I was thinking about the zero today. The zero, plain and simply also known as "O", is actually a very important figure. It was so important that the Arabs of the olden days who had taken over the other figures, 1 to 9, from the Indians (saree, of course), just by adding the zero, brought a revolution to calculating.
Nothing would be possible without the zero the way we do it today. Imagine dividing or multiplying if we were still using Roman numbers! And we certainly wouldn't have computers, the zero being one of the two essentials of the binary system. And if you need proof that the Arabs were behind it, you just need to realize that, no matter how we read or name numbers in different languages, we all write them from right to left. You don't believe me? You never write your numbers from right to left? Oh, yes, you do. At the very right, you start with units, and go further left for tens, hundreds, thousands - get the picture? And there is another proof for the Arab origin of the zero; we call figures also cypher or cipher, which relates to "sifr" in Arabic, and even today "sifr" translates as zero.
Now I have observed something even more curious about the zero, and it came up with the beginning of the so called naughties. Literally all of us (or should we say: numerally?) seemed to be irritated by abbreviating the year completely. Instead of writing '1, '5 or '9, we kept writing '01, '05 or '09 - just as if the zero would add importance to those years. And it did, obviously, as the term naughties proves, which is of course related to the zero, too.
I wonder, now that we will soon leave the first decade of this century, will we be in need of another zero? Or will the 1 be sufficient that will rule the following decade at the tens' position? Will we be able to train ourselves to write f.e. nothing but '10, '11, '12?
Monday, October 26. 2009
Beyond the Green
Marty grabbed for the bottle.
If she called again he wouldn't answer the phone. Not this time.
He took a sip and let the schnapps run down his throat. He had soon gotten used to expect the slight stinging feeling it gave him and had gotten more and aggravated when it had failed to recur. It had meant to drink more of that expensive stuff each time he was hitting the bottle.
What a strange expression that was, hitting the bottle. That was what happened to people like him, that they were hit by fate over and over again, hit hard and pitiless, and when they answered to their lot by going after some liquid courage, other people called it hitting the bottle. So much for perspective!
The last year had been such a disaster, and the constant nagging of his beloved mother, how much he came after his father, and all, didn't ease his pain a bit. Only the slight stinging did the job, when ever it recurred. Still, it could not help him come to a decision. He eventually would have to put the bottle down and think this through. What was he gonna do?
They had offered him a guard job on campus. It was more than he could ask for considering what had happened. But if he was to take that job would he be able to cope with the looks? Scornful, sullen or even threatening?
If only he had never taken the job as lecturer in the first place. But back then it had been his only chance to stay out of jail, really. After this clever man had found out what Mrs. Eels had put her only son up to he could have easily ended up behind bars. Completely different bars than the ones that sold the stinging liquid, of course.
Marty grinned. If you were hitting the bottom - another strange phrase - the only purpose in life you had left, was granting yourself a little joke now and then. Something to smile about or you could pack in right there.
Yea, the clever man and his beauty of an assistant had given him a good dressing down. He'd still been in his new suit, the one he had never been able to afford before, when the call came in that his mother had been kidnapped by one of the very two felons he had meant to hand over to the police by solving a case single-handedly. Of course, he had never solved a single thing; he had gotten all the information from his mother who being a hotline quality control operator had overheard the gangsters discussing each detail when they were on hold at the phone. It was the clever man who had figured it all out in the end and had saved his mother's life.
At least in theory the clever man had worked it all out, but then, after all, it had been him, Marty Eels himself, who had saved her from drowning by his own hand, and his mother had refrained from any nagging for a whole fortnight! So much for that.
Back then his only chance to cash in on this at least a little was to take the job as a lecturer for criminology. Since his miraculous success could hardly be exposed as cheating by the police who would have had to blame themselves for not recognising his bluffs in the first place. The college people had offered him the job, him the criminological genius, and former Detective Eels had taken it very happily. Right after handing over his licence to the officer on duty.
