Consider Fibonacci
Jack Alwyn
"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
- James Joyce, The Dead
I asked the doorman if he knew that the apartment number was the first four digits of the Fibonacci Sequence. He nodded, and politely asked me who Fibonacci was. I told him I didn't know him personally, that he was an ancient mathematician, long dead now. He asked me why I cared about his sequence if I didn't know who he was. Then he left my boxes by the door.
It's funny to see all my possessions contained in four cardboard boxes. All my notes and equipment. There's my life, encased in mashed up trees. No furniture though. Maybe I can get some at a yard sale.
The apartment is cramped, but it's good enough. After all, this is only temporary. I'm not sure if the heater is working: I tried a few knobs and nothing happened, but they might have been the wrong ones. I was planning on keeping it pretty cold anyway.
I'm writing this blog post from the local library, since another missing amenity in the apartment is internet access. Marie and Emilie, I told your mother to give you my blog address. If she did, and you're reading this just leave a post to let me know you are there. I miss you both already. Also, you can let your mother know that I'm settling in just fine, and while it may not have all the comforts of home, the apartment does have one useful feature. There are no distractions.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteRomeo and Juliet, guest starring Jack Alwyn as Sampson
ReplyDeleteHe took long strides as he made his way to the Library. He used the Library because no one expected him to, why would such a rich famous and attractive man use a public library?
He inconspicuously entered the new shining building by barely opening the doors just enough to slide by. He quickly strode across the room to the stacks. He stopped a few feet in though when he saw that a young strong man stood in his path.
The man bit his thumb at Geoffrey.
"Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?" asked Geoffrey, horrified that one would insult him in such a manner.
"No, sir, I do but bite my thumb." The man, Sampson, sarcastically drawled.
The bright sun beat down upon the beautiful Veronan streets.
"But do you bite your thumb at ME, sir?" Abraham said, starting to get flustered.
After a brief conference with his nearby friend, Sampson said, his own anger rising to match Abrahams "No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, SIR, I do but BITE MY THUMB, SIR!"
"Do you quarrel sir?" Sampsons friend, Gregory, said politely, but with a hidden venom.
"Quarrel sir? no sir!" Abraham said, fearful of the princes wrath lest he be caught in yet another fight.
"If you do then I am for you, I serve as good a man as you." goaded Sampson.
"No better?" Abraham said, nearly laughing as he knew his master was superior.
"Well sir," Sampson started. Gregory whispered something into his ear, "Aye, Better sir!"
"You lie," spat Abraham.
"Draw if you be men," threatened Sampson, as Abraham drew his rapier and he drew his own, "Gregory, remember thy swashing blow," he cautioned his friend as he moved to fight.
I looked around the library's lobby. Why did that man just run out of here? Why was everyone staring at me? Why did I come here? Oh yeah, I was looking for that book...
Everyone stared at Geoffrey. He bowed, then hurried off to the stacks, praying that his adoring fans wouldnt follow him.
_____
Geoffrey rushed down the sidewalk. He wore some shabby cloak that made him look like an extra from Oliver Twist or the like. He slipped into the library and walked halfway across the room before he ran into some poor fellow, one Jack Alwyn by name.
Due to his raised collar, Geoffrey didn't see Jack walking towards him. Jack, gnawing his thumb as he pondered some deep pressing concern, had just gotten up from a computer and, being deep within his own thoughts, did not see the scruffy old actor.
They collided. The man almost choked on his thumb from the impact. He yanked his digit from his mouth, and began to apologize.
"oh, I so-" he began before Geoffrey interrupted him.
"Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?" he said, projecting as only an actor can, with a look of deep insult upon his face.
"What? uhh, I guess, i was just thinking, i didnt mean to-"
"But do you bite you thumb at ME, sir?" He interrupted again, getting slightly impatient.
"No, no, I didn't mean to insult-"
"Quarrel sir? no sir" He said to the empty area right next to Jack.
Jack, now thoroughly freaked out, began to edge his way around the actor in a large radius in order to get out of the door.
"No better?" he sneered at Jack.
He froze, fearful that the lunatic had caught on to his scheme.
"You lie!" he shouted, reaching towards his hip.
Jack, imagining that the man was reaching for a gun, made a break for the door.
Geoffrey froze. his arms dropped to his sides. He looked around as though completely confused. His clothes no longer hung on him comfortably, but clung to him oddly as though he had forgotten how to wear them comfortably. Suddenly, his demeanor reverted back to when he had entered.
He bowed, then rushed off to the stacks.
Its still dark out; the faintest hint of morning has yet to show itself. I've only slept for about an hour, but despite what time I fall asleep, I always manage to wake up before dawn. I have given up using an alarm clock. The noise drives me crazy, and I don't really need one anymore. The years I have spent baking bread, waking up before my neighbors have fallen asleep, taught my body when to rise, even if it takes my mind a good deal longer to become fully aware.
