[untitled]

thoughts on mathematics

    There is a man who sits beneath a wise old apple tree, his back resting against its sturdy weight. The man holds in one hand a round, red orb that will spill juice down his chin should he bite into it. He has not now bitten into it, and so it remains a perfect orb, an example of what it is. And in his other hand he holds a different round, red orb, and he looks back from one to the other. He could bite into either of the two red, juicy orbs. They have this in common. The orbs will both remain unbitten should he choose not to eat them.
    But then he takes a small bite out of one. It reveals the juicy center within, bleeding its clear nectar down the finger holding it in front of him. The man looks on the two apples. They are so separate now, so unlike each other. They are still, however, part of the great pattern. Each of these small, red orbs that is alike forms a group of small, red orbs which are alike. They could be a grouping as all things could be.
    The man takes a basket to that same apple tree the next day, and takes seven apples with him back to his cottage, where he puts them down near the door and starts a fire. The fire blazes with orange light, and with heat that holds no color. He places the basket on a table and places all seven orbs in a line. He looks upon each one in turn. They all could be described as a small, juicy apple. Each is different, showing bruises in different places, a differently curved stem from where it had tumbled from the branches, each separate from the others. These are not a single apple, but more. And so he gives each in the line a name, though he is not naming the apples. He allows the apples the choice to name themselves, but to allow himself better understand them, he names their pattern. This pattern is necessary, as it allows him to separate the individual from identical pieces. Each apple is separate from the next apple, even if they all grew from seeds and water. Each apple is a separate entity.
    He turns to the fire, looking deep into its flames which lick the corners of the hearth. Fire is a source of warmth, but not only warmth. It emits beautiful light, dancing in its colors. He can see himself in the fire, even though he is not burning.
    He thinks about the pattern of the apples. Each number a separate entity, existing only within his mind. He toys with them, bending them to his will. These patterns he sees and records, these thoughts that ache inside him with nowhere external to escape to, all of them crowd his mind. The world becomes a puzzle, tiny pieces found in groupings of fruit, baskets of them. They become the patterns of his mind, like a checkerboard or a knitted blanket. Each answer leads to another discovery, his mind sorting them into beautiful solutions. Beautiful solutions cloud his mind.
    He thinks, if the patterns are all that exist, what is the world? Does the world exist inside these patterns, do these patterns make up the world? And no answer could be found in his weary thoughts.
    The man goes down to the old apple tree with an axe and hacks away at it. He cannot hear its screeching voice, calling out to him. The man goes home that night and sticks both hands in the fire.
    The tree lies dead on the grass, and seeds it is pregnant with grow ten new apple trees all around. They slowly multiply and build a forest around the mans house. He ages, the fires growing tense inside his cabin, he spends his time knitting a blanket to cover his legs and keep himself warm.
    One day, he goes out into the green and open, and plucks a few apples from a nearby tree. He takes them inside and examines them. Taking a bite from one, he examines the rest. None of the other apples have the marks of his teeth, no others spill clear juice down their sides. Each is a separate entity, individual as each piece of coarse, stringy wool hanging over his knobby knees is individual. The patterns haven’t left his mind, don’t leave the world, because each are connected.