anything religion or literature ever produced. Proof as Truth, applied and pure.

And there have always been those attracted to, and thus abstracted by, numbers. I’m not one, though am one, and therefore can’t be none. Then in the number let me pass untold.

The most basic transactions in society rely on properties of numbers. Our perceptions are deceptive when guessing the actual weight, measure, height, distance, time and cost. Discrepancies between numbers are the difference between profit and loss.

Once again coming from a glove-maker’s family an inherent awareness of these costs and supplies infused our bard’s thinking. But se defendo, i don’t need to defend him, let him fight his own battles.

Math has it’s own heroes. Fermat and Riemann are prime examples.

Mathematicians, by definition can’t be intellectually sluggish. I imagine a proof requires many levels of abstraction and burns many brain cells. My comprehension of differential calculus or algebraic aneurysms is nihil. But Math has driven as many people mad as ever the Arts did. So many beautiful minds wasted. To top it off here’s theatrical proof.

Shakespeare could count presumably, if only to tot up his profits from his various efforts at husbandry. I jest because my Shakespeare loved words as Fermat his theorems. Math as a cornerstone or bedrock of science happened after Shakesez death.

But his Age was shaped by connections to Pythagoras and Euclid, though neither was taught at Stratford Grammar School. He would been taught to count in his head by his father, who had the Glove stand under the Market cross. The rumour also goes that his dad and himself loaned money at interest.

Handy for later in London at the Theatre with his reported franchise, holding horses for the richer punters inside. Good tips I would imagine. I once worked at a popular nightclub running the coat-stand, filling in for a month and was crap at it, but still made a killing. If the myth is true, Shakes did it for years and then franchised it out.

Why not take myth as fact, since the detractors take facts and make myths?

Shakes is taking a right cobbing of myth-making proportions at the moment anyway from his own side. Taking one for the team i assume.

‘his tender heir might bear his memory” I might say to all the retouching fuss that’s happening.

But open your eyes to the following sonnet and behold the reveal showing the debt he owed to artists.

A cornerstone of perspective seeing how sonnets were perceived to be books, looks and paintings.

Q24

MIne eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d,
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart,
My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,
And perspective it is best Painter’s art.

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

(Notice the oft amended lack of punctuation at the end of the 12th line)?

This sonnet portrays my Shakespeare, who lives in my heart and is a metaphor for living an internal and aware life. For eternity if needs be. A final thought from the final couplet of the previous sonnet about an actor.

O learn to read what silent love hath writ,
To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

All is one.
Are you one too?