21 September 98
I am in a perfectly vile mood. This afternoon I worked on the
finishing up the Journal entry for the 17th. I didn't think there
was much left to do, but-- next thing I knew it was six o'clock and
I had missed closing up the stand with Peter. So I shut down the
computer and decided to do some errands. I took my books back to
the library and told them I wouldn't be in tomorrow because I have
to drive Ma to the Eye Guy. Then I went over to Ma's and snapped at
her for a while, then I drove her over to the Pharmacy. We poked
around in there for a bit, looking at the Halloween stuff and
cosmetics and things, but it didn't help. I was still in a vile
mood. Even more so when Ma started asking me what color I was
going to do my hair next. I don't know. I liked the green, and
I'm ticked that I can't have it green permanently. Grrrrrrr!
I dropped Ma at her house and came back here and went back to work.
The mathematical observations which came so trippingly from my waking brain on the 17th, have proved annoyingly difficult to transfer into a Journal entry. The observations themselves are not the problem, nor does the problem lie in the creation of the illustrations I felt they required, nor the technical requirements of rendering formulas in HTML. The problem is in me, in my lack of mental clarity. Theorems, proofs, Pythagoras, Euclid, Diophantus, Fermat, Descartes, Euler, and heaven knows what or who else-- facts once so sharp and clear in my mind are shrouded now in thick mists, hidden and distorted-- interesting and even inspiring on a creative level, but hardly distinct or recognizable as factual reality. If I had to paint what I remember of facts, the painting would very much resemble one of Monet's foggiest mornings on the river:
There is one small consolation available to me. Monet's impressions of his subjects are easily recognizable. In Art, the underlying technical expertise, the underlying knowledge of the subject, does show through, even though it is never clearly stated.
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