A mathematician, like a painter or poet, is a maker of patterns. If his patterns are more permanent than theirs, it is because they are made with ideas.

• G. H. Hardy

I had the notion early in life to be a physicist. My appreciation for the concepts of mathematics remain though my interests have changed. They have given me an opportunity to express clearly the foundations of my experience. What I love about poetry could be summed up by the discovery of reading a poem by oneself or another.

Like a puzzle, working out the bits of sound or scanning over the text, the closer I get to a finished picture brings excitement. The joy of completion is a great motivator. What is better I think is the cusp of uncertainty. Close to the end of a story there is at times a reversal. The villain gets the upper hand, the protagonist blunders, et cetera. The contrast puts an outline on the text, or in this case the painting. Where the boundaries were unclear, now focus can clearly demarcate between what is on one side of a line and what is on the other. This makes the image make sense. I am confused when I am given a work of art without context. My limited knowledge of the arts and desire for appreciation of artists necessarily means I am often confused. This is okay, I have learned to manage my expectations.

Math gives the tools to describe the line in such a way that I can be satisfied. When I read older works of mathematics, the simpler parts with which modern education enlightens us often obscures the difficulty ancient thinkers went through to discover the invisible rules we are taught. I want to communicate with everyone, but the discontent which comes and goes necessitates an unappealing form. Algebra is beautiful, it is like italic calligraphy. I can follow the flow, direction and appreciate the novelty of numbers when there are signs between them. This is nice to look at, I prefer it to numbers in a sequence. Large numbers which are small numbers one after the other in a line are hard to parse. I need something to break it up into smaller parts. I frequently employ spaces and commas to give me a guide to look to when I see a large number. What is great about algebra is like a painting, the boundary is an inseparable part of the medium. I have a reliable guide to look forward to which quells my anxiety.

Poetry in the way I enjoy it obscures this guide. It creates an unreliable narrative. The rules are simple, this means I appreciate a poem immediately. It is only with subsequent readings or looking to another persons experience that I can find the hidden rules. The new rules break the first rules I enjoyed. In addition to the confusion mentioned before, what I find is frustration. The piece of art I loved has been wrought from my head without my consent. Why would anyone ever do this? Then I am hit with ice, my anger is cooled and I am more thankful than ever towards the poem.

I create poems to describe the world in metre. I do not yet know what metre is, I believe it is related to the beat of a drum. The one in our bodies, in our ears and in the orchestra. I appreciate visual art to understand the physical world. I use mathematics to bridge the two. I conceptualize with math to simplify my experience. The funny benefit is the universal understanding which somehow appears when a formula is written. I can read a numbered list of rules from a thousand years ago, comfortable that I have connected with another human, certain that I was given a tool to explore nature.

Physics is the study of nature, I am prepared by our ancestors in an obscure way. It is the way that works for my peculiar mind, one which has served me with difficulty. Though I will not make any discoveries in mathematics or physics, I have taken the wisdom it generates with myself and I will to spread it to the world.

P.S. I initially wrote this poem at the start to set the mood for my writing.

I decided to make it a footnote in part because I am unsatisfied with the simple structure and rhyme. This is unfortunate but a better alternative to hiding it in my notes as I often do with my collected works.

A7 A7 B6 B(3)A7 B6

For a time there was struggle | 7
I had hoped all the trouble | 7
Might cast itself away | 6
But I stayed in a bubble | 7
Isolated and gray | 6

To continue to deny
The everlasting kind, he
Forgot where he came from
Hoping some day, finally
Poppy fields could sprout, stay

The Arabian blunder
Al guhl maintained the wonder
Ignore the sedation
I can’t run any further
No more time, no more fun