Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind – Page 15

An Interview with Buford Lister

Hannah looked Sid squarely in the eye as she put her phone with the newly purchased unicorn case into her messenger bag. “Well, I am going to try. It is not going to hurt anything if I just ask him. The worst he can say is no.”

“Actually, the worst he can say is no; you are correct, but it is what he might do that worries me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It is understood that everyone in this office is to leave him be. If we don’t bother him, he won’t bother us. Trust me, asking him for an interview will be considered a significant annoyance.”

“But…”

“But what? One complaint from him and the people who own this paper could decide that their money is better spent on another editor and reporter. I don’t know about you, but with the state of the newspaper business, I don’t want to go looking for another job.”

Hannah picked up her bag from the desk and turned to walk out.

“Now listen to me, young lady, I mean it. Leave the old guy alone.”

Hannah dismissively waved as she left. She turned toward her desk but thought better of it. She walked out the front door, across the street to her rusty Honda, and got in. You’ve got to be kidding me. She cranked the engine again, but she stopped when she realized the battery was nearly dead.

“Perfect, just perfect.” She let out a loud “ugghhh” as she lightly punched the steering wheel with both fists.

As she reentered the building, James Worthington started to get up. She waved him off and gave him an evil stare as he sat back down with his hands in the air and a “What did I do now?” expression on his face. She went to her cube and fired up her desktop computer.

Within a couple minutes, she was at the Harvard Alumni Association website. She punched in her information and did a search for Buford Lister. Hopefully, he has some sort of contact information here. Let’s see… My god, he is old. Ph.D. awarded long before my parents were born. Yes! Contact information. She looked over the tab that read “Send an email to Buford Lister” and pressed it.

A new window popped open. Buford Lister’s email address was hidden; all that appeared was a tab that promised that he would get the message. Why would they do that? I guess because of privacy concerns. She thought a long minute; I guess I have to send it from here. I would prefer not to do that, but…

She took a notebook out of her messenger bag and started tapping it with a pen. I have to get this right. I have to write something that will make him write me back. Think Hannah, think.

The Email Thread

Dear Buford Lister,

My name is Hannah Jones. I am a reporter at The Iroquois County Independent. I was wondering if you would allow me to interview you. Could you please respond with a yes or a no?

Veritas,
Hannah Jones

One minute later…

No. I will not sit for an interview. No chance, no way, no how.

Veritas yourself,
BL

Dear Buford Lister,

Thank you so much for getting back to me so quickly. I was really hoping you would talk to me about The Lister Affair. I want to allow you an opportunity to set the record straight. I know much of that book is pure nonsense.

Veritas,
Hannah Jones

One minute later…

How the H E DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS would you know anything about the veracity of that book? I don’t remember anyone named Hannah Jones hanging around Harvard’s campus all those years ago.

Dear Buford Lister,

Sir, I graduated from Harvard University last year. I came to Iroquois County on a one-year Worthington Fellowship to work at the Independent. And yes, the events chronicled in that book all happened long before I was born.

I would like you to know that your name came up many times throughout my years there. As it happens, I took several classes in the history, philosophy, and sociology of science. I studied the so-called Lister Affair. I wrote a couple papers about it. And yes, before you ask, the whole fiasco was usually presented under the rubric of a classic cautionary tale.

Could we please at least meet? Even if you do not want to be interviewed, I would be honored if you would at least talk to me.

Veritas,
Hannah Jones

One minute later…

No.

Dear Buford Lister,

I was wondering if you would agree to an interview over email. I can send you my questions, and then you can answer at your leisure. How does this sound?

Veritas,
Hannah Jones

One minute later…

No.

Dear Buford Lister,

I find it curious that you are answering my emails so quickly. Everyone knows you are notorious for not returning phone or email messages. Why are you getting back to me immediately? Your actions lead me to believe that you are considering my proposal.

Veritas,
Hannah Jones

Three minutes later…

I am trying to research you. I have been attempting to get into my Harvard Alumni Association account, but I am having problems. It keeps telling me I need my Harvard Key to get in there, but I have no idea what that is.

P.S. Yes, you are being vetted.
P.P.S. That does not mean I am going to agree to an interview.

Dear Buford Lister,

How about this? Can you at least tell me why you turned to poker? The people back at Harvard found that particular aspect of your life confusing. I guess I am asking you why you chose, and still choose, to spend your time sitting at a poker table. I have trouble seeing how that activity corresponds to making a contribution to humanity.

Thank you,
Hannah Jones

P.S. And yes, they still make it clear to all graduates that we are obligated to go out into the world and try our best to make it a better place. I thought you would like to know this. I know it has been decades since you were on campus, even for a brief visit.
P.P.S. As a recent graduate, I haven’t spent any time worrying about the Alumni Association or anything called a Harvard Key. If you like, I will look into it.

Five minutes later…

I have vetted you enough to know that I do not want to talk to you. I am not a fan of people who study the history, sociology, and/or philosophy of science. Such people sit back in recliners and criticize the people doing the actual work. They create nothing, and they contribute nothing. I find them smug, arrogant, and as dumb as a juvenile Australopithecus. They tend to be failed scientists or those who once worked and are now braindead. They also are the kind of people who sign their letters with a Veritas instead of a sincerely.

P.S. Poker players are the most useless people alive. Playing poker professionally is among the worst decisions a person can make. I suppose that vocation is better than choosing, for instance, ax murderer, but not by much.
P.P.S. Leave me alone.

Dear Buford Lister,

I certainly did not concentrate in those areas. My concentration was English. I want to thank you for your time.

Thank you,
Hannah Jones

Seven minutes later…

Clark Glymour once wrote that there are two types of people in the world, logical positivists and goddamn English professors.

“Holy Hephestus! I always wondered where that phrase came from.” Hannah looked around to see if anyone had heard her. She sheepishly slumped down in her chair and typed “Clark Glymour” into the search bar. I’ll be. Professor Murdoch used that phrase all the time. No one ever bothered to ask him where it came from. I assumed everyone else knew. Maybe he was trying to pass it off as his own. No, he wasn’t the kind of man who would do that.

What? Gilmour got his degree in the history and philosophy of science. Well, well, well… Buford Lister, what is your deal?

Dear Buford Lister,

I am sorry to disappoint you, but I fit into neither category. I do not anticipate getting a Ph.D. in English. Also, I am not sure that anyone is running around wearing tee shirts that proclaim “I AM A LOGICAL POSITIVIST” at this point in history.

Thank you,
Hannah Jones

Ten minutes later…

Please leave me alone.

Dear Buford Lister,

Clark Glymour received his Ph.D. in The History and Philosophy of Science. I find it curious that you would quote him considering your well-known disdain for people of his ilk.

Thank you,
Hannah Jones

Twelve minutes later…

Sigh… I will give you…

Forget it, I changed my mind. I suspect that you will do the right thing and delete this thread.

Crapola. I guess it is time to give up on this method of attack. Reederstock, maybe I should head over there and see if anyone will talk. I hear he spends lots of time in their library. Perhaps I can ambush him there—worth a shot at least.

“Hannah, how is the story on the Lake Erie Recovery Project coming? I need to see a draft as soon as you have one. If we are still in business, that story has been bumped to a Sunday feature.”

Hannah never looked up; she pulled a stack of papers out of her bag and waved them in the air. Sid said nothing as he snatched them out of her hand and headed back toward his office.

Hannah got up to take the short trip to Reederstock University. She exited the front door, immediately turned around, and sat back down at her seat. My car, right… Ugh. I better text Ace.

The Text Thread

Hannah – My car is dead. Probably the battery.

Ace – Where

Hannah – Work

Ace – K

She thought about asking him for a ride to Reederstock, but it was a nice day, and the walk wasn’t that far. She put on her walking shoes, grabbed her bag, and started toward the main Reederstock library.

*****

“Excuse me, my name is Hannah Jones; I am a reporter for The Iroquois County Independent. Do you have a minute?”

The student, a woman who appeared to be about 18 years old, put her books down on the checkout table and said, “Sure.”

“I am wondering if you ever see Buford Lister here in the library.”

“Who?…oh wait, the poker player. Yeah, I see him every once in a while, but I don’t spend a lot of time here. I like to study at home.”

Hannah, notebook, and pen in hand, remembered that Reederstock was mostly a commuter school.

“Right. Does Reederstock even have any dorms?”

“They are building some on the other side of campus. I think some people rent houses around here, but most everyone stays at home and drives in.”

“Sure. So, about Buford Lister. Anything more you can tell me?”

“Not really. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

As the student was walking away, a man approached Hannah and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, do you have GPS on your phone?”

“What?” Hannah looked him up and down. Obviously, an older student, dressed in the appropriate student uniform, jeans, and a sweatshirt with a baseball cap cocked slightly to the side.

“GSP, on your phone? Do you have it?”

“What are you talking about? Of course, I have it. All phones have it now.”

“Good. I want to make sure you can find your way home.”

“Huh?”

“I want to be sure you can make your way back when you get lost in my big, beautiful, blue eyes.”

“Pfffttt,” Hannah exclaimed as the stranger removed his sunglasses and struck a pose in front of her.

“You have got to be kidding me. That is the worst thing I have ever heard.”

“Hey, I just want to make sure you are safe. With GPS enabled, we have nothing to worry about.”

“Holy Hephaestus! Does that line actually work on any of the women you meet?”

Holy Hephaestus? What does that mean? How odd. “It is not a line. I am merely looking out for the safety and welfare of women in the community.”

Hannah shook her head. In a state of disbelief, she put her notebook and pen in her bag and started for the door.

“Wait, I heard you asking about Buford Lister. Well, do you want to know where to find him or don’t you?

Hannah paused; a slight smile started to cross her face. Do not think for one second you are going to be charmed by this man. Don’t do it. I won’t allow it. I am 100% serious, Hannah.

Hannah turned and threw her arms in the air. “Well, I am waiting…”

“I’ll tell you where he is right now if you let me buy you dinner tonight.”

Don’t say yes. Don’t do it. DO NOT SAY YES.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Well, I certainly know who you are. You are Hannah Jones of The Iroquois County independent. My name is Jedidiah Whitman.”

As he extended his hand, Hannah shrugged her shoulders, shook her head, and said, “And what are you studying here, Jedidiah Whitman?”

“I study lots of things but mostly math. I am a new professor in the math department. I got a Worthington Fellowship to come here for a year. I just started this fall semester.”

Hannah tried to speak, but nothing came out. This guy can help me. A math professor? I thought he was a student. How old is this guy? Her mouth quickly outgunned her thought process.

“How old are you? I thought you were a student.”

“Yeah, well. People in the sciences get their Ph.D.s a lot sooner than most other disciplines, especially if you start the program at 14.”

“What? You… All right. Where is Buford Lister?”

“Follow me. Do me a favor, don’t tell him that I gave him up. Don’t even mention me.”

“OK.”

The Math Professor led her up the stairs and through the stacks to a small study carrel hidden away in a dark corner. There she saw an old man hunched over the desk, feverously scribbling in a spiral-bound notebook.

“Go on. Good luck. I will call the paper later today to set up our dinner date.”

Holy Hephaestus! Hannah nodded in his direction and then began slowly walking toward the figure in the study carrel. She ducked into the stacks when she saw him start to get up. She tracked him, and when she realized he was going to the bathroom, she rushed back to his desk to get a look at what he was working on.

That smell, that has to be beer. Her nose led her to a metal thermos with a black top sticking out of an old, green backpack slung over the chair. Yeah, that is it.

A notebook on the desk caught her attention. It was full of equations, scribbled in an illegible fashion. No idea what this is. I have never even seen some of these symbols.

The headphones on the desk were connected to what appeared to be a small homebuilt device. Attached to it were a small keyboard and a monitor only slightly bigger than a cell phone. She picked up the headphones and heard classical music set at a low volume.

She put everything back in its place, disappeared back into the stacks, and patiently waited. She watched Buford Lister sit down, put on his headphones, and start working. I guess I probably should let him be. He seems busy. I’ll catch him later.

As she was getting ready to leave, she noticed a young girl purposefully walking down the hallway toward the stacks where Buford Lister was working. What is this all about? Pretty young kid to be in the stacks.

Hannah turned and walked back to a spot in the stacks that gave her a vantage point of Buford Lister’s study carrel. Surprise, surprise. The kid is sitting down with him. Curious.

Hannah watched as the girl set a big stack of papers down on the desk. Hannah grew more intrigued as she watched Buford Lister flip page after page, pausing every so often to study a particular section. She smiled when she saw the girl try to grab the thermos from the backpack. Well, that is good. He is having none of that.

Buford Lister and the girl got up to leave, with Hannah following a reasonable distance behind. As the two of them exited the building, Hannah paused by the doors to give them a good headstart. She had every intention of following them, and she certainly didn’t want to get caught.

She pushed open the door and started down the walkway. After only a couple steps, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Jedidiah, do you know who that girl is with Buford Lister?” She pointed down the path as she adjusted her messenger bag.

“Sure do. You didn’t meet her?”

“No. I thought better of it. My editor told me to not pursue an interview with him. He said it would only make him angry.”

“Understood.”

“So, the girl?”

“That is Piper Pandora Pennington, also known as Pi.”

“Is she a student here?”

“No. As she says, there is no one here qualified to teach her. I think maybe one of the reasons I was brought in was for her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She is a genius. That kid has more potential than anyone I have ever seen, and, trust me, I have seen more than a couple prodigies. In fact, I know I am here because of her. The Worthington Foundation made it worth my while to turn down other Fellowships and Post-Docs to come here to lovely Iroquois County.”

“She studies math?”

“She studies everything. Of course, we only talk math when I see her. And by that, I mean, I speak, and she mostly listens. She doesn’t say a lot.”