Of course, at the college, it had not taken them longer than a week to realise that he was nothing but a dazzler. He had driven the students off; in droves they had left his course, until the headmaster had told him that the room would be needed for other purposes.
No, they hadn't kicked him out. They had left him alone for the rest of the term, and all he could do was collecting his money, therefore now still being able to afford expensive liquor. He could have felt completely satisfied but he wasn't. For a short period of time he had been able to experience what it was like to be respected or even honoured. And being reduced to what he was, or precisely, what he wasn't, made him feel even smaller than ever before.
He looked at the bottle. With the third or fourth sip the welcome stinging had summed up to a bearable intensity. Yes! And now that he had put down the source of his relief in order to clear his mind, his very own hand, unintentionally and therefore uncontrollably, reached out for the bottle's green glass again.
"No!" It was the first time he heard his voice in months. Except maybe when he had been forced to throw a random 'yes', 'uh' or 'no' into his mother's monologues at the phone. But an intentional word had not left his lips for as long as he had been banned from that lecture room, which had been in october; now the term calendar would have shown January, if he had ever bothered to rip off its expired sheets.
The hand made another move. It looked just like his father's.
"No!" Marty shouted again, and even though he was only yelling at his hand, he quite liked the sound of his voice. There was always something you could cope with other than losing hair and putting on weight.
He painfully picked himself up looking at the bottle again that seemed to catch all the light coming in through the window giving itself some sort of a glow.
One would have had to be romantic to go for it, and that was something Marty never allowed himself to be. Not since in kindergarten nasty Milly had crushed the tiny little dandelion he had picked for her. No way was he gonna give in to that green shine of promises that the bottle send him. Welcome stinging or not, it would have meant to prove everyone right about him, especially his mother. He might be stupid, and he might be a failure, but he would not give himself up the way they expected it.
It was gonna be the guard job!
2009 © All rights reserved
If she called again he wouldn't answer the phone. Not this time.
He took a sip and let the schnapps run down his throat. He had soon gotten used to expect the slight stinging feeling it gave him and had gotten more and aggravated when it had failed to recur. It had meant to drink more of that expensive stuff each time he was hitting the bottle.
What a strange expression that was, hitting the bottle. That was what happened to people like him, that they were hit by fate over and over again, hit hard and pitiless, and when they answered to their lot by going after some liquid courage, other people called it hitting the bottle. So much for perspective!
The last year had been such a disaster, and the constant nagging of his beloved mother, how much he came after his father, and all, didn't ease his pain a bit. Only the slight stinging did the job, when ever it recurred. Still, it could not help him come to a decision. He eventually would have to put the bottle down and think this through. What was he gonna do?
They had offered him a guard job on campus. It was more than he could ask for considering what had happened. But if he was to take that job would he be able to cope with the looks? Scornful, sullen or even threatening?
If only he had never taken the job as lecturer in the first place. But back then it had been his only chance to stay out of jail, really. After this clever man had found out what Mrs. Eels had put her only son up to he could have easily ended up behind bars. Completely different bars than the ones that sold the stinging liquid, of course.
Marty grinned. If you were hitting the bottom - another strange phrase - the only purpose in life you had left, was granting yourself a little joke now and then. Something to smile about or you could pack in right there.
Yea, the clever man and his beauty of an assistant had given him a good dressing down. He'd still been in his new suit, the one he had never been able to afford before, when the call came in that his mother had been kidnapped by one of the very two felons he had meant to hand over to the police by solving a case single-handedly. Of course, he had never solved a single thing; he had gotten all the information from his mother who being a hotline quality control operator had overheard the gangsters discussing each detail when they were on hold at the phone. It was the clever man who had figured it all out in the end and had saved his mother's life.
At least in theory the clever man had worked it all out, but then, after all, it had been him, Marty Eels himself, who had saved her from drowning by his own hand, and his mother had refrained from any nagging for a whole fortnight! So much for that.
