In school, mathematics was a nightmare of a subject for me, with the paranoia of miscalculation and scribbling away in rough columns incessantly. Not that I was terrible at it, but it felt terrible. I suppose I can chalk that up to my terrifying and mean math teachers. Who asks sixth grade kids to calculate their answer up to three digits anyway, right?
I never thought math would inspire me but statistics has changed my mind. Cutting out a few sheets of old notes and letting some free writing rein turned into a full two pages in the old art journal and it’s like mixing something I love with something I’m not too fond of.
In case the writing isn’t too clear, the free verse writing goes like this…
I did the math and I don’t count
Asymptotic is the curve and I lie within that unknown, incalculable area.
If outliers are not served by mean, median and mode, what good is it, you tell me?
For average is not an achievement but is represented for all its worth nonetheless.
I’m a standard deviate.
My values 0,1,2,25,61,72 cannot be roofed below a meager root
…cannot be reduced to a decimal approximation.
Because how can you count all the way up till infinity?
You can’t.
So I’m just a misrepresented out-of the box curve statistic
And that’s all right with me.
Your calculations never ceased to bore me anyway.
Keep counting away. Keep notching the tally.
I won’t be there.
The Tea-Infused Typewriter 