TOO MUCH COVID TIME ON MY HANDS

 It is said that there are two universal languages in this world: music and mathematics. I can do neither. I can’t read a note of music – all those lines and dots and artistic symbols. I know they tell a story but I can’t read it. I am confined to just listen; that’s why I play the radio, not the piano or guitar.

 It’s even worse with math. There was no one slower at speed math quizzes in Grade one. There was no one more devastated in Grade three when we were told we were about to up our game and meet multiplication and division. And I can scarcely find words to describe my dismay the first day of Mr. Johnson’s algebra class – as if working with numbers wasn’t bad enough! Now they wanted to throw random letters into the mix. 

 The moment I heard tell of a thing called calculus where what I had learned in Grade one – that 2 plus 2 equals 4 – wasn’t necessarily true, I quit school, got married and raised children. You know; took the easy way out.

 It’s strange how things come back at you though. All this Covid alone time has got me contemplating things like the meaning of life, the insanity of U.S. politics, and the space/time continuum, to name a few unknowables. This mind journey seems to have jostled some long unused brain cells into activity.

 

It was probably 1970 when Mr. Johnson began his quest to teach me algebra, something I was certain I would never use again in my life. Karma, of course, has a very long memory and these past few days I’ve been trying to come up with the terms he tried to plant in my memory banks. According to him the language of algebra provided a way to express mathematical ideas in the same way we used English to tell stories. Obviously I prefer writing stories to anything to do with numbers so I ask you, why am I trying to recall algebra terms in 2020? And what on earth am I going to do with them if they do come back to me? 

 I think it started one day when I was trying to describe how this prolonged Covid tourniquet on our lives felt. Something like: “It’s just one long constant. What we need is more variables.” (Well, actually, I would have used the word ‘variety’, but it means the same thing). No doubt it was the use of the words ‘constant’ and ‘variable’ in such close proximity that stirred the algebra class memories. From that point on it became a challenge to see what else I could unearth from those dusty memory files. What else had Mr. Johnson managed to get through my math fog? Turns out not much: I had to ask Google to shine some light on the rest.

 Apparently ‘variable’ is an algebraic term but it doesn’t mean variety, it means an unknown – those nasty little ‘x’s and ‘y’s that really represent a question mark. A ‘constant’ on the other hand, are numbers that we do know, unless of course they are right beside a variable in which case they become known as ‘coefficients’. My former distrust of algebra instantly re-gelled.

 There were other terms too: monomial, binominal, trinomial, and polynomial – all sounding like some kind of sketchy living arrangements if you ask me.

 The one word that felt like I had hit pay dirt with though, was ‘exponent’. Now here was a term that did indeed seem useful in expressing life with Covid. An exponent is when they put that tiny little number at the top right hand of either a constant or a variable. It expresses how many times you have to multiply the number or letter by itself to get the value it represents. And although I do grasp this concept and could even articulate it on paper, don’t go getting the crazy idea I will ever use this knowledge in my daily life. I do concede that rocket scientists may feel differently. 

 On the other hand, the language of algebra has given me a way of expressing the Covid Effect – a term I have just coined. It is a way of describing how our world has been altered since Covid came along. Remember the regular level of frustration back in the old days at not having anywhere to go? That was just plain old-fashioned frustration. In 2020 we are faced with this same frustration, but now we can’t go anywhere. No shopping, no leisurely, luxurious restaurant dinners, no tropical holidays or even weekend getaways – this is frustration to the power of, oh I don’t know, maybe 10? 

 Likewise, it can describe stupidity ... you know, toilet paper panic with the exponent of at least 7. 

 Or planting your first, or the biggest, garden you’ve ever planted because of food insecurity – something you’ve never experienced before but reached an exponent of 5 by May.

 I sure hope Mr. Johnson is proud of me, unearthing all these terms after so many years; and I was so sure I’d never have a use for it! I wonder if I can come up with a few chemistry or physics principles too? You know: and put Mrs Mitten in shock.

FANCY SCHMANCY If you could see me now! I sit in a pretty, tidy, organized office the likes of which this place has never known before. What started out with the solitary job of changing the flooring in this room but ramped up to it-could-use-a-coat-of-paint-too-while-we’re-at-it kind of adventure, finally morphing into an all out makeover with beautiful new office furniture and organizers, compliments of my two daughters who did their Christmas giving early this year. I surmise that the cramped space and towering clutter that I normally work in got to them, and my desire to get rid of filthy carpeting was their chance to redo the whole room. I appreciate the gesture, truly I do, but I have serious trepidation that my personal Muse might actually be powered by clutter. What then girls? What if I can’t write with a clear desk? What then? I enjoy sitting here, though. The walls are a muted yellow that amplifies the light from the north-facing window and sets off the dark wood of the furniture. The floor looks and feels clean – I’m sure it’s been a decade since that could be said. The few papers that are out at the moment have a place to go back to, the pens are in a pen holder, the scissors and stapler in another, note pads in a third. The most valuable book on the farm, the one I call my ‘Sh*t I’ll Never Remember Book’ stands at the ready to tell me what my Wayfair password is. It used to take me a five minute search to locate that sucker. Mind you, it is so scribbled up that it still takes me so long to find the right page that the webpage shuts itself down before I get back to the buying business. Sometimes I think I should copy all that info out nice and clear, and then I think that would be too easy for anyone who wanted my secret information. The way it is now, it’s pretty much written in code. Better to leave it that way. In a way this is an example of clutter working for me, not against me. It remains to be seen if this clutterless environment will inspire me to get more done. So far I have managed a couple emails – but they had a deadline. I usually do okay if I have a deadline. And while I’m waiting for replies to those communications I’ve spent a few minutes scrolling through Facebook and played a game or two of Mah-jong ... that’s totally standard office activity for me, too. That’s a good sign. And, I am catching up this poor neglected blog. I tell you, this past month with my computer in another room and unconnected to the Mother Interweb, life has been very detached. Typing on an iPad screen is not optimum, I’m so glad to be back. I guess that’s a good sign, as well. I have my Christmas letter nearly written – that’s on course with other years. I’m working on the local Tourism update for the Provincial Tourism guide for 2021; another annual project on track. Although there was near record turnout for the RM election for Reeve last week I was not the winner. Part of me is still dealing with disappointment, but another part has already moved on. I have this book I’m going to write. This will be the real test. I seem to be able to manage short term tasks in a non-clutter environment, but what about a whole book? Maybe I need scraps of paper scribbled with ideas for plot lines or character flaws? I defiantly require my name and age index to keep my minor characters straight. And how many times have I worked out the timeline to make people fit their history? You have no idea how tricky fiction is until you start writing it! Thus are my worries. My hope is that my Muse and I can cope in this pretty, tidy office until either we get used to it, or just like the Charlie Brown character Pigpen, the clutter follows me around and settles where ever I am. Give me a month and we’ll see if I just end up in a classier case of clutter.