“What is her deal? Why is she meeting with Buford Lister?”

“That is an interesting question. Since I have been here, I have seen her with the old man on many occasions. I have no idea what the relationship is. You know, when he was young, he was a prodigy; I am guessing someone put them together. I am certain he would have some special insight into what she is going through.”

“Makes sense. Do you know where they are going now?”

“It’s lunchtime. There are three or four possibilities. Follow me.”

The young math professor and the young journalist walked together down a path that had never been paved. The grass was worn down from the heavy traffic; obviously, there is a story to be told.

“So, Hannah, notice that we are walking on a path and not a sidewalk.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Any thoughts about that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why aren’t we walking on a sidewalk?”

“Because we are walking on a path.”

“Well, I study patterns; I guess at some level, all mathematicians study patterns. This path proves worthy of study when considered with all the pavement we see around us.”

Hannah looked around at the students, some walking on the concrete and others on the grass. “Well, I am thinking that there should be a concrete walk here instead of a path.”

“Right. At most top-notch universities, the powers that be will wait to install sidewalks after a new building is constructed. See over there?”

The math professor pointed toward the new technology center that had opened a few months prior. As they approached the building, most of the students left the concrete for the dirt path.

“Ah, I see. Yes, they should have waited to build the sidewalks.”

“Right. The students will always tell you where the walkways should be built.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“Please, that was just a simple observation. I get paid to think about things like that.”

“Well, that is good work if you can find it.”

“Ah, you should know that it is not work. I don’t intend to ever work a day in my life. If I get paid to do what I would do for free, then…”

“Then you are never really working. I know the routine. All the professors I had at Harvard were like that. You could feel their passion for their subject.”

“And what about Buford Lister? He is a multi-millionaire, he is old as time itself, and he is still trying to invent new mathematics. I would say that he is truly exceptional except for the fact that Harvard is full of people just like him.”

“Right, he is normal in that regard…except for the poker. Have you ever talked to him about that? Do you know why he started playing?”

“Poker comes up every once in a while, but all he says is that the math is rudimentary and uninteresting. I once asked him why he was so successful, how he was able to make so much money, a rate of winning, I might add, that is far above a random player’s expected outcome.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, I guess you have to know him to understand his answer. He looked me right in the eye and asked me to imagine how good a poker player I would be if I had the ability to manipulate time.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No, he went on to say that poker is easy if you can stop time at will. Imagine, he said, if you could casually walk around the table, see all the other player’s cards, and then see the flop, the turn card, and then the river. He told me that if you can do that undetected, then you are golden.”

“He actually said that? So, he does have a sense of humor. Was there a twinkle in his eye when he told you this?”

“I can see you have never met Buford Lister. The only thing he has in his eyes are cataracts.”

Hannah heard the burp from her phone and instantly pawed through her messenger bag to find it. A quick glance told her it was an email from Buford Lister.

“Speak of the devil, Buford Lister just emailed me.” She waved the phone at the math professor and then turned it to examine the message.

“Oh wow, there is a lot of text here.”

“C’mon, I’ll buy you lunch, and you can read your message as we eat.”

“All right, lead the way.”

They both walked in silence the short distance to The Iroquoian Café. They quickly found a booth, and Hannah unpacked her notebook.

“You still use paper and pen?”

“Yeah. Old habits. I grew up in the country. We didn’t have any internet. My parents couldn’t afford any computers or electronic devices, so I have always used spiral notebooks.”

The Math Professor nodded his head as he looked over the menu.

“So, let’s see what Buford Lister wrote in this email.”

The Email

Here is your interview. Do with it as you please.

YOU: How are you today?

BL: None of your business.

YOU: I see. Do you have any comment on The Lister Affair? The book has sold a million copies worldwide, and it does not paint you in the brightest light.

BL: No.

YOU: OK. You were a child prodigy mathematician. In the book, the author states that your contribution to mathematics is zero. What is your response?

BL: I have none.

YOU: After that famous academic meeting, the one documented in The Lister Affair, you disappeared. After a bit of time, you resurfaced as a poker player. One of the most successful in history. Why poker?

BL: I do not understand the question.

YOU: You had lofty ambitions when you were younger. You were working to make the world a better place. What happened? Do you believe that by becoming a gambler, you are making the world a better place?

BL: Gamblers in general, and poker players, in particular, contribute nothing to society. If they ceased to exist, the world would not pause for even a second to mourn their passing.

YOU: All right, I will move on. You were a tangential figure in the Post Modern Movement that set out to delegitimize science. You fought against the academics, mostly from humanities departments, that argued that science was just another opinion and shouldn’t be taken nearly as seriously as it is. Would you like to comment on this?

BL: Science is based on reason and mathematics. Can you imagine a world where science is just another opinion? I could then, and I can now. We would have leaders who would deny science because they disagree with the implications. Do yourself a favor, research Trofim Lysenko and the great Alan Sokal. After that, we can have a more intelligent discussion.

YOU: Is it true that during The Science Wars, people were running around the Harvard campus denying the existence of DNA?

BL: Yes. They were called Deconstructionists. If you can still find any, measure their cranial capacities and compare it to the smartest Austrolopithicus on record. Let me know how that works out for you.

YOU: And is it true that these people thought that mathematics was a tool of balding white males used to maintain power?

BL: Yes. You had to be there.

YOU: What do you think of Bruno Latour?

BL: Not much. He was one of the leaders of the deconstructionist movement. He went on and on about how science isn’t nearly important as it appears to be. He had a bad case of physics envy.

YOU: But now he is trying to correct his mistakes of the past. He even apologized for his past behavior.

BL: He did not apologize. He is not man enough to do that. I hope he realizes that he and those like him are responsible for the state of the world today when it comes to science. We have leaders who deny the importance of mathematics and science. Imagine a pandemic; just imagine if we were in the midst of a pandemic and people in positions of power claim that it is not real. Imagine that they would not listen to the experts, imagine if the science was denied and people died due to this type of insane ignorance. If that were to happen, Bruno Latour’s true legacy, his lasting gift to the world, would be revealed.

YOU: Any final thoughts?

BL: I sat through much of The Science Wars. I watched as people not smart enough to understand the mathematical basis of science worked to tear down the most essential institutions humanity has to offer. This much I know, when the deconstructionists and postmodern mavens got sick, or when their children took ill, they ran as fast as they could to find the most competent practitioner of modern medicine they could find. They did not run to a psychic; they did not look over a tarot card spread. Yes, science was just another opinion except when the stakes became very real. I am very happy that almost all of those hypocrites are now gone. Sure, if you look hard, you can find one here or there, but no one with half a brain takes them seriously anymore.

Hannah let The Math Professor read over the email as she tapped her pen lightly against her forehead.

“Well, that was unexpected. I wonder why he sent that?”

“I am vaguely familiar with the things he is talking about here. Of course, we were on campus long after this stuff.”

“Harvard was ground zero for The Science Wars. We talked about it a lot in my classes. I remember one of my professors telling me that back then, Thomas Kuhn’s The Structure of Scientific Revolutions was required reading in most of the humanities classes being taught on campus.”

“That is really odd. I wouldn’t expect that.”

“No. It is odd. There has to be someone on this campus that can tell me more about that time, right?”

“There is no History of Science department here, but there is a rather large Philosophy department. Perhaps, there is someone over there that you can talk to.”

Hannah tapped the screen of her phone at tremendous speed. The Math Professor looked at her and smiled as her brow furrowed, and her eyes narrowed in a fit of concentration.

“It seems there is a philosopher here who lists The Science Wars as one of her areas of expertise. Aphrodite Olajuwon…let’s see…Wellesley and University of Michigan. Looks like I found my next stop.”

“Great. Ready to order? I am getting really hungry.”

“Me too. Doctor Aphrodite Olajuwon is going to have to wait.”

Wes Anderson

Yes, I have a favorite filmmaker, just as I have a favorite band (Arctic Monkeys) and a favorite writer (Kurt Vonnegut). I really enjoy the films Wes Anderson makes. I recently took a film class, and even though we didn’t talk about Wes Anderson at all, I got some insight into why I like his work so much. I always appreciated his use of color, but now I have a deeper understanding of how those choices might work within a larger context. So, I guess that initially, the visual aesthetic sucked me in, and then his quirky, brilliant dialogue sealed it.

I have decided to rank Anderson’s films based solely on my level of enjoyment. I recently finished watching them all again to give each film a more or less equal chance to end up at the top of the list.

Here we go:

9. Bottle Rocket

8. The Darjeeling Limited

7. The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou

6. Rushmore

5. Isle of Dogs

4. The Royal Tenenbaums

3. Moonrise Kingdom

2. Fantastic Mr. Fox

1. The Grand Budapest Hotel

One thing I have learned is that the people who consider themselves true old school Anderson fans (those who have followed him from the beginning) will basically have my list reversed. It appears that they believe that Bottle Rocket might be the best film ever made. I find that very interesting. Even more curious are the Arctic Monkeys fans who believe that Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino is the best thing the group has ever done. I have listened to that CD 300 or 400 times, and I am still ambivalent about it.

I find it fascinating that people who love Wes Anderson or Arctic Monkeys can disagree so drastically about the quality of the films or the music. As for me, if I find an author, a filmmaker, or a band interesting, I go along for the ride. I am always willing to engage with others who view the world through a different lens. It is their evolution, their growth through time, that I find most compelling.

As I was searching for a way to end this short post, I realized something, a fact that adds a little twist to my ranking of Anderson’s films. I came to his films late; I certainly wasn’t with him from the beginning. I believe that 2012s Moonrise Kingdom was the first film of his I watched. Not so for Arctic Monkeys; I was with them from the beginning. I instantly fell in love with their music when I listened to the samples of Whatever People Say I Am, I Am Not on the Amazon website in 2006. Of course, that is their best CD. Second on the list? Easy… 2007s Favourite Worst Nightmare. I don’t even have to think about it. It is just an observation, and not necessarily a very profound one, but isn’t that interesting? I believe that it is.

The Athena Chapters: Chapter Fourteen

Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind: Volume 2: The Athena Chapters,
Chapter Fourteen:
The Mall Walker! or Six Years Gone…(working title) or Just Do It!: Reflections on my Last Concert or Notes for a TED Talk I Will Never be Invited to Give

It was like somebody laid hands on me.
Bob Dylan, Nobel Lecture 6/4/17

It’s been six years since I attended a concert. For those of you mathematically inclined, that is 72 months, 2191 days, 52,560 hours, 3,155,692 minutes, or 189,341,556 seconds, depending on how you want to express (or feel) the passage of time. Good news, though, I am finally done. This is the last essay in this volume.

I am sure that anyone who has bothered to read this far has some questions for me. I imagine some would want to know if I have reached any conclusions about this ordeal. Others might wonder if I wake up with a more enlightened view of the world and my place in it. Sigh…no, my best response would be that going to that show, and all the aftermath seem to be nothing more than a series of random events. I sense no deep meaning in any of it. I don’t feel smarter or wiser, nor do I feel defeated or disappointed. I am in my mid-50s now, and, honestly, I don’t feel much of anything.

*****

The high pitched shrill of the phone startled The Old Man. The damn thing never rang anymore. He kept paying the bill out of habit; it seemed like it would be a major hassle to shut it off. He would probably have to go someplace and stand in a long line with a bunch of other people who would rather be any place other than where they were. He didn’t need it.

The ringing finally stopped. After a decent struggle, he got up out of his chair and looked at the Caller ID. He squinted hard to bring the tiny screen into focus. As he turned his head slightly to the left, he realized it was not a number he recognized.

“Alexa, it appears we have a mystery.”

“Sorry I don’t know that.”

“Of course, you don’t.”

His keyboard reacted sluggishly as he punched the unknown number into the search bar. These batteries are about to go. He reached into the top drawer of his desk. He pulled out two new AAA batteries, turned the keyboard over, and replaced the old cells. He moved the mouse around the screen; the tracking seemed fine. Those batteries could wait.

The results quickly populated the screen. It looked like he would have to pay to find out who owned the number that just called him. He was about to try a deeper search, the kind that a proper and true computer guy would know about when he noticed that his phone console was blinking. Whoever called had left him a message.

“Alexa, play Mozart.”

He immediately recognized The Dissonance Quartet. He leaned back and closed his eyes, his index fingers conducting the fictional orchestra. A popular thought crept in: Biggest cosmic ripoff in the history of bipeds. I will never understand why we had to lose him so young. It doesn’t make any sense, no reason at all that needed to happen.

“Alexa, turn it down.”

He was ready; at least he thought he was—deep breath, nice and slow. You control your breathing; it does not control you. In his experience, it was rarely good news when a mysterious number left a message. He leaned forward, hit the PLAY button, and hoped for the best.

“Buford Lister. My gosh! I can’t believe it, I have finally found you. My name is Jesus Masterson. You knew my father, Ken. I am calling because I have been charged with trying to convince you to give a TED Talk. I just wanted to gauge your interest. Call me back if you like. We would really enjoy having you.”

Well, now, that was unexpected. He took a long swig of his warm beer as his thoughts roamed. Ken Masterson, that name brings back some long-buried memories. Buford Lister ejected a small black jump drive from his home-built desktop computer and twirled it around his fingers as kids do now with their fidget spinners. He sat in silence as Mozart softly filled the room.

“Alexa, turn it up.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Mozart is the correct choice for most any old man in a contemplative mood, especially one faced with an interesting and unexpected decision. The problem here is that the last time Buford Lister gave a big talk, an important talk, it radically changed his life’s trajectory, taking him in an unexpected and unwelcome direction.

Man, I did not see this coming. Do I really need this? I need to put on my thinking shoes. C’mon, let’s go. C’mon now. A combination of rocking and elbow pressure got him to his feet.