Back then his only chance to cash in on this at least a little was to take the job as a lecturer for criminology. Since his miraculous success could hardly be exposed as cheating by the police who would have had to blame themselves for not recognising his bluffs in the first place. The college people had offered him the job, him the criminological genius, and former Detective Eels had taken it very happily. Right after handing over his licence to the officer on duty.
Of course, at the college, it had not taken them longer than a week to realise that he was nothing but a dazzler. He had driven the students off; in droves they had left his course, until the headmaster had told him that the room would be needed for other purposes.
No, they hadn't kicked him out. They had left him alone for the rest of the term, and all he could do was collecting his money, therefore now still being able to afford expensive liquor. He could have felt completely satisfied but he wasn't. For a short period of time he had been able to experience what it was like to be respected or even honoured. And being reduced to what he was, or precisely, what he wasn't, made him feel even smaller than ever before.
He looked at the bottle. With the third or fourth sip the welcome stinging had summed up to a bearable intensity. Yes! And now that he had put down the source of his relief in order to clear his mind, his very own hand, unintentionally and therefore uncontrollably, reached out for the bottle's green glass again.
"No!" It was the first time he heard his voice in months. Except maybe when he had been forced to throw a random 'yes', 'uh' or 'no' into his mother's monologues at the phone. But an intentional word had not left his lips for as long as he had been banned from that lecture room, which had been in october; now the term calendar would have shown January, if he had ever bothered to rip off its expired sheets.
The hand made another move. It looked just like his father's.
"No!" Marty shouted again, and even though he was only yelling at his hand, he quite liked the sound of his voice. There was always something you could cope with other than losing hair and putting on weight.
He painfully picked himself up looking at the bottle again that seemed to catch all the light coming in through the window giving itself some sort of a glow.
One would have had to be romantic to go for it, and that was something Marty never allowed himself to be. Not since in kindergarten nasty Milly had crushed the tiny little dandelion he had picked for her. No way was he gonna give in to that green shine of promises that the bottle send him. Welcome stinging or not, it would have meant to prove everyone right about him, especially his mother. He might be stupid, and he might be a failure, but he would not give himself up the way they expected it.
It was gonna be the guard job!
2009 © All rights reserved
Sunday, October 25. 2009
My Master
With him I dealt for many years
He eased or took away my fears
Each time he saved me right before
I'd quit and break out into tears
One day again I tried his door
But no one answered anymore
My master was already gone
To fight another holy war
I was prepared to carry on
But since I'd had him for so long
It was his colour and his style
My happiness was built upon
I stayed and waited for a while
Right next to where his garbage pile
Was telling me that he had thrown
Away what I had thought worthwhile
© 2009
He eased or took away my fears
Each time he saved me right before
I'd quit and break out into tears
One day again I tried his door
But no one answered anymore
My master was already gone
To fight another holy war
I was prepared to carry on
But since I'd had him for so long
It was his colour and his style
My happiness was built upon
I stayed and waited for a while
Right next to where his garbage pile
Was telling me that he had thrown
Away what I had thought worthwhile
© 2009
Saturday, October 24. 2009
NOT UP TO SILENCE ANYMORE
Yes, I was to climb your stairs
Hence, follow all your love affairs
But I'd be rather with a man
Who's just as Irish as he cares
With no profound or secret plan
He finished off what you began
By keeping mind and common sense
Young, bright and bold like Peter Pan
You know, the letters he invents
He's using them for self-defence
By teaching you 'stair an domhain'
With all the phonemes he presents
© 2009
Hence, follow all your love affairs
But I'd be rather with a man
Who's just as Irish as he cares
With no profound or secret plan
He finished off what you began
By keeping mind and common sense
Young, bright and bold like Peter Pan
You know, the letters he invents
He's using them for self-defence
By teaching you 'stair an domhain'
With all the phonemes he presents
© 2009
(Page 1 of 7, totaling 27 entries)
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