I've discovered a new affinity for the world of mathematics, at least at its most elementary level. I think I might want to change my occupation to mathematician. I started reading the Grapes of Math by Alex Bellos and plowed through a third of it before I had to return it to the library with my usual late fee. I got stuck on logarithms.
I suppose I can consult my brothers, who are world-class mathematicians, physicists, computer scientists, astronomers, and welders. They orbit the earth in homemade spaceships. They've got to be able to show a girl how to make sense of logarithms. But their intelligence supersedes my most basic understanding. It would be like Ray Dalio and Ben Bernanke trying to teach economics to a a pair of underwear. Of the three of us, I am the odd one out. If they are Sign and Cosign, I am Abednego. Or if they're Shadrack and Meshack, I'm Tangent. We are a threesome that got mixed up with some other threesome from some other analogy.
They are smart, successful, famous and wealthy, and I am a hiker and a blogger. And we know what they always say, because they, the great mythical pronoun, say it over and over again: those who can't do, teach. Those who can't teach, teach gym. Those who can't even teach gym, blog.
Early morning is the best time to go vandalism hunting. Like six a.m. All the rapists and murderers are tuckered out by that hour. It's also a great time for observing wildlife.
The other morning I was watching a rabbit. I noticed how small the rabbit head is compared to the rest of its body. It's mostly just eyeballs and a nose. And giant ears. There's not actually much to the rabbit head; it's narrow. So narrow that you can't even see it looking straight on. It's like one of those trick mirrors that makes you look like a skinny green bean and then disappear.
There can't be much going on in the rabbit head. They are probably a long way from developing a space program, but not far from developing a bipartisan political platform on which to govern each other.
I do a lot of things in the early morning hours, like go to the farmer's market on Saturday morning. It's from 8:00 to 1:00, and I take that very literally. So I'm there promptly at 8:00 when they're still setting up, and I feel like a jackass, which is normal, and I apologize and make up a story about how I have to work early so this is the only time I can come.
At 8 on a Saturday morning I've been up since 5:30, which to me is a reasonable time to wake up. I've already had my coffee, sat on my roof watching airplanes, painted my nails, cleaned my apartment, gassed up my car, and went to the ATM. And I'm wondering why everyone is so silent. It's like walking into a library full of dead people.
Here's to the few. The proud. The lonely. The morning people.
Catfish in the Mud
I went to Namibia and took a tour of Sossusvlei, where it hasn't rained in 6 years. The river is completely dried up. My guide told me that even in the six-year drought, catfish are hibernating deep down in the mud and will surface again when the rains come back and restore life to the desert. I didn't believe him at first, like I didn't believe in the mysterious fairy circles on the dunes. But now the idea of catfish in the mud has become a metaphor for the things trapped on the inside and down below that wait for the rains to give them some vigor and life. Catfish in the Mud is a pretty standard millennial blog in which I say mostly nothing in about 300 words.