He always tried to count the number of pops and cracks he would get from his ravaged knees as he stood up. This count was four, three from the right knee, and a single pop from the left. He unsuccessfully tried to straighten his back as he walked to one of his bookcases, his left knee clicking with each step.

“Ken Masterson,” he said aloud to no one. “I have not heard that name for a very, very long time. That is about the last thing I expected…”

He reached the wall and ran his hand across the second shelf of the fourth bookcase from his library window. He pulled out a worn copy of The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by Thomas Kuhn. The pages were severely battered, barely holding on to the overworked binding. He placed the book down on the edge of the shelf. It was the Calculus book next to Kuhn that had his interest. He opened the large book to the back, to the hollowed-out hole where he kept his life’s work. He placed the jump drive in the book and pushed it back into its space. He looked over the Kuhn book and decided it was not going to fall apart if he put it back. As he gave the binding one last look, the thought occurred to him that he should keep that drive in something fireproof. Well-hidden means nothing in case of a fire.

*****

My dentist’s office is an interesting place, not that I am overly fond of my time spent there. For reasons unclear to me, the older I get, the more I dislike sitting in that chair. Fortunately, the last few visits have been quick ones.

Once your appointment is over, all patients are escorted to the front desk. After they walked me out a couple of times, it dawned on me that they were doing this not because they thought I was too stupid to find my way; they were doing it so that I wouldn’t run out the front door without paying. I asked them if people had, in the past, sprinted to the doors instead of going to the front desk. They said they escort everyone for a reason. It is not a daily occurrence, but it does happen with some regularity.

After mentioning to my dentist that I was writing about my experience at his office, he told me that he had one guy pull his own tooth and then run out the front door. He got the guy numbed up and told him he would be back as soon as the anesthetic did its job. When the dentist returned, he realized that the guy had taken one of the dental instruments and yanked it himself. Of course, he was nowhere to be found. I guess this guy was too worldly for whiskey and pliers. Somewhere, anonymously walking the streets of my town, is a true sophisticate.

A couple of years ago, after being escorted to the register, I nabbed an oversized novelty tooth from that same front desk. I doubt I did anything criminal; they were sitting out in a big basket, next to the ink pens and calendars. The implication was that as long as I paid my bill, I was welcome to them. When I picked one up, I realized it was foam. It was a stress tooth, closely related to its cousin, the ubiquitous stress ball. As I examined it, I had no idea that I was eventually going to wear it down to the nub. That is why I took a second one on my next visit. That one is also showing some unusual wear patterns.

*****

“Alexa, should I give a TED talk?”

“I do not understand the question.”

“Of course, you don’t understand the question. Neither do I. Alexa, add this to the long list of things I do not understand.”

“Sorry, I do not know that.”

Buford Lister sat back down in front of his computer. He took a deep, dramatic breath and then typed “Ken Masterson Mathematician” into Google’s search bar. He leaned back and took a long draw from his beer as he looked over the results. Don’t do it. I’m serious, don’t do it. Why are you doing this? I am telling you one last time not to do this. Put the damn blinders on and look forward; there is nothing worth remembering back there. Let the past remain dead; dig it up at your own expense. He struggled with himself, his brain thinking one thing and his hand doing another as his mouse moved to the top of the screen. That annoying little internal voice (the one he simultaneously hated and owed a lot to) kept telling him not to click the IMAGES tab. He clicked the IMAGES tab.

He immediately saw two pictures of large groups of mathematicians and physicists, the photos being decades on top of decades old. He tried not to smile as the memories overcame him. There it is, my God…we were so young. There I am, long before the universe saddled up and did its worst to me. He brought his forearm to his eyes and rubbed.

“Alexa, what would I tell him if I could go back in time and say just one thing?”

“I do not understand the question.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He clicked on the “ALL” tab and looked for Ken’s Wiki page. It can’t be that long ago, can it? He has been dead for over 15 years. How is that possible? I don’t know where that time went.

Buford Lister grabbed another beer from the cooler he had stashed by his computer desk. He placed it on a coaster that read “BEER” and pulled himself up. He walked down the hall to the 16 stairs that lead to his laundry room, counting each step quietly as he descended. There he would find the delivery he had received weeks ago from Amazon. Curiosity, his reckless emotion, that attribute of his personality that had fueled his young ambition, had finally gotten the best of him. He ripped open the package, quickly examined its contents, and then took the thick, hardcover book back upstairs.

*****

I mentioned in a previous essay that the struggles I have with running have all been about how far to run, not whether or not to run. As the Nike slogan goes, I just do it. I put on my clothes and go. It’s what happens once I get out there; that’s an issue.

I am sure most everyone reading this essay will have no idea who Alberto Salazar is. In the 70s and 80s, he was one of the best distance runners in the world. I am mentioning Salazar because he and I have one thing in common, our running gaits. We all naturally have an identifiable way we walk and run. Do you have people you can identify just by the way they walk or run? I certainly do. Gaits are distinctive, both when walking and when running.

Salazar’s gait became famous. It was known as The Salazar Shuffle. He did not have a lot of leg kick, and his feet were never very far off the ground. It was, not surprisingly, more of a shuffle (well…duh!) than a world-class running gait. Why is this important? When I was a college runner in the 80s, some people thought of Salazar when they saw me run. Was it because of my blazing speed? No, it was because my natural running gait is also a shuffle. The next logical question to ask is: OK, so why is that important? What could my running gait have to do with anything? Sigh…

Many months ago, I went for my daily run. I was tired as I put my stuff on. It never occurred to me that I was too tired to run. Just do it! Don’t think about it or philosophize about it. Don’t rationalize or make excuses; just lace up the shoes and go. As always, that was my thought process.

I am always cautious when I run. I don’t run on ice, and I am always sure that my shoes have good soles. I spend lots of money on shoes. Worn running shoes are opportunistic, always peaking ahead for any chance to induce a disaster. I was as careful as usual on a Friday in late October. Unfortunately, I face planted on the asphalt. I don’t know how it happened; one moment I was upright, and the next I was on the ground. I am pretty sure the fact that I don’t lift my feet very high had a lot to do with the fall.

As soon as I fell, I knew I was in trouble. I was the only person at the cemetery, so I wasn’t going to get any help. After sitting on the road and contemplating my fate for a minute or two, I managed to get myself back to my truck and to the hospital. What I didn’t know was that the fall started a Rube Goldberg series of events that could have easily killed me.

*****

Buford Lister sat straight and tall in his chair as he looked over the cover of The Lister Affair, the book that had been in his laundry room for a week or two.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe I should stop talking to myself. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Lots of maybes…”

Buford Lister unlocked the handle on the side of his chair, the one that kept him in the upright position. He leaned way back and started looking for patterns on the ceiling. All the little bumps of paint seemed random enough, nothing noteworthy up there. As he looked closer, he imagined a series of light and dark squares populating the section of the ceiling that had caught his interest. “Galileo, now that dude was a stone-cold genius,” he said as he examined the phantom checkerboard. “All right, enough. The ratios of Galileo can wait.” Even though he told himself to stop, his thoughts roamed back to a time, long ago, when he was learning about perfect squares and their relationship to odd numbers. As always, he couldn’t keep his memories focused on the numbers; Susan, The Plumber, and other random figures always insisted on showing up. He violently shook his head. “Dammit, Stop it!” he screamed at himself. The long draw of warm beer went down smoothly.

He knew that the most interesting thing, the most important thing, was sitting on his desk in front of him. He finally mustered the courage to open the book to the index. There was only one name he was going to look for. If she is in there, I am going to find Bruno and…

*****

My elbow now has three plates, three screws, and seven pins in it, if I am counting correctly. They were inserted during the seventh game of the World Series. There they will remain. I wish that were the end of the story, but it is not.

As you might imagine, after my surgery, I was given a basket full of medicine. This one for nerve pain, that one for general pain, this one to sleep, and on and on and on. I was also prescribed a coated aspirin, which I took on schedule.

Oddly enough, I never felt much pain from the injury. I was the most uncomfortable when the x-rays were taken at the emergency room. That really hurt. The worst of it was when I was trying to get some sleep. That part did not work out very well for me.

*****

Buford Lister indeed started at the back of the book. He recognized most of the names, almost all of them. Who is this guy? I don’t remember him. Maybe he is just some guy, a so-called expert, commenting on some aspect of this debacle. A scholar versed in the art of second-hand scholarship, that must be it. Some jerk who has never met me thinks it is OK to tell the world what happened all those years ago. Why would anyone care what someone like that has to say about this?

He flipped the pages back one by one, his finger running the length of the print at each turn. He steadied himself, took a long pause, and then turned the page. There appeared to be four or five inches of entries for Lister, Susan. He picked up the book and threw it across the room.

“Alexa, why did I do that? I knew it was the wrong thing to do, and I did it anyway.”

“I do not understand the question.”

“I know.”

*****

A few months after my fall, I was working in a large field about 20 miles south of my home. I started breathing very fast, then faster, and faster. I dropped to my knees. I wasn’t in any pain; I was more confused than anything. Luckily I was not alone; I usually am. I made it to the Emergency Room.

I learned that the nurses in the ER do not hesitate when a man my age tells them he is having trouble breathing. They immediately brought me back to a room and hooked me up to all kinds of equipment. The Doctor in charge came in and told me they were going to take some blood, which they did. After a short period of time, he came back in and told me that if I was a religious man, it was time for me to start praying. He had called a helicopter to get me and bring me to the city. It was easy to tell he was deeply concerned about what was happening to me.

I had tested positive for a heart attack and, in his words, “very positive” for pulmonary embolisms. While I believed that my lungs were full of clots, I did not believe the heart attack part. On my way to the hospital, I had texted a couple of nurses who told me that my symptoms made them think I had a blood clot. As it goes, this is what happened. A clot had formed in my right arm, at the site of my elbow surgery, and traveled to my heart. There it was shredded up into dozens upon dozens of “submassive” clots that filled my lungs—all in all, not a happy experience.

Clearly, a blood clot to the heart is serious business. People die when that happens. I was lucky, being a life long runner helped, but luck also played a major role. I ended up spending five days in the cardiac unit of a major hospital. There my transformation (my Kafkaesque metamorphosis) took place; I was wheeled in on a gurney, and I left as The Mall Walker!

*****

“Alright Alexa, I am going to call Jesus and work out all the details. I think I might have to do it. It might be a good idea to give a TED Talk. Alexa, what do you think about that?”

“Sorry, I do not understand the question.”

Buford Lister called Jesus Masterson and had a quick conversation. He told Masterson to email him the details. He would email back any questions.

“What to talk about, except for the obvious? What would I want to tell the world if I had one chance to do it?” He had been living alone for so long that he let the pregnant pause linger an unnaturally long time. “I don’t know; maybe I shouldn’t do this. That would be the safe thing and most probably the right thing.”

*****

I am a Mall Walker…a stone-cold striding hunk of man. If I don’t already, I will soon own the mall. People are getting to know me; they wave and smile. I am in the club; it is just a matter of time until I run the meetings.

If you happen to be in the mall and you see a guy walking for two hours every day, that is me. If there are multiple such people (not likely), I will be the guy squeezing the large foam tooth with his right hand. Oh yeah, I am right-handed, so I have not been able to shave, I am still having trouble bending my arm that far. Consequently, I have a large white beard that I am anxious to lose. I look old enough without the beard.

*****

JM,

OK, I’ll do it but only on the condition that there are no restrictions placed on me. I am talking time, content, and anything else I can think of. Let me know.

Five minutes after Buford Lister hit Send, he received the following message.

BL,

It is your show. Do whatever you like. We are your humble servants.

*****

I saw a guy, a fellow Mall Walker, today. He gave me a subtle head gesture. The nod he gave me was the same type that Wayne Gretzky would give Larry Bird if they saw each other from 10 yards away in an airport. The nod says all that needs to be said…

Halfway through my walk, another guy appeared. He took off his winter coat to reveal a fluorescent green windbreaker, the kind of garment that lets the other Mall Walkers know he means business. Without saying a word, the jacket screamed, “C’mon, try your best to catch me. Bring it, give me all you’ve got.” I half expected the back to have stitching, which read, “If you can read this, you are my BITCH.” Even though I was one hour in, one hour tired, I buried him. When we later crossed paths I didn’t bother to nod, I just lowered my head and let my dust do the talking.

*****

“Ladies and gentleman, our next speaker had a book written about his exploits as a young student at Harvard University. I am sure most of you have already read The Lister Affair.” The applause was loud and long. The Master of Ceremonies, a blubbering dean from Reederstock University, had the good sense to table the rest of his introduction. It was clear that the audience was ready. “Here he is, mathematician, scientist, one of the best poker players the world has ever seen… Buford Lister.”

The audience stood as an old man in worn jeans, and a faded black long sleeve t-shirt made his way across the stage.

“Hello, my name is Buford Lister. Why am I here? Why are all of you sitting where you are? Why are there cameras all around this stage?”

“The easy answer is because I really screwed something up when I was a kid. I missed the simple fact that a 1 should have been a -1 in a paper I wrote. Man, did that little oversight cause lots of problems.”

Author’s Note: There was lots of laughter when this happened—more laughter than applause. The audience was composed of brilliant people, academic types mostly. If all of them hadn’t read The Lister Affair, they indeed were familiar with the story the book told. As Buford Lister rubbed his eyes, the audience once again stood.

“I am supposed to give a talk about overcoming magnificent failure, at least that is what I guess all of you are expecting. I bet you all think that I am going to drone on about how we all need to stand up tall after we do something so incredibly stupid that we become famous for it. Well, I have never been one to follow directions, so I am going to talk about what I damn well please.”