ReplyDeleteThe smell of the baking bread never fails to bring me to my senses, even this crappy bread that is all anyone around here will buy. The smell reminds me of my childhood home, my dad baking bread on Christmas and Easter; it brings back images of my year in Paris, walking by the Seine, eating plain baguettes, nothing obtrusive tainting their heavenly flavor. Most of all, it stirs up the images of me sitting with him, the good memories of him always crushing down on me. Occasionally someone will come in and request some real bread. However, it is usually some overly made-up woman that thinks eating a baguette will make her elegant and French, like she is on the trip she cannot afford. Occasional it is for a birthday, but not many birthdays are really celebrated around here, at least not with anything more than a few shots of wiskey and maybe a quick stop by the "antique store."
...
I need to get out of here, visit someone, anyone. I have been stuck in Maria's all day, and it stopped smelling like freshly baked bread hours ago. Now the air tastes stale, and if it wasn't for the torrential downpour outside, I would have already left. However, no weather can keep me here at this point. I need to do something, to get out, to stop sitting still. Besides, no one will come out just to buy bread in the premature darkness while the streets covered in slush; there is nothing keeping me here.
I leave out the front door, grabbing my umbrella and pushing the open sign out of the window. I feel slightly guilty closing early. What if someone does comes by? They would really have to want bread to come out in these conditions, and only to find that the store closed early...oh well. The lightning is close; it is the kind that covers the whole night sky and illuminates the buildings in the distance. I can see the distinct silhouette of Wilshire tower off to my right; it's a big building really, for around here anyways.
I walk down the now muddy alleyway, not about to make the mistake of walking by the soup kitchen again. Even though the preacher wouldn't be out on the corner in this weather, there is no reason to risk it. I passed the remnants of little Braxton's lemonade stand; a few styrofoam cups littered the ground nearby. Normally I would buy a glass of his overpriced lemonade, but of course, the kid was nowhere to be found in this whether.
"Hey! Hey Jack!" I call out. He doesn't turn his head; I suppose he doesn't hear me over the storm. He seems in a hurry to get somewhere. I mean, everyone outside in this weather is in a hurry, but he seems especially frantic. He is probably headed to the library. That's where I always see him anyways. That would explain why he is in such a rush; if he is too wet, Ms. Evans, the librarian, probably wont let him come in. She would probably think he was purposefully trying to make her job harder.
I am not really sure where I am headed yet. Moving in any direction makes me feel better, more alive and less reflective. I'm sure I'll find my way soon enough, at least, that is what I keep telling myself.
Below her lived her current interest. The information she had quietly gathered over the last year or so proved to be her only entertainment. She tended to hang a little closer to the broken doorknobs of tenants with domestic problems or loud phone voices. But she had never heard anything about him, nor from him. She broke into his apartment one day and broke his heat, hoping he would complain to her boss. She stole the "2" from his apartment number, one of his apparent fascinations (1123?), expecting him to request her. He never did. She pressed her ear up to his door tonight, but heard no noises from within.
ReplyDelete9:09 AM
ReplyDeleteThere's a man who's just come in. He's muttering to himself.
9:12 AM
He sounds ill.
9:15 AM
I think I'll get behind the counter and make sure the little gate to get there is nice and secure.
9:17 AM
I've locked the little deadbolt on the swinging gate and stacked a bunch of books on the counter so I can sit behind them. I also have the spray gun with the cockroach poison with me.
9:20 AM
Not that the man is doing anything wrong...
9:24 AM
No, never mind, he's just accosted a young man who was on the computers. I can't stand the people that come in here to just use the computers. This is a library. Books live here. Computers are like clockwork zombies compared to books. These young people, always checking their e-mail and blogging constantly about their pointless lives; I will never understand it.
9:25 AM
Oh, the young man's run out. The mumbling man just ran and hid in the stacks. How odd.
9:30 AM
Is he reciting Shakespeare?
9:32 AM
Definitely Shakespeare.
9:35 AM
I guess I'll have to deal with him; two people have already complained to me about him, and I can't be having these constant, selfish interruptions. I'd best take the cockroach spray with me.
"Excuse me, hello sir?" I'm not quite sure if he can hear me. Perhaps he is deaf. Or maybe he's only pretending to be deaf? How rude. Or maybe he's foreign. "HEL-LO?" When in doubt, speak real slow and loud. Well, he's looking at me now, at least.
"DO... YOU..." --I'm pointing at him, just to make sure he knows what 'you' means-- "NEED HEY-YULP?"
9:38 AM
Apparently he doesn't need help, he's run off and hidden behind a shelf.
9:40 AM
I've decided to ignore the man until he decides to say something sensible.
9:41 AM
But I still have the cockroach spray in easy reach.
9:42 AM
Frightened in my own library. Well, the public library that is practically mine. I'm here all the time.
9:45 AM
During work hours, at least.
9:47 AM
I shouldn't be forced to hide behind the counter in a library. Libraries should be peaceful and--
"QUIET!" Huh. Some kid tried to play music on the computer. Try again, you technological little twerp, and I'll practice my umbrella-savaging on you.
9:50 AM
I shall write to the mayor and tell him that there ought to be a background screening on people before they're allowed in my library.