Dear Dad
To my Father, whom I know and love for many reasons; numbers among them.
When I was small I knew
more and less.
How many and how much.
There were signs; there was sight.
They were separate.
And when I learned at first to count,
the quantities were meaningless.
Objects on the table were “One, two, three,”
my fat fingers moved across them
random, no coincidence,
independent and recognized
not atomic, not counted,
not gathered, and in no set,
“One, two, three…”
But of relevance it had none.
Eventually subitization revealed addition.
And counting began alongside
strange changes in our life.
A place called Clemson.
Where you went away to work,
walking in the mornings in black dress shoes.
You came home up a long hill,
a tiger paw at the bottom,
and We, my sister and I, came running
down the cement to jump into your arms.
That was when Daddy was home.
Cool in the late afternoon,
after playing,
after being so busy,
oh, we did not know you were gone;
Trench coat, briefcase, visage,
we missed you just as soon
as you came home,
the amnesia of childhood let us forgive.
In academic halls, floor tiles dirty white,
I’d later know them as Martin;
Books covering every square space
every inch that could be a shelf,
In awe, I came with you to your
sacred hall of tomes.
There were technical reports with orange covers,
mysterious titles; they sat in shelves
asking for investigation and I,
remember one summer
afternoons
too ignorant to know…
I did not even understand their contents
—I copied them
in a desk outside your office.
It had nothing to do with counting.
The symbols were mystic then.
My father, the magician, the wizard.
They were symbols and they could be
made to be real.
All of the pi’s and phi’s and theta’s
so lost on me, though I did not know it
I wrote them to be like you–
just like you.
When it mattered that I did real math
No counting was thorough,
and the counting of the counting
was multiplicative,
my teachers so boring and boring,
and long division
made me cry.
You explained.
You used examples
and patience, such patience.
You said that it was simple;
I trusted but felt so dumb.
I counted and I counted.
And I grew and grew and the
numbers became shifty;
the x’s and y’s had definitive structure.
For me, the son of the man who could
solve them all, and seemingly with
no effort,
there was no measure.
calculation I could never accomplish…
not like my genius father.
The sine and cosine blurred
into angles of theta that had no
basis; derivatives of textbook explanation
but no logic! No meaning!
What does it mean!? I asked.
You smiled and said, “No, just wait.”
Beyond Calculus and variables
and probability and statistics
it has grown more difficult
but now more fulfilling.
I waited for the meaning,
and now I see it.
The models… applied.
I have waited all this time to
speak to you in these f(x)
I have waited all this time to
speak to you about e^(?i) + 1 = 0
And yet in my attempt, my desperation,
like Zeno’s tortoise,
to approach you about these platonic notions,
ever closer and so far away,
I have done us both a disservice
A language I once thought only you spoke,
I learned just enough to ruin.
Late one night and drunk,
Idiot that I am, I said,
I wanted to work with you
but neophyte, I criticized you.
What a fool I am.
So many dozens of men I know
Who talk of when they knew they discovered
their father as a bar to beat, a measure
to extend beyond.
Never me, Dad.
Never me.
I only fall short so far.
It’s not over, but for today.
And I am not finished
And neither are you, I bet.
And my mistakes will not change
the fact that
When anyone asks,
whenever anyone should,
I will have one answer to the question
“Who is your hero?”
I will always say, “My father.”
Thank you, Dad.
Numbers are an answer.
You taught me that.
But also
Numbers are a patience,
Numbers are not judgmental,
Numbers do not succumb,
THIS THOUGH you may not know:
Numbers are not platonic.
We are numbers; numbers are us.
The math of the heavens
are not available.
The Real line runs through the nerves
the atoms
You and I are not random;
I once looked at the orange covers
of those technical reports
and still today
I see,
so much further,
for you.
But I can never see past
the equation I cannot understand.
You are not an equation.
I am not a deterministic system.
We are chaotic.
Never will my pride usurp
my respect for you.
I will carry on your
hopes.
Let me know them and I promise.
Let me know them and I will,
Tell me what you want,
I will do my damnedest to make it happen.
You Can’t Predict the Weather
In which Gene reveals to Shara the intensity of his passion for her and dark skies.
She leans up on his shoulder and says, “Let’s do it. You want to do it?”
“Uh… right now?” Gene has just been listening to one of his favorite sounds gifted his apartment. When storms come in from the South, they inevitably cause the oversized lid on the art deco street lamp to clunk under its own loose weight. He liked to leave the door open as the winds kicked up. Hell, he liked to leave the door open to invite storm inside; yes—for a cup of whoop-ass. That was the pleasure: open the door to the danger, let it come in. For him, the streetlamp had become a kind of novel bell; impending storm coming. She’d probably not even noticed it, he realized, her chin straining up to rest on his spine and shoulder.
“The thing is…”—how to put it—”I don’t want to fuck you while the storm is coming in…”
This is a way-bold statement for their budding relationship and he sees the surprise she can’t hide from her face. Had he said the word “fuck” in her presence yet even? He’d no idea. But her face is not marred by shock; it is genuine uncertainty he sees. He twists his neck around and smiles—nothing menacing here—and she giggles. Then he turns away from the screen door, the clunking of the street lamp, the sky split in half between bright blue and rolling gray, and wraps his arms around her. She lets him take her in and in her way, a way she hopes he notices, she presses her face against his chest and stares thoughtfully at the front moving across their little city. She does like storms that arise, too. He squeezes her and after a nervous breakthrough says, “I want to fuck you when the storm is here—when it’s banging on the windscreen, in full effect.”
She decides to play the straight man, “Oh, I see…”
He squeezes. “You know it.” He bends his head down and quiet, “You better think the storm is me.”
She leans back from him and waves her hand Scarlet before her face. “Oh goodness.”
He won’t live up to it, so he smiles too.
Shara sees the stumble and knows she must recover lust. “I’ll wait for that, you monster.” She waits, his face is creasing in a way that’s coming around, and then she adds, “You fuck me like the front of weather.” There’s a long pause of eye-looking and she adds, “I can’t predict the weather.”