Buford Lister grabbed a beer from a small desk in the middle of the stage and took a swig as he waited for the applause to die down. Initially, some suit had told him he couldn’t drink beer while giving his talk. Fine, no talk then. Another suit overruled the first suit. All the suits had to have a long meeting about this topic. They decided it was better to have Buford Lister drinking beer during his talk than to not have him at all.

“I am going to tell you a story about the third-grade version of me. I was at this remote grade school right here in Iroquois County, Ohio. We are not talking about cutting edge education, especially back then. Things were bad, but no one knew any different. At the time, I thought everyone’s teachers knew very little about anything. To me, it seemed that they all went out of their way to stifle creativity. As long as all the kids sat down and shut up, then things were fine.” Buford Lister stroked his white beard. “Obviously, this was some time ago.”

“I want to tell you about what happened one day. I remember very little about that time in my life, but I do remember this. As usual, I was sitting in my seat, minding my own damn business when the teacher told us it was time to tell the rest of the class what we knew about the evaporation cycle. Well, to me, it was all trivial. Rain comes down, the sun’s heat causes some of it to evaporate. What’s the big deal? Buford Lister took his glasses off and started shaking his head. A smile tried to creep through but ran out of momentum. The teacher had the first three students get up and explain the evaporation cycle. The first kid, a girl named Michelle, gave her little talk, and then she did something that stunned me. She stood there and said, “And here is my illustration.” She held up a little picture she had drawn.”

“I was stunned. I had no idea what an illustration was! I was unfamiliar with the word. It was not then part of my now extensive and erudite lexicon. As a little aside, I thought erudite started with an “a” so it took me a long time to find it in the dictionary. Now, that reminds me of another little story. When I was in sixth grade my teacher got very angry with me. I went up to her and asked her how you spell some word. She told me to look it up. In my most serious voice, I asked her how was I supposed to look it up if I didn’t know how to spell it? I was totally serious. She was unimpressed. So, instead of engaging me in a discussion about how I might find the word, she told me to sit down and shut up. That is how they roll in Iroquois County, Ohio.”

“So, back to my third-grade dilemma. I was in deep trouble. My teacher was sending up students in groups of three. I was in the next group. I had just learned what an illustration was, and I needed one in about a minute. I wish I was known for this and not the other thing…”

Buford Lister walked over to his computer that was hooked to a very large screen. He looked out over the audience. So, this is what I did.

“I walked up to the front of the class. I calmly explained what I knew of the evaporation cycle. Then I announced, Here is my illustration. That is the sun with a straw.”

“As I recall, I was the hit of the presentations. Everyone, including my teacher, laughed. A few kids applauded.”

“In conclusion, no matter what happens to you in your life, no matter the bad things that happen, whether they are your fault or not, there is deep within each of us, a third-grader than can conjure up an illustration when we need it most. Those issues do not define you just as they do not define me. I prefer to think back to the third-grade version of the man you are looking at now.”

*****

I had a doctor’s appointment the other day. He told me that the clots are gone and that I can start running again. That is precisely what I am going to do.

Imagine the confusion at the mall. The streaks of charred tiles I have left behind can’t offer up their own explanation. Sure, some people will tell tales of the mysterious man who walked so fast that his feet defied the rules of space and time. Others will add to the legend in their own ways, some subtle, others not.

The truth will stand. A man recovering from a severe fall became the most accomplished mall walker in the tri-state area. He laced up his shoes, turned on his tunes, and walked two hours every day. After months of seeing a blur, a phantom, traverse the length of the structure; he disappeared as fast as he came. Few know that he was never passed, never overtook by a fresher, younger walker, no matter how tired he became.

*****

Buford Lister held his hand up to the audience to stop the applause. His shoulders slumped as he shot-gunned another beer.

“I do intend to make this talk a little longer than two or three minutes. I have to say that I thought about ending my talk after only a couple minutes but…”

It was only the people in the first couple rows who saw the tears, at least at first. They started to stand and applaud. Shortly thereafter, the other people in the auditorium looked at the large video monitors and realized what was happening. Within a short period of time, everyone was standing and clapping.

“I have never talked about this. I am sure just about everyone here knows that. The only reason I am going to talk about it now is because of that damn book, a book I never authorized, a book I would never have written myself, a book I never wanted to exist.”

He took a copy of The Lister Affair out of the desk (the same one with the beer) and dropped it into a big plastic garbage can that had been placed on the stage. The audience remained standing.

“A long time ago, I was on the cusp of doing something special. I was creating new mathematics. I was working very, very hard. My wife, Susan, couldn’t understand why I was always locked away, why I was always working. I tried my best to explain it to her, but she just wouldn’t listen. And then came the baby.”

He walked across the stage, the whole time thinking what an ass Bruno is for writing about this. It was no one else’s business, no one at all.

“Bruno never should have written about any of this. He did, I don’t like it, he dredged up a bunch of memories that I never again wanted to deal with. Suicide…I still don’t have anything to say about it. I don’t understand it; I don’t like it, I wish it weren’t an option for anyone.“

What do I say now? Will this be some kind of catharsis if I keep talking? Bruno already laid it all out, so I guess I keep on going.

“I was away at the conference, you all know the one. Probably the most famous gathering of scholars in the last 100 years, I guess. It was there that The Yeti stood up and changed my life forever. It doesn’t matter how it happened, how the mistake was made. None of that matters. I don’t have a time machine; I tried, I can’t make one, such a thing is beyond my capabilities.”

“I was destroyed when I came back to Cambridge from that conference. Everything I ever wanted was gone for good. You get one chance to lose your reputation. Just one. There are no do-overs. Susan didn’t understand any of this. As soon as I got home, she started fighting with me. She said she needed more help even though her mom had flown out to assist with the baby. Susan was very unhappy, and she didn’t care what had happened to me out west. She wasn’t even willing to listen.”

“Back then, and this was a long time ago, not much was understood about postpartum depression. I certainly didn’t know anything about it. I know a lot more now, but there is still so much that we, as a species, do not understand”.

“I was home for only a few hours when I had to go for a run. The baby was sleeping, and I knew I was going to get some time with her when I got back from my run. I told Susan I would see her in a bit, and I headed out the door. I heard her screaming at me as it shut.”

“I ran for around 90 minutes or so. When I got home, I saw my daughter sleeping in her playpen in the living room. This seemed unusual to me; she was usually in her room. I checked on her and then went to take a shower. That is when I found her. Susan had shot herself in the head while sitting in the bathtub. It was clear that she was gone. There wasn’t a thing I could do for her. I called the police and waited on the couch.”

“We had a gun cabinet. Susan’s father gave it to us. He wanted me to protect his daughter from the evils of the big city. I had taken and hidden the key shortly after my daughter was born, but when the police came, they checked the cabinet, and it was not locked. I told them I had no idea how that could have happened. The police left. Susan left in a body bag. I stayed home that night with my daughter and Susan’s mom. Where was she when Susan decided to shoot herself? She went into town to do a little shopping.”

“Up to that point, that was the darkest time in my life. I had lost a career, what I and everyone else around me thought was going to be a big one, an important one, a groundbreaking one. A couple of days later, my wife killed herself. I went to a very dark place. I immediately knew that my daughter needed to go with her grandma and grandpa, Susan’s parents. They wanted her, and my daughter certainly needed them. I was in no position to take care of her.”

“You may be wondering why I have not said my daughter’s name. I have done a good job of hiding her. She went off with Susan’s parents and lived a fantastic and wonderful life until…”

Buford Lister sat down at the desk in the center of the stage. He pushed his glasses up his nose and started to speak.

“My daughter became famous all on her own. She ended up spending a lot of time in France, where she modeled professionally. And then came the band, the music, the genius pouring out of her in every direction. The fame? She dealt with it well. She understood what was going on. She got it. And then she got married and had a daughter. Everything was great. She was thriving until she had her second daughter. On the day that baby was born, my daughter, my beautiful genius daughter, shot herself in the head.”

The audience audibly gasped in unison. After the gasp, there was nothing but silence.

“I don’t know what to say. I have seen my fair share of tragedy. More than most, I guess. I imagine everyone here is wondering about my relationship with my deceased daughter. We talked, but not a lot. We emailed, but not a lot. I felt so guilty about Susan’s death, and she, of course, blamed me for it. Susan’s parents raised her, and I don’t think they ever had a good thing to say about me. They always blamed me for not making sure the gun cabinet was locked. They couldn’t understand how Susan got it open. I don’t really have very much good to say for myself.”

“I really wish Bruno hadn’t written that damn book. I wouldn’t be up here reliving memories that need to stay buried. He had no business writing what he did. I have no idea what motivated him; I guess he is probably brain dead and can’t do the math anymore. Lots of people in his position write books for the popular market once they have lost their mental powers. I just wish he hadn’t done it at my expense.”

*****

At some point, I stopped writing these essays for one particular person. When I realized there were no magic words that would convince Athena to eat lunch with me, I started writing the essays for my niece and nephews. As I write this, they are far too young to understand what I am talking about (none of them are in high school yet), but it is my hope that in a few decades, some of this may resonate with them. Perhaps it is more likely that they won’t fully appreciate what I have written until I am long gone. That said, I thought it would be fitting to end the volume with a letter to them.

Three Dudes and a Chick,

Almost everything in this book is true, except for the things that obviously aren’t. I really did go to a concert, and while standing against a wall drinking a beer, I saw Athena. I did go up to her after her set and introduce myself. Time did indeed stop between the “I” in I’m and the “a” at the end of Athena. I am chuckling as I type because I can still feel that moment. Those Random Pulses, while increasingly shy, are still capable of inter-dimensional travel.

I have only one thing to tell you guys. It is the best I can come up with when I reflect on that night. It is probably the only thing I learned, the only real insight I have had.

As I have gotten older, I have discovered that the universe is indeed totally indifferent to me. I see no real purpose to my life other than what I make of it; the things I value are all I have to give my life meaning. I have never sensed a guide directing me according to some grand plan. I feel such a proposition is preposterous. As time passes, you will come to your own conclusions about such things.

So, what is that one thing, what is that great insight? I have noticed that many people try to convince themselves that they are in love. They will bend over backward to stay in a relationship simply because it would be too inconvenient to leave. Perhaps there are children involved, or maybe one of the people in the relationship can’t stand to be alone. I have seen lots of this. I think, in many ways, these types of behaviors speak to a central notion of what it means to be human.

My insight, though tangentially related, has nothing to do with love; it is about inspiration. You can easily fool yourself, convince yourself, that you are in love, but you will never be able to persuade yourself that you are inspired. You either are, or you aren’t. Inspiration is a funny and fickle thing. For reasons I do not understand, Athena inspired me like no one else I have ever met. I challenge you to fake something like that. Go ahead, attempt to conjure up some inspiration. Let me know how that works out for you. I’ll be waiting right here.

If you ever find yourself truly inspired, do all that you can while it lasts. I got a bunch of essays and a couple of novels out of it. That is not bad. I will say this, try not to waste the opportunity. The Muses are mercurial. I have found that they, just like the universe, are totally indifferent to me. They do not respond well to pleas. They can not be bribed. They simply do not care.

I am a little sad that this volume has come to an end. I will always wonder what I could have created if things were different. Inspiration is rare, and it appears I will never see the source of mine again. I doubt I will get another glance at The Book. I am not being greedy, but I have thought about how nice it would be if I got to peek in there whenever I wanted. I got glimpses of some astonishing things, sights, and sounds that are certainly worthy of further study.

Fortunately for everyone, I am not a poet. I much prefer longer forms to express ideas. But if, instead of an entire book, I needed a pithy description of what happened when we met, I would have to reference the epigraph of this essay. When I heard what Bob Dylan had to say about listening to Leadbelly’s Cottonfields, it resonated strongly with me. Take a look at (or better yet, a listen) to Dylan’s speech; the paragraph about Leadbelly is one I could have written about Athena. When I heard that part of his recording, I was stunned. I felt that at least one other person (other than Tom of The Plain White Ts) has an idea of what might have happened to me when she introduced herself.

So, it appears Bob Dylan and I are kindred spirits; who would have guessed that? I certainly wouldn’t have. And yes, I was more than a little surprised when he was awarded The Nobel Prize. If you had told me that a writer from the United States was going to receive The Literature Prize, I would have bet my house on Philip Roth. I didn’t see Dylan coming…not even a little.

I guess Dylan and Athena amount to about the same thing, don’t they? I never saw either one coming; I had no idea such things were even possible. In my experience, it has always been the things coming out of left field that make life worth living. I still get the biggest kick out of waking up in the morning. I know there is a chance I could write something pretty good, that I could create something inspired, or maybe, just maybe, I could get a peek in The Book.

You all know you are my favorite human beings, right?

Unky Awesome

POSTSCRIPT

And here we are, the end of this volume. It is not going to end with a great bang, but rather a slight whimper. I imagined different ways that the last chapter would end, and while this version is not the one I hoped for or preferred, it is the one I always knew was most probable.

It has been nearly nine years since I met Athena. As I sit here and type, COVID-19 is wreaking havoc throughout much of the world. My state is in lockdown. I am writing a lot.

There are still three CDs on my special shelf, her band has made more music, but I haven’t bothered to listen to it. I haven’t been to a concert; my guess is the show I have written so much about is the last one I will attend. That is just the way things are.

I have been dealing with complications from my running accident from around three and a half years ago. When I fell, I also injured my right hip. It has been bothering me a lot…until four days ago. For reasons I can not explain, my hip stopped hurting. After a year of severe limping, I can run again. I don’t understand any of this, but I am not complaining; I am going to run every day until the pain comes back. Of course, I am rooting for it to stay away; that would make my life a lot easier.

As for final thoughts on Athena, I have nothing more to say. I think I have done a pretty good job documenting that night. I sincerely hope that meeting her remains the strangest thing that has ever happened to me. I simply don’t have it in me to go through something as bizarre as this again.

