Sunday 11 June, 2006-06-11
Sunday. Sunny, just as its name. Out of window are full of vibrant colours, leaves shinning, stone walls glowing. Above a chimney a couple of birds are singing cheerfully. The atmosphere is like a hospitalised Scottish dance, inviting me to join. I put on my new floral dress, stylish, elegant but not trendy, my style. I bought it a month ago before I went to Copenhagen but I could not find a chance to wear it since. In Scotland summer is as shy as a Muslin virgin, disappearing behind the veil before you can catch her face. Today is a rare chance. I shouldn't miss it. I look down the dress. The cloth is very smooth like silk but not silk. It fits gently along my body like water, drawing a nice of curve. I love it. I put a piece of chicken cushion inside the left side of the bra to make up the slightly asymmetry of my breast. We were not borne perfectly. Nothing wrong is with some remedies.
I walk out my flat. The breeze blows my dress, creating elegant waves. I wish that I will come across him. Since this inspiring mathematician left, I feel that my steps are floating like walking on the moon. My energy is scattered. It can not find a centre.
I am walking towards the grand lounge of this city, princess garden. It is probably the greatest lounge in the world. It is a volley in the heart of the city, located between the Edinburgh castle and the busiest street Princes Street. The grass is green and soft, a perfect bed. As long as it is sunny, there will not be short of people sharing this grand bed. Lying on this bed, you can see the magnificent castle standing in the front of you on the cliff of castle hill. The rocks are clear-cut like blocks and blocks muscles. The castle is integrated into the cliff so well as if it is just an extension, stressing the finishing line. One the other side, the energy from shops, cars at the Princes Street passes through rows of trees, rendering the volley a feeling of prosperousness. It is a sociable lounge but you can also easily find a private space. It is secular but also artistic, suitable for a lonely and dreamy foreigner like me.
I sit down beside a path on the edge of the valley. Here I can have a broad view of the valley, watching the diverse city life in this grand lounge. A lonely mind prefers observing rather than being observed. But very soon my attention is drawn by the castle. It has character. It reminds me Michalanchilo's sculpture, David. I encountered it in London. Looking up at the sculpture, my heart was stricken by awe. The mussels on shoulder, breast, hip, and legs even each finger is packed with energy, strength. On the surface ran determined lines of veins. Edinburgh castle is like a man, a strong man with a brave heart. Or I want such a man standing by me.
I took out of the teaching note of my admirable mathematician. Thinking. The ability of thinking. He is the inspiration of thinking. I grew up in a standardised academic family. I had "good" education. I have ever diligently done piles of exercises in school and university. But when I was over 30, I learn, with astonishment and sadness, that I lack of the ability of thinking, I am even not sure I can think at all, I can only memorizing facts. I won't accept it as a fact accompanying me with my whole life. I deeply believe that the ability of thinking is innate, for everyone. I want to regain it.
I read his teaching note on complex number. The note starts from a pair of number, and then leads to the notion of complex number, and afterwards naturally formulates the manipulation of complex number. Once again, I admire the clarity of his logic. Once again, I realise my knowledge about complex number was gained from memorizing. Thinking is pleasure, memorizing is boring. I happily follow his logic steps, relearning complex numbers. Ha ha. The exponential function for complex number is deduced from Taylor's series. I have been using it often and I always feel strange why a specific number can be related to trigonometry. Now I get it. With the second thought, I still feel weird. How can such a coincidence happen? Who and how found such a special number? Mathematics, a wonderful human system, a magic mirror of nature. I want to learn more. The other day I bought a mathematical handbook CRC standard mathematical tables and formulae. I read a bit, not much. It is interesting. If only my mathematician were beside me! I would carry a stool gazing at him and listening, just like a child listening a wonderful adventurous story.
But he has gone, and my energy is scattered. He is brilliant, and I am not good at anything. I doom not to amount to anything because I am not disciplined and organized, just like the clouds floating above. I lie down watching the clouds. They are very thick and have shining edges, projecting patches of shadows here and there, now and then. They are flying angles. I am just redundancy in the world, from the very beginning of my life. I was a redundant baby outside the family control policy at that time. I hope I had never been borne.
A patch of cloud moves away its shadow. A beam of sun light spots on me, very bright. I put my elbow on the forehead to shun the light. My wrist lace touches my skull, a skull not very different from those in museums. A funny idea pop up to my mind, designing a set of jewels which is formed by a series of mathematical puzzles. In this way a woman probably can catch a mathematician's mind for a longer spell. I have a funny picture in my head. He sits right opposite to me, showing great interest in my stories, but the eyes can not move away from my magic wrist lace. One hour passes, two hours. I observe his funny expressions, laughing secretly. Deep down my ego feels pain and wants to shout, looking at this mind, so rich, so beautiful, and stupid man. I know the voice is from vanity. "A certain controlled amount of dark side of human nature is essential to the functioning of society." I read this sentence somewhere. So it is fine to be vain to some degree. I took out a pen and my notebook, starting design a hand lace. A modified sudoku or like Da Vinci code? I turn around, lying on my stomach and starting to sketched randomly.
A big seagull lands on a flat slate right besides me. It lifts its head, stretches its neck, and forwards its breast, like a proud ballet dancer. Passing its neck and looking into a far distance, I see a group of people walking along the path. They are so small as if they would be carried by the seagull's beak. Of course my brain is not so easily cheated by pure vision. It analyses and calculates all the time, and then output a logical mental picture. Is a mental picture always truer than the original one? What is illusion, fantasy? Where do they come from?
The sound of Scottish pipe passes through traffic noise and blend with high pitch songs of birds on trees. The seagull is quiet. But its fellows make loud and rough sounds in the air. Some birds know melody, some don't. Seagulls belong to the latter. Nothing should be complained. They are borne with this. What was I borne with? What can I modify and what I can't?
An old man sitting on a chair along the path says hello to me. His expression tells me that he says to a cheap chicken. I am not. I return a disgraceful look to him. Wisdom doesn't always grow with age, I murmur in my mind.
It is already 7 o'clock, the clock on the tower of the church nearby tells. I have to go back and work on my troubled PhD. I stand up, dirting away grasses stick to my legs. My legs are numb. I stagger two steps. My leg can't feel anything. I lean on a steel bar of the fence. The old man shouts at me: are you Ok? His face hangs a cheap smile. I rest for a second. The feeling comes back to my legs. I straighten my back and walk away. A breeze blows my dress, making a nice wave.
