Just Do the Thing You Said You Would (note to self)

Let me tell you what I’ve been up to since I decided I should blog 500 words a day as a warm-up for working on my book:

1. I have started taking a language course on Duolingo. Each day I spend at least 45 minutes practicing to speak Zulu. I’ve been learning to speak Zulu’s sister language, Xhosa, since I moved back to Cape Town a year ago. Unfortunately, I have not found enough free online resources to learn it without spending money. I figured that learning Zulu via Duolingo will help me with Xhosa, and you know what? It’s been working! I’m lucky I have plenty of opportunity to practice. Did this endeavour have to start right at the time I’m supposed to be writing? Of course it did.

2. I’m designing the items I’m adding to my winter wardrobe this year. I do not enjoy buying clothes. Not because I don’t like to wear beautiful clothing, but because I just don’t like what’s in the shops. So, every season, I design and sew a few items to add to my wardrobe. For this summer I made two pairs of shorts, a halter neck dress, a strappy beach dress and a cheongsam. Isn’t now, when I’m meant to be blogging, the perfect time to think of what I’m going to sew to keep me warm in winter? Of course it is. 

3. As a maths tutor, I have a fascination with numbers. I am intrigued by the beauty of maths in nature – the ratios, the symmetry, the patterns. I’ve recently developed an interest in the history of maths, particularly in the ancient expression of units and value. Would now, when I’m supposed to be blogging, be the best time to go down the rabbit-hole of the use of the ancient Egyptian number system? Absolutely!

This is not even a complete list. There are capsicum seeds that need planting, and I might as well try and propagate the macadamia seed I’ve been avoiding planting, because I’m scared it might not grow. And my scarf drawer is a jumble again, it needs sorting out too.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? I teeter a tightrope, tipping between disappointment at not doing what I set out to do and satisfaction with the other things I’m doing. At some point (like now) I know that the imbalance will increase and the threat of falling into my safety net of imposter syndrome will become a reality. What usually happens then is, I waste time doing some top-quality wallowing, then pick myself back up again, and start all over. 

I had hoped this time would be different. That I’d just get on with what I promised myself I’d do. I am eternal optimist, so I know that even if I don’t succeed with getting myself in the habit of writing daily right at this moment, whatever I’ve learned from the mistakes I make now will help me do it better next time round.

But maybe, just maybe, I should swap out the unsteadiness of the tightrope for the consistency of a good old balancing beam that’s no more than thirty centimetres off the ground. 

Other

Isosceles and Asymptote stared at the pyramid in the middle of the sorting floor. It was a jumble of the week’s discarded numbers, waiting to be categorised. Each day, the numbers rejected by the calculators would be collected by the model function, Ellipsoid, and added to the pyramidic pile. Then two members of the operations team would sort them from the pyramid into giant cubes. 

Sighing, Isosceles walked around the pyramid, counting the number of sides.

“Ellipsoid’s been taking the piss lately. An icosagonal pyramid? Really?”

“You know it’s because she’s angry that the higher-ups won’t let her collect the numbers in cones,” replied Asymptote. “It’s a form of protest.”

“What’s their problem with circles anyway?” asked Isosceles. “Is the rumour true, that they’re scared of them?”

“Shhhh!” Asymptote hissed. Ignoring the ‘No Spheres Allowed’ sign at the door, he glanced around the room to make sure no-one had heard. 

“It looks like she used the 20,21,29 Pythag combo,” said Isosceles as his gaze sought the tip of the pyramid, which almost touched the ceiling. “Nice work.”

Asymptote opened the log book to sign in and check for notes. An official letter from the higher-ups was taped to the front page:

“Please note that with immediate effect, whole numbers, rational numbers, imaginary numbers and complex numbers will go into a single category and as such will be sorted into one cube.”

“Again? You see, I told you they have a problem with circles. I’m sure they keep swapping out the whole numbers because their series starts with zero,” said Isosceles. He read the rest of the note. “And we have to come up with a name for them. Great.”

“I’ll re-organise and name the new cube,” Asymptote said quickly, to avoid giving comment on the latest reshuffle.  

Isosceles, careful not to be stabbed by negative numbers or the pointy parts of roots, clambered two thirds to the top of the pyramid and settled down to start sorting. 

Below, Asymptote had removed three of the nine category cubes, and was trying to decide what to label the one that would now house the new group.

“Rational, imaginary, complex, whole,” he wrote down on a sheet of paper. What could he do to create a new word for them?  

“Maybe we should call them Ricow numbers. Or Wimcor. What do you think?” he shouted up to Isosceles, who didn’t hear the anguish in his colleague’s voice. He was struggling to untangle a pi from a square root.

“Crioms, carroms, pants. What does it matter?” he replied.

“Cowhrim numbers? No. Ricowhi. That could work.” Poor Asymptote. He was pacing, nervous that he’d volunteered for this task. There’d be trouble if the higher-ups were not happy with his choice of wording. 

“Isosceles, stop being obtuse and tell me what to call them! None of the names I’m coming up with sound right, and they don’t have any meaning. I need more time!”

Isosceles looked down at Asymptote and realised his distress. 

“There is no category. You can name all the different permutations you want, and you’ll come close, but you’ll never reach the curve. They know what they want, but they’re not allowed to say it. So, we have to.”

“What?” Asymptote looked confused.

“We have to name them Other.” 

What Else Have We Given Up?

I have a vivid memory of the first time I saw the night sky in all its natural splendour. I was about ten years old, and my baby sister and I had gone with my dad to pick up my grandmother who had been visiting one of her sisters in rural Namaqualand. We were staying the night, resting for the six-hour long journey we’d be making back to Cape Town the next day. Aunty Mary Anne’s house was quite literally in the middle of nowhere. A dirt road tracked its way to her doorstep, and the house was lit with oil lamps and warmed with a fireplace in the kitchen. 

Namaqualand is known for its extensive, lush fields of flowers, and for days before we embarked on the trip, my sister and I spoke in excitement about seeing the carpets of multi-coloured blooms. Sadly, spring was over and by the time we arrived and just a few little patches of the famed daisies remained. 

My dismay at the lack of flowers was overshadowed a few moments after we arrived at Aunty Mary Anne’s house. In its quaintness it lacked a modern convenience that made me more than a little nervous. It had no toilet inside, and nature calls had to be taken in the outhouse, a few metres from the back door. The thought of using the hokkie during the day was scary enough. The outside was so immediate. A rickety wooden door stood between me with my pants down and the rest of the world. The chirping and buzzing of insects going about their business, the woosh of wings of birds flying by, seemed to be happening right inside the little wooden cabin with me. 

But worse than that was the prospect of needing the toilet at night when everyone was asleep. So, of course my bladder woke me up in the dead of night. I woke my sister up, asking her to accompany me because I was scared. She was so much braver than I and got up, not even flinching at my request. I followed her outside.   

A few steps out, my sister gasped. My stomach clenched with fear. She was pointing at the sky, unable to speak. I looked up. We were standing in a dome of the biggest and brightest stars I’d ever seen. Slowly, we twirled and took it all in, my need for a wee momentarily forgotten. From what seemed like the edge of the earth, up, up, up, and behind us back to the other edge of the earth, all we saw was stars. It seemed unbelievable that I couldn’t reach out and pick one.

My body reminded me why we were outside in the first place, and I ran to the outhouse, leaving my sister to stare at the enchanted sky. I regret rushing her back inside as soon as I was done and wish we’d taken more time to savour the magical sight.

What a pity that seeing the night sky in all its beauty is only possible when we travel to somewhere remote and untainted by the ‘progress’ of modern life. What else have we given up in favour of supposed advancement?