A Story About A Vacuum Cleaner

Susie Pennington bounced up the stairs to the second floor of her house. She looked at Melvin, the stuffed octopus that followed her everywhere, and said: “What do you think, is Piper going to be excited?” Melvin didn’t respond; he just flopped around in Susie’s right arm. “I’ll bet she will be. Let’s go see her.”

Susie made her way over to the control panel and punched in the code that would allow her to walk up the steps to Piper’s room without setting off the booby traps. It was usually a bucket of water that would pour on any poor trespasser’s head.

Piper was sitting at her favorite desk, both hands feverishly typing Python code as her eyes moved back and forth across her computer screen. She didn’t react when Melvin asked permission to enter.

“Piper, Melvin is asking if he can come in.”

Piper looked and saw Melvin peering around the corner. Susie was shaking him back and forth in an animated attempt to get Piper’s attention.

“So sorry, Melvin. Of course, you can come in. I was in the middle of some complicated code. This project is fighting back; it is not surrendering as easily as I thought it might.”

Susie burst through the door and onto the lap of her sister. She held up Melvin and said, “Hi!”

“Hi yourself. What are you two up to today?”

“Piper, you are not going to believe it, but Daddy said we can get a puppy. We are leaving to go find one in a little bit.”

“Really, you finally wore him down. Are you really going to get a puppy?”

“Yep. Melvin is going too. Do you want to come?”

“Sorry, kiddo. I have a bunch of work I need to get done this morning.”

“You sure you can’t go? It is going to be fun.”

“Go ahead. I trust you and Melvin to pick out the perfect one.”

Susie jumped up, looked at Melvin, and screamed, “WE ARE GETTING A PUPPY!”

Piper almost smiled as she got back to work on her code. The thoughts of a puppy were gone in a few seconds as she directed her concentration back to the computer screen. Her fingers started flying across the keyboard as her eyes narrowed. The easiest thing to do would be to map out the rooms and program the dimensions. The best thing to do would be to set it down in any room, in any house, at any time, and let it do its thing. Hmmm…

Piper paused and took a drink from her water bottle. She tapped her fingers on the desk as she checked the connections on the Raspberry Pi Zero she was using as the brains for her automatic vacuum cleaner. She decided to take the Zero out and put in a regular Raspberry Pi. She grabbed a couple components from a desk drawer and attached them to the new brains. Now the Pi was equipped with night vision and a module to measure the distance from obstacles. Happy with the setup, she got back to coding.

*****

Lieutenant Daniel Pennington parked his car and started to open his door. Before he could get it open, he noticed Susie running as fast as she could to the animal shelter’s front door. She tripped and luckily landed on the grass. Melvin was not as lucky; he face planted on the concrete.

“Um, daddy, I tripped.”

“Yes, you did. Are you ok?”

“Yep. Melvin took the fall a little harder, but he is ok, too.”

“Susie, I know you are excited, but let’s try to get in the shelter in one piece, all right.”

“Yep. Let’s go, daddy-o.”

Susie dusted off Melvin and then took her dad’s hand as they walked through the animal shelter’s front door.

A person who appeared to be a high school kid, probably a volunteer, greeted Susie and her father.

“Hello, how can I help you?”

“We are getting a puppy!”

“You are? Wow, that is exciting.”

“Yep.”

“So, can you take us on a little tour so that my daughter can see what you have to offer?”

“Of course, follow me.”

They made their way down a corridor to a set of swinging doors. Through the doors and to the right and there they were; cage after cage of any and all types of dog. Tails wagged as barks filled the large room.

“Lots of dogs here.”

“Yes. We are a no-kill shelter. All the dogs get exercised every day. We have volunteers who come in and take them for walks and play with them. They have a pretty good life here, but, of course, we would like to find homes for all of these animals.”

Lieutenant Daniel Pennington nodded his head. “That is good to know. Susie, why don’t you and Melvin take a look around.”

“Yep.”

He watched as his daughter skipped down the aisle, her head quickly moving back and forth in an attempt to find the perfect puppy.

“What a cute kid.”

“Yeah, she knows. How is that you have puppies here? I would think this would be a stop of last resort for older animals.”

“That is true. The fact is we get some animals who are pregnant when they arrive here. They have their litters, and then we have puppies.”

“That makes sense.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the screaming of Susie. They both turned to see her bouncing up and down and pointing to a cage.

“Well, sir, I think we have a winner.”

Danny smiled.” I think that is a good bet.”

*****

Piper took a long drink of water. She was close to testing her homemade automatic vacuum. One more walkthrough wouldn’t hurt. She looked over the prototype; it certainly wasn’t a finished product. Parts were exposed and jutting out from all sides. There was no case; the last thing she was going to worry about was how this version looked. The final part of the project would be 3D printing a case. Susie would do most of that. Right now, she was only interested to learn if it would work.

She sat the vacuum down on the floor. It wasn’t a full vacuum, certainly not an upright; it looked more or less like all the other disc-shaped automatic vacuums you see advertised on TV. This one, though, was special. It was straight from the brain of Piper Pandora Pennington.

Piper placed a bunch of books on the floor of her bedroom. Her makeshift obstacle course was ready. She powered on the vacuum, and it came to life. As it approached the first obstacle, a heavy calculus book, it paused and turned, slightly grazing the area where the book met the floor. Perfect.

Piper watched as the vacuum navigated her bedroom floor. She let it run for about ten minutes before picking it up to see if any of the components were overheating. Everything was fine. Test number 1 was a success.

*****

Danny and the shelter volunteer walked down the corridor and reached Susie. Susie hit a pose and casually pointed in the direction of a tiny furball sleeping in a dogfood dish.

“Can I hold him?”

The volunteer smiled as she said, “Of course.”

She opened the cage, and the furball sprang to life. It ran straight to Susie, who sat on the ground to greet him.

“Now, how did I know that this is the puppy your daughter would pick?”

Danny smiled as he watched Susie introduce the puppy to Melvin.

“Is it a male?”

“Yes. He is the last of his litter. The others were recently adopted; they went fast. His mom is still here, and his father was a traveling man.”

“Of course, he was.”

Danny watched Susie and the puppy play on the floor. They certainly were a match.

“Ok, what are you going to name him?”

“I have a name all picked out, but I can’t tell you yet. I have to ask Piper about it first.”

“Fair enough.”

“Yep.”

“I am sure you have some paperwork for me to fill out.”

“Sure do. Right this way.”

As they walked back to the entrance, they were followed by a six-year-old girl, a stuffed octopus, and an animate fur ball that the shelter claimed was a puppy.

*****

Piper took the prototype to Susie’s room. She double-checked the wireless connection and let it go. It was flawless. It avoided all the stuffed animals and table legs. It was quiet, and all the parts remained cool to the touch. She was satisfied that the vacuum was good to go. She brought it back to her room and charged it up. The next test would be that night when she let it loose on the house’s main floor. She was curious as to how it would handle the carpet to hardwood floor transitions. She didn’t anticipate any problems.

*****

Susie burst through the door and started to run up the stairs. She stopped when she realized the puppy was too small to climb up them by himself. She walked back down to scoop him up. Off she went, a puppy in one arm, octopus in the other.

“Piper! Piper! Come look. We got a puppy. Come see. Susie ran into her bedroom and placed the puppy on her bed. Hurry up, Piper.”

Susie and the puppy were playing on the bed when Piper walked into the room. She tried her best to suppress a smile when she saw her sister and the puppy.

“Look, isn’t he cute?”

“Sure is. Looks like a perfect match.”

“Yep.”

“Do you have a name for him?”

“Yep.”

“Well…”

Susie motioned her sister closer and then closer. She whispered the potential name into Piper’s ear.

“Really? You want to name him that?”

“Yep. What do you think? I’ll name him that if you like it.”

Piper, doing her best imitation of her grandmother, said, “In all my years I have never heard of such a name for a dog.”

“Piper, you are only twelve,” Susie said as she tried to control her giggling.

“OK. How much time do I have to think about it?”

“Ummm…until tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds fine. I will give this some deep thought.”

“OK, good. You going to stay and play with us?”

Piper started to get up and walk to the door. She stopped, quickly turned, and attacked her sister with her patented tickle monster technique.

Susie squealed as she, Piper, Melvin, and the puppy rolled around on the bed.

*****

Piper spent the bulk of the day coding. She was confident that the vacuum was getting dialed in. She started designing the parts for the case; she knew Susie was far too excited to be of any help today. She had a new friend she needed to become acquainted with.

Piper thought more about the vision system. The night vision and distance modules were sticking up out of the top of the disc. It made the vacuum look like it had eyes. She thought that was pretty cool, so she didn’t bother to encase them with the rest of the parts. She knew it was only a matter of time before Susie gave the module eyebrows, eyelashes, and maybe a nose and mustache. And, of course, there were the obligatory unicorn stickers that were bound to fill up the rest of the case.

*****

“Ok, Susie. You know you have to take care of this dog, right? He is going to be totally relying on you.”

Karen, playing the part of the skeptical step-mother, rolled her eyes as Susie said, “Yep, daddy-o. Melvin and I are on the job.”

“He has to be fed regularly, and you have to make sure he always has lots of water.”

“Yep. Piper and…Piper, Melvin, and I are going to make an automatic dog feeder and water thing. We are going to print all the parts ourselves. Piper said it won’t take long to write the code.”

He looked at his daughter while Karen once again rolled her eyes. “Well, what about house training him? Have you figured out how that is going to work?”

“Yep. No problem, daddy-o.” Susie jumped into her father’s arms. “No problem at all. Thanks for the puppy, daddy-o.”

*****

Night came quick. The puppy was put in a cage in the laundry room for the night. He was squared away with toys, water, and a bowl of food. Susie’s dad and Karen went to bed while Susie tried her best to sleep. Piper, as always, was working up in her room. Rumor had it that she did sleep every once in a while, but empirical evidence on that subject was scant at best.

At about 1:00 in the morning, Piper grabbed her vacuum and headed downstairs to the living room. She placed the vacuum down by a coffee table and retreated to the kitchen to grab an apple. As she was about to take a bite, she heard whimpering coming from the laundry room. An unhappy puppy was making his situation known.

Piper checked her watch. The Raspberry Pi vacuum was set to come to life in three minutes. The hope was that it competently worked its way throughout the living room without getting caught up in any obstacles. She decided she didn’t need to see it work; she had a puppy in distress that needed her attention.

Piper played with the puppy, put him back in his cage and then went to check on the vacuum. She found it in a different spot in the middle of the room. Everything looked good. It appeared that the plastic disc had done its job. Piper checked her watch; the vacuum was to come to life in another three hours. She decided to go back to her room and start on the dog feeder project that Susie wanted to do.

*****

Morning came early, as it usually does with a six-year-old and a new puppy. Susie ran down the stairs to check on her new friend. She stopped a few steps from the bottom. “Oh no Melvin, this is not good.” Susie shook Melvin’s head up and down in agreement.

“We better get Piper.”

Susie punched the code into the control panel and ascended the steps to her sister’s room.

“Susie, what are you doing up so early?”

“Ummm…Piper?”

“Yeah?”

“So, the puppy…”

“The puppy, what?”

“Ummm…I think the puppy pooped.”

“Well, puppies will do that.”

“Yeah, but…I think you better follow me.”

Piper kissed her sister on the top of the head and said, “Lead the way.”

As they descended the steps, the automatic lighting Piper and Susie designed woke up. Piper’s head sunk as she fully realized what had happened.

“How did the puppy get out of his cage, Piper?”

Piper tried to lift her head out of her hands, but she couldn’t. She knew exactly what had happened. She hadn’t fastened the cage door when she put the puppy back in.

“Oh, Susie. This is a disaster.”

“Yep. Melvin and I thought the same.”

Piper had thought about putting flour or something similar on the floor to check the coverage her vacuum was getting. That was supposed to happen down the road. She would also do more experiments with the vision and distance modules to get them working exactly like she wanted. She didn’t expect to get the data in this way.

Susie looked at her sister. Put her arm around her and said, “Well, we know your vacuum works; that is a good thing.”

Piper lifted her head out of her hands and focused on the streaks of dog poop that covered the entire room. The vision module was pointing too high; it missed the dog mess and pushed the pile all over the room.

Piper shook her head.” How could such a little dog poop so much?”

“I dunno, but he did.”

“You better go find him. Be careful where you step.”

Susie went straight to the laundry room and found the puppy sleeping in the middle of his cage.

She brought him back to the steps, and all of them sat back down. Piper once again had her head in her hands. She was slowly rocking back and forth. Susie sat Melvin down beside her. The puppy tried to sit on Piper’s lap, but he wasn’t strong enough to make the climb. Susie picked him up and placed him on her sister’s legs.

Piper looked down at the little furball, over at the brown streaks, and then at Susie. “OK, little sister, Dogzilla, it is.”

A Few Thoughts on Stephen Hawking…

The Nobel Prize for physics was announced the other day. I was shocked when I heard who the winners were. Was it because I didn’t think Roger Penrose, Reinhard Genzel, and Andrea Ghez didn’t deserve the award? Not at all, my issue is with the timing of the announcement.

Penrose, Genzel, and Ghez were recognized for their work on Black Holes. Certainly, they could have (and should have) recognized these three a few years ago when Stephen Hawking was still alive. Hawking surely would have shared in the prize. Black Holes were his thing, he got Issac Newton’s old job at Cambridge University because of his insight into those pesky entities that popped out of Albert Einstein’s equations.

The Nobel Prize can not be awarded posthumously, so Hawking, who died in 2018, was not honored. I find that very curious. I decided to write a short post about it because I have a pretty good idea why the Nobel Committee waited until after Hawking’s death to give out Nobel Prizes for research on Black Holes.

Scientists do not like publicity seekers. And if you want to know the truth, those scientists who write books for a general audience, or take the time to educate the public on television, are not always viewed with high esteem. I have lots of stories to back up my claims.

Carl Sagan, the astronomer, was denied tenure at Harvard University due to his high profile. Sagan, as some of you might remember, made numerous appearances on The Tonight Show way back when Johnny Carson was the host. He was also the host of Cosmos, a popular science show on PBS.

Few people would argue that popularizers of science are a bad thing. This country needs more scientists to stand up and engage the public. The problem is that when people do that, it creates issues with their colleagues. I was always taught that a good scientist, a real scientist, puts their head down and gets to work. Fame is (and could be nothing more) than a distraction.

Stephen Jay Gould, the famous evolutionary biologist who wrote hundreds of essays for a general audience, was nearly denied tenure at Harvard. The simple fact is, the other professors in his department felt he should be spending more time doing basic research and less time on television.

One of those professors was E.O. Wilson, one of the greatest scientists who has ever lived. I mention Wilson because he recently called Richard Dawkins, another top scientist, a “journalist” because Dawkins spends so much time engaging the public in an attempt to educate the masses on scientific matters. Dawkins’ book, The Selfish Gene,” is one of the most important ever written. Many academics feel that Dawkins’ time would be better spent writing technical articles on the nature of those selfish genes than debating religious leaders on evolution.

One last story has to do with a couple drunks I used to work with. One guy, an archaeologist who was constantly drinking, nearly got into a fistfight with another archaeologist, one who was only drunk half the time, over stories about digs that kept showing up in the newspaper. The half-drunk guy lived for publicity, the drunk guy lived to drink. And yes, it was a combustible combination.

I think it is safe to say that Stephen Hawking, a man whom Homer Simpson referred to as “that wheelchair guy,” was the most famous scientist alive. When you consider that Penrose collaborated with Hawking, and that most of the seminal papers were published in the 1960s, it is fairly safe to say that the committee delayed the award on purpose. You might ask: Is it really possible that they would wait out Hawking until he died to award the research on Black Holes? Are human beings really that petty and cruel? Are those questions rhetorical or are the answers obvious?

I will stop here. I have lots of work to do, my office is right down the road and there are lots of folders on my desk. The only way I will ever get it all done is to put my head down and get to work.

A Very Short Conversation

He saw her, she couldn’t have known it, but he was eyeing her the entire time. His giant sunglasses, the kind old people wear after cataract surgery, disguised his intent. Or course, he never had any such surgery, but Buford Lister was always ready to take any advantage, any edge, he could muster.

She’s got to be a reporter. No other possible reason for a beautiful woman to keep looking in my direction. Definitely a reporter. Damn, she is beautiful. Oh no, I recognize her now. Someone knew what they were doing when they sent her my way. C’mon man, have a little self-respect, don’t give her a nod or wave her over. Let her know immediately that she is wasting her time.

She got up, sexily walked toward her mark, and sat down beside him.

Author’s Note: Stephen King wrote a fantastic book on how to write. I have never read one of his novels (I am not a big horror guy), but I have read some of his shorter stuff. He is an excellent writer, and the book he wrote, called On Writing, is required reading for anyone who feels the need to waste lots of time at a keyboard. One of the things that King says is that adverbs are to be avoided at all costs. Why? Ah, I should make you read the book to find the answer to that question, but I know no one reading this will, so I will spit it out. If you are using adverbs, there is a good chance you are “telling” instead of “showing,” and any writer knows that tends to be bad. Oddly enough, the one adverb King did make an exception for is “sexily.” You know, I was there and let me tell you King was right. I mean damn…really…DAMN!

“You must be Buford Lister, my name is Cindy Carlson.”

She extended her hand, and our hero didn’t react at all. After a few awkward seconds, he let out an exaggerated yawn.

“Well, they did tell me you are difficult. Still, I thought you would at least speak to me. I guess I was wrong.”

As she got up to leave, her yoga pants undulated in an unexpected way. The movements reminded the old man of a time and place long gone. This woman, this reporter, brought back a flood of memories. It was instantaneous. Every thought was unwelcome. The worst part is that he knew that she was only using him. Her only objective was getting her assignment done. After a bit, Buford Lister decided he didn’t much care.

“You know, the only reason I am letting you sit back down is that you remind me of someone. A woman I knew a long, long time ago.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting… It’s not your wife that passed away decades ago, is it?”

Buford Lister watched her as she reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a copy of The Lister Affair. She immediately opened it to a picture near the middle.

“So, should I tell you how often I hear that I strongly resemble Susan Lister?”

All the old man could do was shake his head and expel a small sigh.

“So, what is it you want with me? Do you wish to interview me about that large piece of trash you are holding? Good luck with that young lady, you are going to need it.”

“Do you mind if I turn on my tape recorder?” she asked as she pulled it out of her black bag. She waved it in front of his face for effect. It didn’t work.

“You know, it is getting late, I think I’ll head home before it gets dark.”

“Uh, it is around noon. Won’t be dark for a long time yet.”

“Yeah, well it is dusk somewhere, so I better be moving along.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

Buford Lister threw his arms up in the air and shrugged his shoulders. She hurried to his side and matched his cadence.

“We want to do a cover piece on you. I just want to ask you a series of open-ended questions and let you take the interview in any direction you want. We will also give you final say over what does and does not go to print. How does that sound?”

“Not interested. Not even a little.”

“You don’t even know which publication I work for. How can you turn me down if you don’t know what the project is all about?”

“I get 50 calls and 50 emails every day. Every person has an incredible offer for me: poker magazines, science websites, the big networks asking about a sitdown with some star reporter. I am telling you what I tell each of them. No.”

“Fine. Well, I guess I made a long trip for nothing.”

“Sure looks like it.”

As she started to walk faster, Buford Lister slowed down to get a better view. He was glad he was too old to be suckered in by a beautiful woman. It was liberating in a fairly profound way. Of course, that didn’t mean that he didn’t want to watch as she made her getaway.

After she disappeared around a corner, Buford Lister walked into one of his haunts, a small cafe that was usually empty. He had no idea how the place stayed in business. He took his usual table in the back, retrieved a notebook from his backpack, and began to write.

This is what he wrote…

I have always said that democracy is an experiment; The United States of America is an experiment, a big and important one. The experiment is failing. I am concerned.

In America, the divisions between us are now much stronger than what unites us. The tone is nasty, and the mood is nastier. Apparently, reasonable people can’t disagree anymore. People who hold different beliefs are simpletons at best, and Un-American at worst.

When I was a kid, my teachers, such as they were, constantly told my classmates and me that America was a melting pot. That was an absolute lie. This country was never a melting pot. It appears to me that people choose to live with people who look like them and think like them. They want the others to stay away, to keep to their part of town. Is this simply human nature? Maybe. I hope not but maybe.

I am writing this because Cindy Carlson, the reporter (some would say the fascist, right-wing, racist), approached me in a park today. I was out for a walk and sat down to take in the scenery. There wasn’t a lot going on, no kids playing, and just a lone runner making his way down a trail. That is where she found me, at my favorite bench overlooking the lake.

Why would she want to talk to me? I really don’t know. She had a copy of that damn book, the one that is making my life even more miserable than it was before. I am sure she brought it because she wanted to make sure I knew what a strong resemblance she has to my long-dead wife. Did she think I am too old to remember what Susan looked like? Did she think I didn’t know about the damn doppelganger effect? All I know is I was floored the first time I saw Cindy Carlson on TV. I thought I was looking at a damn ghost.

Misty, the only person working at the cafe, brought a large beer to Buford Lister’s table. She didn’t bother placing it on the coaster only a few inches away.

“Your sandwich will be done in a minute.”

Buford Lister nodded his approval and returned to his notebook.

I am too old to talk about things that happened a lifetime ago. When did all that stuff happen? 50, 60 years ago? I buried that period of my life when I buried Susan. I want to use the time I have left more constructively. I am not going to waste my time looking through the rearview mirror. I am going to spend my remaining days with my eyes glued to the windshield.

If you want to interview me about the direction this country is taking, then you can email me. If you want to ask me about the state of science and mathematics in a country that has rejected rationality, then send your questions, and I will reply with my typed answers. We will not be meeting in person.

If you ask me anything about the events in The Lister Affair, I will end the email thread immediately.

Buford Lister took his cell phone from his backpack. He took pictures of the notebook pages he had scribbled on and immediately sent them to Cindy Carlson. Funny how this old man who had seen it all and been through the pit of hell and back already had her in his contacts.

I am Nearly Done with Athena

All I know is if I ever again react to a female like I did when I met her, I am running as fast as I can in the opposite direction.
Buford Lister (personal communication)

It took me over 9 years to finish my book about the punk rocker chick with the sunburst Telecaster. A lot has happened since that seemingly normal night in Cleveland so long ago. Pulmonary Embolisms have done their best on two different occasions to try to take me out. They nearly succeeded but here I am, standing tall and tapping on these rectangular keys.

When it comes to my Athena Chapters, all anyone really wants to talk about is love, that pesky emotion that can set upon anyone of us at the most inopportune of times. I understand that. Sometimes I think it takes up 90% of the special category of what makes us human.

As unbelievable as it may sound, I did fall for someone after I met Athena. It came straight out of left field. I never saw it coming, didn’t anticipate it, and wasn’t too happy when it dawned upon me what was happening. I still vividly remember the morning I realized I had let something happen that never should have happened. I paused, shook my head, and softly said “dammit.”

Of course, it was never going to work for reasons I am not going to get in to. No, she wasn’t married nor was she engaged or otherwise in a serious relationship. There were just circumstances, those pesky little circumstances. It’s the little things that mean the most, right? It is because of those unfixable and unsolvable conditions that I remain alone.

Author’s Note: The important point here is that he did not sit down to write a book about her, the object of his love and affection. Why is that? If you can figure that out then you are on your way to understanding The Athena Chapters. As for understanding Ryan-Tyler N. Mason, know that when people ask him about Life of Pi (and they do), all he ever says is “You know, there was no tiger.”

I am rapidly approaching 60 and I am working way too much, sleeping far too much, and trying my best to make the most of the time I have left. I know that the only important thing I have left to do is to write. I still feel the need to leave behind a record of what it was like to be me. The fact that virtually no one reads my stuff has not discouraged me at all. It really hasn’t, I will keep plugging away until I get too old and tired to do it.

Author’s Note: He glossed over that, didn’t he? Do you think the woman he is talking about knows who she is? Doubtful…extremely doubtful. I think (as if my opinion matters) that he still loves her and that makes for a very sad state of affairs. In the general context of things, though, it might be appropriate, if inconvenient. Once again, though, I have never seen The Universe go out of its way to accommodate him. He is simply one of “those” guys.

As anyone who reads my blog knows, I spent 6 years at Harvard, my “Good old Days.” I have been wondering if I can get back there one day. Can you imagine spending your last years roaming around that campus? Unless you have been there I guess you can’t imagine it. My new cardiologist spent many years at Harvard. Just the other day I was telling her that Harvard is my bliss, that I miss that place every single day. I wasn’t lying. I have been gone so long that it sometimes feels like a dream that I was ever there. I haven’t been on that campus in nearly 30 years even though the sense of wonder that permeated me when I was there has not drifted away. It remains a magical place, one full of possibilities, to this day.

There is one more chapter coming about the mysterious Athena. I will post it soon. I think it will feel good to get it all over with, maybe then I can feel a sense of resolution. Doubtful, but a possibility nonetheless.

My beer is nearly empty and I am very tired. I will leave you with one of my favorite song lyrics. Dustin Hoffman once asked Paul McCartney to write a song about the death of Pablo Picasso, the result is one of my favorite songs by one of my best-loved musicians. The following lyrics are from Picasso’s Last Words (Drink To Me).

The grand old painter died last night
His paintings on the wall
Before he went he bade us well
And said goodnight to us all
Drink to me, drink to my health
You know I can’t drink anymore
Drink to me, drink to my health
You know I can’t drink anymore

And so it goes…

The Athena Chapters: Chapter Thirteen

Random Thoughts from a Nonlinear Mind: Volume 2: The Athena Chapters,
Chapter Thirteen:
Collatz

The Muses are fickle, nasty little figments. They have their own agenda, and they make their own schedule.
The Plumber to Buford Lister after a couple of months of spinning their wheels.

In 1937 a German mathematician named Lothar Collatz offered the world an easy, yet fascinating, problem. One so simple that I recently presented it to my niece (4^th grade) and nephews (7^th, 5^th, and 2^nd). They all understood it, and they spent some time looking at it. Here it is:

Take any positive integer you want; if it is even, then divide it by two. If the number is odd, then multiply it by three and then add one. That is it; there is nothing more to the problem. What Collatz said is that all positive integers, when run through this process, will find their way to one. That is The Collatz Conjecture.

If n = odd, then 3n + 1

If n = even, then n/2

EXAMPLE: n=9

9,28,14,7,22,11,34,17,52,26,13,40,20,10,5,16,8,4,2,1.

To this day, no proof has been offered, and no counterexample has been found.

*****

Buford Lister was getting tired; he was already old (he had been old and tired for a while now). Old and tired, two words that fit together nicely. Whenever anyone bothered to ask him how he was (which, trust me, wasn’t often), he would say, “I am feeling old and tired. How about you?” He virtually never got a proper response. As you and I know, most of the time, when people ask you how you are doing, the last thing they really want to know is how you are doing. They intend the question as a kind of greeting, nothing more.

The worries were starting to outkick their coverage, there were things Buford Lister needed to get done, and he was coming to the realization that his eyes just might be too big for his deteriorating brain. It didn’t help that he was thinking so hard and so deeply that he was falling asleep way too often and sleeping far too long. He now understood why Paul Erdos, one of the most prolific mathematicians who ever lived, took all those drugs. For reasons I am unsure of, he never thought about taking them himself. I think he viewed them as some sort of cheating. At least that is the best I can come up with; contrary to what some might think, he was not an easy man to get to know.

Most afternoons, he could be found haunting the math and science library of a local university. He was more specter than patron. People would see a figure darting through the stacks, on some sort of mission or other, and then, barely a few minutes later, deep into a book while he seemed to scribble on his yellow legal pad in a vicious and random pattern. There was a no beverage policy in the library, but that never stopped him. His backpack was full of beer, cleverly and stealthily concealed in plastic bottles. No one ever bothered to question him as he drained one bottle after the other.

Author’s Note: One day, an odd thing happened. You need to understand that most days passed normally for him. It just so happens that I write about the unusual days, you would not be interested in the others. In no way am I saying that Buford Lister was a magnet for strange and odd things, but he did appear to find himself in unusual situations more than an average person. This is what happened…

Buford Lister was looking for a specific book on elliptic curves. He couldn’t recollect the author, but he remembered what the cover of the book looked like. He was frantically pulling books out of the shelves and then quickly putting them back after he saw that the cover wasn’t the one he was looking for.

“What are you doing? If you pull a book, you have to put it on the table. You can’t just put it back. That is how the books get all mixed up.”

Ah, an incredulous voice…a female no less. Sounds young.

He turned to see a woman who appeared to be in her mid-20s. She was wearing sweatpants and a Harvard sweatshirt, three sizes too big for her. He knew from experience that the baseball cap she was wearing was hiding hair that hadn’t been washed for a week or so.

“I am looking for a book if that is OK with you.”

“What do you need with a book in this section?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“Look, I need all these books.”

She pointed toward the end of the aisle. “My study carrel is right over there. I don’t need anyone messing with these books. Each one of these books needs to be in its proper place when I look for it.”

“Oh, you need them for reference?”

“Yes, of course, I do. What kind of question is that?”

“Can’t remember the relevant facts yourself? When I was your age, I read something once, and I held it right here.”

He shook his right index finger up against his temple. “I didn’t need a damn library for reference.”

She squinted hard at him. “Whatever.”

Buford Lister paused. He had a decision to make. Did he wish to engage this person further, or did he just want to drop the whole thing? Before he could decide, he found himself talking.

“You know, perhaps you should go back and review a little Socrates, he had a lot to say about topics such as this. The more you write things down, the more you risk dulling the mind, right?”

She shook her head. “Leave my books alone. If you have to pull one out, place it on an empty table. Please, just put it on a table.”

She quickly turned and darted back to her study carrel. She put on a large set of headphones and dropped her head. Buford Lister went back to his search.

Author’s Note: When Buford Lister was a young man, he knew a character named Hondo. Hondo always seemed to be at the bar when the guys went out for a drink after a hard day (or in the middle of one). Hondo was always dispensing unsolicited life advice to all the young men who came across his path. No one seemed to know much about him, but everyone liked him. He was interesting enough, but more importantly, he wasn’t some kind of crank or crackpot. He seemed harmless.

One day Hondo sat down to school Buford Lister and a couple of the other guys who happened to be at the table. Buford Lister smiled to himself as he thought back about that day. He could hear Hondo’s voice, that deep, gravely New England voice:

“OK guys, let’s say you are at a big club, lots of women. I mean lots of them. Let’s also stipulate that you are on a mission to see as many of them as possible. Perhaps you are going to do some kind of caveman analysis of how the women look. I would hope none of you would do that, but we all know most of you math and science guys have a hard time unplugging. Let’s just say that you want to view as many women as possible, whatever your reasons. What do you do? What…Do…You…Do?”

Buford Lister could see Hondo’s thick fingers pointing at each of the young men in turn. What…Do…You…Do? His smile was growing larger as he took himself back to that long-ago time and place.

One guy said he would systematically walk around the place and look. “Wrong,” Hondo said.

“On the face of it, that seems to be reasonable, but no, I think there is a better way. You boys have any idea?”

Buford Lister remembered nodding “No” along with the other guys.

“Now listen, what you do is you get a seat near the women’s restroom. The odds are very good that almost all the women are going to come to you. This strategy worked very well for my friends and me when I was young. The best strategy really is as simple as that.”

Buford Lister did not tell Hondo that strategy had been a “go-to” for years. It didn’t hurt anything if they all let Hondo feel good about himself for a bit. It didn’t hurt anything at all.

Buford Lister shook his head a little and got his focus back; he ran his index finger along the rows of books. He was sure the one he needed had a red cover and was written by some Italian guy. He kept searching; he knew the information he needed was in one of the appendices, either the first or the second. Finally, he found it. He was pretty close. The cover was red, the author was an Indian guy, and the information he was after was in Appendix II.

He scribbled in his pad (Take that Socrates!). He wrote down the citation he needed and some cryptic symbols that meant something to him. They must have been intended to represent the contents of Appendix II even though I have no idea how that is possible. After he got done, he looked over at the woman in the carrel. C’mon get up…

Sure enough, she did get up. Earlier in the day, he had noticed the 44-ounce plastic cup on her desk. Like most things, it was just a matter of time.

He got up and moved toward her desk. He had to; the compulsion was nearly overwhelming. He knew Hondo would be proud of him, applying his advice in an inverse fashion. He had to know: What was a strange woman doing in his section of the library, at least the section that he had his most recent claim on it? He sat down in her chair and looked over her notes. He saw the crude, hand-drawn figure (a series of numbers connected to form something resembling the branch of a tree) in her notebook and, in a few seconds, got all the confirmation he needed. He was furiously nodding his head when she turned and started screaming at him.

“Hey, get away from there. What are you doing? Get away from my table. What is wrong with you? Now! I mean it, get up right now!”

Buford Lister slowly stood up. He knew the days were long gone when he could charm such a person. She wasn’t interested in anything he had to say. If he were substantially younger, then there wouldn’t have been any problem, he simply would have asked her what she was doing, and she would have obliged with a guided tour. The difficulty is that person vanished into the ether decades ago.

“Oh, settle down. Number one, those are my books. That is my shelf. I owned it long before your parents even knew each other. Number two, if you need that much caffeine to concentrate, then you should take it in pill form. And finally, and by finally I mean number three, you need a simpler problem. You will never, ever solve that!” He pointed to her notebook and then turned to go back to gather his things. He almost made it to his desk.

“Who the hell do you think you are to tell me what I can and can not do? I fully intend to solve that problem, and I do not need an old fossil crawling out of some basement to tell me that I can’t do it. You don’t know me; you don’t know anything about me.”

“Sure, I do.”

“All right then, who am I?”

He wanted to say You are me about 40 or 50 years ago. Instead, he said, “I have seen young people like you, in one incarnation or another, for decades now.”

She paused and took a good, hard look at him. He was relieved when he saw no sense of recognition in her eyes. He was looking away when she glanced down at his shoes. She seemed to relax a little.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said. And I will tell you another thing, your adviser didn’t give you that problem, and he or she certainly does not know that you are seriously working on it.”

“I am done with school. I got my degree a few years ago. I am an assistant professor at…”

“OH BOY! Are you from a parallel universe or something. Were you sent here to torment me? Is this another one of those “Watch This” moments I have read so much about?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. So, let me get this straight, you are a number theorist, and you think you can solve that problem?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t.”

“I believe I can.”

“And if you don’t, you will never get tenure at a good university. You will find yourself teaching uninteresting mathematics to uninterested students at some fifth-rate university.”

“What makes you say that?”

“That is just the way of the world.”

She seemed stunned. She was definitely off-kilter. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, she heard a harsh reality.

She decided she needed to keep the conversation going. “Have you tried to solve Collatz?”

“In a serious way? Of course not. The mathematics needed to solve that piece of nonsense does not yet exist. If you are going to solve it, you are going to need to invent whole new branches of math. You up for that? You think that is easily done? You think you can just whip that up with the wave of a hand?”

“I think I have a good approach in mind.”

“I saw it.”

“You couldn’t have possibly seen it.”

“I saw enough. You are striding head-on into a very large and stout mathematical wall. You just are too young and blind to see it.”

She crossed her arms and looked sternly at the old man.

“Similar approaches have been tried for decades. Unfortunately for you, there is no good repository of dead ends. There is no reward for becoming a contributing member of the journal of failed results. The only reason I know about them is the Mathematical Grapevine, a thing you have yet to become a dues-paying member of.”

She actually stomped her right foot on the ground, quickly turned, and walked back to her carrell. Buford Lister packed up his things and left out a side door marked Emergency Exit Only. No alarms went off as it shut behind him.

*****

“Mathematics may not be ready for such problems.”
Paul Erdos on The Collatz Conjecture.

Terence Tao was a child prodigy. When he was 7, he started learning calculus. Fortunately for all of us, he did not burn out; he is now a professor of mathematics at UCLA. Back in 2011, he wrote a fascinating blog post about The Collatz Conjecture. He referred to the problem as “One of the most notorious in elementary mathematics…” He also wrote that the problem was “unlikely to be proven by current technology.” Simply stated, the problem is very hard.

It has been shown that all numbers up to 2⁶⁰ do comply with the conjecture. Of course, this is not a proof; there are infinitely more numbers to test. In fact, such approaches (taking the numbers in sequence and running the algorithm) are usually undertaken to find a counterexample, thereby disproving the conjecture. When my computers are idle, one of the things they do is crunch numbers in an increasingly vain attempt to disprove The Collatz Conjecture. I think nearly everyone with a stake agrees that the conjecture is most likely true. That said, good luck proving it. To give everyone a better understanding of the problem, I have included a figure, the only one in this volume. Below is a Collatz Tree for the numbers 1 through 10. You can see that all 10 numbers work their way to 1. Imagine what the tree would look like with hundreds or thousands (or trillions) of numbers. Some people think the trees are quite beautiful.

*****

Buford Lister walked the three blocks to his favorite bar; it was his best haunt because it was never busy, had lots of beer, and the food was edible. He found his preferred table, a large one near the back by doors with the signs that said Dudes and Chicks.

Before he was able to sit down, his usual server walked over. They instantly began their vaudeville routine, presented exclusively for the enjoyment of themselves.

“So, what will you have?”

In a deep and aggressive tone, he said, “I shall have a cheeseburger and a coke.”

“Very good, sir.” With that, she was off to the kitchen.

Buford Lister unpacked his yellow pad. He started spinning a pen between two of his fingers in his right hand. He drew a square on the center of the page. He was about to draw another when he spotted her. The woman from the library had apparently followed him. She came directly to his table and sat down across from him.

“Who are you? Are you who I think you are?”

“How could I possibly know who you think I am?” He looked her directly in the eye, and he did not like what he saw. He glimpsed a hint of recognition.

“I am an old man trying to sit in peace. That is what I am.”

“OK, old man. I am going to tell you a story. A few years ago, when I was in graduate school, I was at a party. There were a bunch of academic types there, writers, actors, that type of thing.”

“Boy, does that sound exciting. Sorry I missed it.”

“Actually, a very interesting thing happened that night. Bruno Suarez was there holding court as he always did. You ever heard of Bruno?”

Buford Lister did not like where this was going, but she was not going to leave him alone. That much was clear.

“Never heard of him.”

She looked him over with a skeptical eye. “Well, he is a Nobel Laureate physicist. He has written a bunch of popular books. He is one of those public intellectuals, on TV quite a bit and…”

She stopped because Buford Lister could not contain himself anymore. He had started chuckling. He wanted to tell her that he had stories about Bruno that would curl her toes, but he thought better of it.

“Ugh, of course you know who he is. That was a stupid question for me to ask.”

“So, why bring up my buddy Bruno? What did he do now?”

“Well, at that party, he told an interesting story about a young man who was on the cusp of a brilliant mathematical insight that was going to directly impact almost every academic discipline, at least those that had a quantitative component to them.”

“Being at the cusp of anything does not get you home.” He took a big swig of beer. “What did Bruno say happened to this brilliant young man?”

“He told a story about this conference where the young man presented his research. It was a major deal, lots of buzz. People showed up from all over the world to hear this lecture.”

“Then what happened?”

“I think you know damn well what happened.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I think that because there are not a lot of 70 or 80-year-old men walking around wearing Vans held together with duct tape and sporting farmer’s overalls to complete the ensemble. You know, I think at some point those used to be shoes even though you are wearing them like slippers. It is almost like they used to fit you when you were a kid, but as your feet started to flatten out, you crushed the back part and turned them into slippers. You have to be Buford Lister, the only man I know of to have special thinking shoes.”

Buford Lister tugged on his beard while she reached in her backpack.

“Here, recognize this?”

She handed a book to him. He looked hard at it. He flipped it over and glanced at the front cover.

In big block letters, it said THE LISTER AFFAIR. It was embellished with mathematical symbols, most prominently large “-1s” appearing in a random sequence throughout the cover.

“Interesting.” He placed the book on the table between the two of them. “What do you want?”

“So, it is you. I have been reading and rereading this book since I heard Bruno tell me the story of what happened.”

“He told you his version of what he thought happened.”

“I suppose that is true.”

“It is. So, what do you want?”

Just as she was about to answer, the server came back to the table with a turkey sub and a large stein filled with beer.

As she set it down, Buford Lister looked at her. “What is this?”

“Your order, you said you wanted a turkey sub and a beer.”

“I said no such thing. I ordered a cheeseburger and a Coke.”

“You most certainly did not. You ordered a turkey sub and a beer.”

“I may be old, but I remember what I ordered a few minutes ago. I wanted a cheeseburger and a Coke.”

“Sir, you ordered a turkey sub and a beer.”

Buford Lister stood up, pounded the table, said, “I think not!” and then disappeared into the restroom.

The server looked at the young woman and said, “He does that every day. We go through the same routine.”

“Every single day?”

“Just about.”

Minutes went by until Buford Lister returned to the table.

“Nice routine. Does that get funnier every time you do it?”

“Do what?”

She let out a great sigh. “Do you want to help me?”

“Help you with what?”

“I am tackling Collatz, and I could use your insight.”

“What makes you think I would have anything to say about that mess?”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

Buford Lister took a long swig from his personal stein, one kept in the cooler, especially for him.

“You, young lady, are sadly mistaken. Even if I wanted to, and I don’t, I couldn’t help you. No one can help you. The mathematics required to solve that problem do not yet exist. I believe I told you that already.”

“I think they do. I think I have a route to a solution.”

“Good for you. The road to perdition is paved with people a hell of a lot smarter than you who said the same thing.”

“Drink your beer. Maybe it will calm you down. I don’t want to have to watch you keel over at the table.”

He took a long series of gulps. One glance at the server, and she took the stein for the first of its daily refills.

“I can’t help you. And I do not understand why you would want my help anyway.”

She held THE LISTER AFFAIR up in the air and waved it at him. “Have you read this book?”

“No. I was there. Why would I read that nonsense?”

“There was a time that you would have taken a problem like this by the throat. The book makes that very clear.”

“That was way before you were born.”

“There is nothing left of that man?”

“No. He is long gone.”

She took out a sheet of paper with a crudely drawn Collatz Tree. “See anything interesting about this?”

“Young lady, I have seen thousands of those. I have seen a lot more of those than you have. I have looked at them sideways, long ways, upside down, and backward. I have put the funnel to the side, on top, the bottom. I have used base 2 and 6. I have painted a large 4, 2, and 1 on a wall at my house. There is nothing you have seen that I have not.”

“So, what did you see? What can you tell me that could possibly give me some insight?”

He ripped some turkey from the sub. “I always tell them not to bring me a pickle, and yet there it is. I hate pickles. Want my pickle?”

She grabbed the pickle.

Buford Lister called the server over. “Get her whatever she wants and put it on my tab.”

Buford Lister got up to go back to the bathroom. “One of the wonders of age,” he said as he walked away.

When he got back to the table, he saw another sandwich and another very large beer.

“Isn’t it a bit early for you to be drinking?”

“I could say the same to you.”

She took a bite of her sandwich. “You know, I can see the young man in this book,” she said as she looked him in the eye. “He isn’t readily evident, but when I look real close, I can see him.” She opened the book to a page of pictures. They were pictures Buford Lister hadn’t seen in a very long time. Some of them he had never seen before. He grabbed the book from her and looked through the 16 pages of pictures that were included in the middle section. In the photos that showed his feet, he saw the very same shoes he was wearing, his now-famous thinking shoes.

“This stuff is very dangerous. Why did you show me that? Do you think that was a particularly happy time in my life? Do you think I look back on that time and smile?”

“I don’t know. I never really thought about it.”

“I try never to look back. Lots of ghosts back there. I tell you what, when they find me, they are going to see that I was looking through the windshield, not the rearview mirror. I try to leave the past buried, right where it belongs.”

“You don’t like to think about your good old days?”

“Young lady, I am delusional enough to think that my good old days, as you call them, are still in front of me. I base my life on that dubious proposition.”

“OK. I understand.”

“No, you don’t. You can not possibly understand until you get much older. Only then will you fully understand the depth and consequence of the seemingly inconsequential decisions you made along the way.”

When Buford Lister looked at her, he saw a confused young lady looking back at him.

“Time is the only commodity I have. You don’t know it yet, but it is the only commodity you have, too. You may think it is on your side, but it is stalking you. It is not your friend; you are not on a casual stroll together. It is the enemy, and you are up against an opponent who is undefeated.”

“So, you won’t help me with Collatz because you don’t have the time?”

“I won’t help you because I can’t. I looked at the problem. I spent lots of time on it. I went through Wiles’ paper on Fermat just looking for a hint, a subtle clue as to how even start. I found nothing. I looked at the patterns. I wrote computer programs to do the calculations and then graph the results. I looked for any patterns, any at all. If they are there, they remain hidden, elusive. I studied the steps, just the number of steps. I did a statistical analysis of the steps required to get home, and I found nothing. If there is a pattern, it is well hidden. If there is a reason for the numbers falling the way they do, then it exists in a realm unknown to me. There might well be a pattern, a simple explanation, maybe even one straight from Erdos’ book, but if it is there, it resides in a dimension that I have not been granted access to.”

“Maybe you were just knocking on the wrong doors. Maybe there is a way in. Just because you couldn’t find it does not mean it is not there.”

“Of course. I understand that better than you ever will. There are patterns all around us, the lives we choose to lead create new patterns out of the ether. Perhaps there is a sublime beauty in there somewhere if only we look hard enough. Let me ask you, is there a purposefulness in the patterns of your life?”

“I don’t know. I would like to think so.”

Buford Lister laughed out loud. “Of course, you hope so. No one wants to actually believe that the universe isn’t put there for their edification. Deep down, everyone wants to believe that they are the center of the universe, that everything was put there just for them. They want to believe that all the other people are simply actors in a play centered around their own lives. Just like Job’s kids, everyone else is just a prop. Birth happens under a Proscenium Arch, and everyone else in the world is a figment of some unimaginable power’s imagination. The patterns you see in your life can only be explained if you take such a view. Be it Collatz or any other patterns; it is all the same. You, like everyone else, have a very difficult time believing that the patterns you see are random, the result of massive piles of chaos, happening and then happening again.”

“What are you trying to tell me? I believe I can solve Collatz because of…what exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t want to ruin your day. I am not the type of person who walks around thinking that everything happens for a reason, and what does not kill me only makes me stronger. Do not think for an instant that you somehow found that problem, that you were somehow lead to it. That the universe is hinting that it is your destiny to solve it. No such thing exists. You found the problem. You want to see patterns in the trees, in the data. You desperately want it to be there. You are imagining what the feeling would be like to present the solution. You are looking for attention, for glory.”

“I am looking for the satisfaction of solving a problem that no one else has been able to solve, ever.”

“And all that goes along with it.” He took another big swig of beer.

“I desperately wanted to find those patterns. It appears they are not ready to give themselves up, if they exist at all.”

“Are you sure you weren’t looking for redemption?” She held the book up in the air and waved it in his face.

“You should be a little nicer to someone who is buying your lunch.”

“I’m just saying…”

Buford Lister clenched his teeth, his left hand forming a fist. He started rhythmically tapping his left hand on the table. She didn’t need to remind him that his life had turned into nothing more than a cautionary tale for ambitious young people.

“So, do you love your husband?”

She was about to ask him how he knew she was married, but then she remembered the large ring she wore. “Of course I do. What kind of question is that?”

“I am going to tell you what the rarest thing in the world is. And no, it is not a solution to Collatz. Let me begin by asking you: What is the rarest thing in the world?”

“Easy. True love is the rarest thing there is.”

“Right, I had a good idea that is what you would say. Nearly everyone says that,

and nearly everyone is wrong. You may well love your husband now, and if you do, that is good. But let me tell you people change, circumstances change. The day may well come when you don’t love him anymore, and do you know what you will probably do? You will bend over backward to convince yourself that you still love him because it will be incredibly inconvenient for you if you can’t convince yourself of that. Maybe you will have kids; maybe you won’t. In any event, people convince themselves all the time that they love someone they don’t love because lots of bad stuff will happen if they are no longer in love with each other. People convince themselves they are in love with someone all the time. All the time.”

“I suppose you are right.”

“I know I am.”

“OK.”

“The rarest thing there is, a thing much rarer than true love, is inspiration. You will never, ever, as long as you live, talk yourself into being inspired. It is not possible. You can put on a brave face and step out in the world and try to convince everyone you are inspired, but it will never work. Why? Because the only person that matters is you. You either are inspired, or you are not. It is very simple. The Muses either will be with you, or they are against you. It really is very simple. You can try to bribe them, coax them, beg them. None of it will work. You will find inspiration, or you won’t. It really is that simple. The mystery of The Muses is a fact of our existence.”

“OK. Well, I am inspired.”

“Good for you. I am not. I have lost all inspiration. I have no idea where to look for it. The Muses no longer speak to me. I have been drained of all of it. There is no more left. I am spent.”

“That is not true.”

“How would you know that? It is quite possible that you have never been inspired, properly inspired. But let me ask you, have you ever had an inspired idea? An idea no one but you could have ever had? My educated guess is NO; you have not. Almost all of us will go through our lives being uninspired. That is the way it is.”

“You had to be inspired before, right?” She held up the book once again.

“Put that damn thing back in your bag.”

She complied as he took another bite of his sandwich.

“Yes, I was, but that was a long, long time ago.” He had no intention of telling her the specifics about the inspiration.

“So, what happened?”

“It slowly drained out of me. Maybe it is old age, but I doubt it. I can still think, and I work nearly as hard as I ever have. There is simply nothing in the well. It is dusty.”

She sat and ate. She gulped down her beer.

They both sat in silence.

She finished her meal. As she got up, she said, “Thanks for lunch.”

Buford Lister nodded. As she started to walk away, she turned back to the table.

“You know…”

Buford Lister held up his right hand. She turned and walked out the door.

Author’s Note: This is what happened next. I know, I was there.

Buford Lister asked for another beer. As the stein was being lifted from his table, he took a yellow legal pad out of his backpack. He opened it to a blank page somewhere in the middle. He started to write.

Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Sally. She was prancing through a trail in the woods at her grandparent’s house. It was a day full of promise. She was having a great time until the moment came that she wasn’t. She looked off into the cornfield, and she saw a large, circular metallic object hovering over the crops. Her instinct was to run, but she was paralyzed with fear.

The next thing she knew, she was in a small room with two beings who clearly were not human. Her fear was gone, she didn’t know why, but she knew that these beings were not going to hurt her.

One of the beings offered its hand; she took it. She was lead to a large window. When she took a look, she found herself gazing at Earth, all of it. Her perspective was that of a person beyond the moon. She was seeing something no other human being had. She felt great serenity.

“Why am I here? Why did you take me?”

“Oh, don’t worry, we didn’t take you. We are just borrowing you.”

“For what?”

They looked at each other and, without their lips moving, talked to each other. Sally could feel their thoughts.

“Hang on a minute; we need to recheck a couple of things.” One of the beings went into another room while the other stayed with Sally.

“You know,” the being said with his lips moving, “I never tire of this view.”

She nodded her agreement.

The other being came back. “OK, she is a little younger than we wanted. We didn’t pay careful enough attention to our calculations. We came a little early.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Well, it is not optimal, but I think we will be OK.”

“What is this about?” Sally asked.

“Sally, we are here to deliver a message to you that, when the time is right, you will deliver to the world. It is not a message you will actively remember. We are putting it in your subconscious. You will not remember it until you are reminded of it. This will happen at the proper time. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I do understand. But why me? Why am I being given this message?”

“You will be in a position where people will listen to you. You will have a voice; it will be strong.”

“I understand.”

“Of course you do. Sally, mathematics can only take your species so far. Our species is millions of years older than yours. We found a wall, a big one. When it comes time for your voice to be heard, that is what you are going to tell the world. You are going to tell them that the ultimate explanations for the hows and whys of the universe are not to be found in mathematics, they are to be found elsewhere.”

“Where is that?”

“Sally, that is for you to find out. When the time comes, you will know.”

“How?”

“You will know that, too.”

Buford Lister ripped the paper from the pad, folded it, and put it in his pocket. After he finished his lunch, he went back to the library and placed the note inside a book on the young woman’s desk. He fashioned the page so that it appeared to be a bookmark.

It looked good; he knew she would easily spot it. He thought for an instant and then pulled the page back out. He turned it over and started to write. This is exactly what he wrote…

Number 1. Do not ever, under any circumstances, tell anyone how smart you are or how important the work you are doing is. That is an indication of a third rate mathematician. If you really are smart and if you are doing important work, people will know. The last thing you will ever need to do is tell them.

Number 2. Do not be a solitary person working in secret. Unfortunately, people do not usually publish failed approaches to problems like Collatz. You need to talk to lots of people to get a sense of the approaches that have failed. This could save you years of fruitless work.

Number 3. Find an easier problem.

Life Coming at me Fast…

2020 hasn’t been the best of years, has it? I know that lots of people would like to hit the reset button and start over at the end of 2019. I am in that camp. It has been rotten. Life has been coming at me fast with no warning. I am tired.

I guess it has been 5 or 6 weeks since I was rushed to the ICU. I spent 5 days there. I am recovering nicely, I haven’t been able to keep up with my normal pace of blog posts, but that is the least of my worries.

A couple weeks ago, my dad was taken by helicopter to the ICU. There he remains. Hope springs for his recovery. He is very sick, but he landed at The Cleveland Clinic, a world-class hospital. No, it is thee world-class hospital.

I get updates about three times a day on his condition. With COVID, visitation is very limited, and even gaining entrance to the hospital is a process. That said, I can’t tell you how happy I am with the level of care he is receiving. He is surrounded by people who have dedicated their lives to making the world a better place. It is impressive to see them work.

2020 has really been a mess. I won’t look back on this time fondly. It will get better, it has to, doesn’t it? My dad will be home soon, I will regain all my strength, and the pace of the blog entries will be back up to snuff. I am not an eternal optimist, I just think the odds are working their way back in my favor. After all, 2020 is more than half over.

A Wandering Soul

Here is another video from The WRB Project. As always, the music is original. The video was shot in one take with a budget of zero. Enjoy!

[embedyt] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xnTSiEdWOw8[/embedyt]