Andy Ling's Writing Portfolio

Math,Memory,andMystery

ByAndyLing

Preface

Mywritingprojectbeganwithmath.Ifyouknewme,thatwouldcomeasnosurpriseme. Itbeganwithapersonalessayassignmentmywritingteacherassignedme.Writeabouttheroots ofyourgreatestpassionweretheinstructions.Ironically,thisledtoanessayaboutmynegative experiencesasamathstudentingradeschool.So,withoutintendingittobe,itbecamean exerciseinexcavatingpainfulmemories–shame,fear,antipathy,anxietyaboutmath,anda perhapsnotespeciallyterriblemathteacher(sheprobablythoughtshewasjustdoingherjob!). Atanyrate,encouragedbymytutortokeepgoing,IwrotePart2ofthisstory–aboutavery differentkindofteacherandmorepositiveexperience–withmath(again)!ThiswaswereIwas rescuedbyanattentiveandopen-mindedmentorwhorecognizedandencouragedmybudding passionformath.

So,throughtheseexercises,Iexperiencedakindofrelease–catharsis,IthinktheGreeks calledit!Andthatsetmeonasummerprojectinwriting.Soweexperimented–withflashfiction, prosepoetry,lyricalessays,andfairytales–asIstretchedmycreativewritingmusclesand learnedthatmathandwritingarenotsodifferentaswetendtothink.ForthekindofmathIlike todoisabstract,intuitive,andcreative,atleast,inpart,justlikewriting.Andwriting,too,I’ve discoveredrequiresthesameleveloftotalconcentration,rigor,andtrialanderror Mathand writing.Thesetwoactivitieshavebecomeintertwinedforme.AndI’mokwiththat.

Whatfollowsareamongmyfirstattemptsatseriouscreativewriting.Nodoubtthey containmanyflawsandsilliness.Butthat’sOK.Nietzschewrotethatonemustsayyestolife(if oneistofindfulfilment)andIagree.Sotothesefledglingattempts,Igivemyheartyapproval andyouarewelcometoyourownopinion,butIhopethisbriefprefacegivesyousomecontext foramoregeneroushumor

RealizationofFlux

Itwasthemidsummerof1917whenamobofrevolutionistscamemarchingdownthe roadwithabrightredflaginthehandsoftheleader Theysang“Nomorefeudalism,nomore feudalism!”PuYi,inawhiterobe,gazedatthemobchargingathimonhisbalcony Hedidnot lethiswarriorsresistthemarchingmen.

“ButIdon’twanttowearasuitinsteadofmyemperorrobe.Idon’twanttobeabotanist insteadofanemperor Iwantmyverdantyouth,andthosebooks,thosepeanutcandies,andthat dazzlinglight…”

FourthCircleofHell

It'sbeensixtyyearssinceIhavebeenthrownintoAvarice.Aratherhorribleplaceatfirst.Every timeIamcrushedintopiecesbyothers,Ilosesomeofmymemory Idon’tknowhowmany timesIhavemadethisobservationandforgottenit.YetGodisalwaysmerciful.Hehasendowed mewiththisdiaryandathickdictionary Ilookupwords…appetite,desire,love,lust…butthe concussionfromthetheimpactscattersthemlikesparksinafire.

Magnetic

“Metalfortheceremony!”Itwas5O’clockafternoon,adaybeforeNewChina’s birthdaywouldtakeplace,whenayoungmaninuniformheldoutaleatherbox.“Ourcrewdon't haveenoughmetaltomakethemagnet.Withoutit,theflagwon’tstayatthetop.”Thecrowd pushedandpulledeachothertohandtheirvaluablesintothebox.Glasses,tincontainers,nails, hammers,Buddhastatues,anythingtheythoughtwouldattractmetal.

“Sir,we’vegottherightpiece,”reportedtheyoungman.“Weneedtogetthisonthetop ofthepole.”“I’llgomyself.”Herunsupthepolelikeaspider,but,tryashemight,hecan’tget theflagtostay

MarshmallowFluffCrackers

“Mom!I’mback!"announcedalittleboyasheenteredthedoor Hisspidermanbackpack slungononeshoulder,alongwithastubbornpinchofhair,swayedbackandforthashewalked pastastackof20dollarbillsonthecabinetbesidethedoor

Yetaloftymangraspingaplateoffrozenmarshmallowfluffcrackerswithcherrieson topcameoutofthekitchen.Eversincethismancametohishouse,heneversawhisfather anymore.Theboylookedatthestackofmoney “Woulddo.”Hethought.

OxfordMan

Themanwalkedinlight,gradualstepstowardsthesecretheartoftheseminary.His tophat’ssharpedgeseemedtobedimmedbyheaven’stears.Healwayscameintheundefined glimpsebetweentwoalternatingyears,withoutmuch,justlikehowitallhappenedtwentyyears ago.Butatleastthattime,hewasaccompanied.

Heslowlymarchedupthestepsoftheoldchurch,andsatdowninapew.Hewasthe onlyoneseated,yetheknewallthepewswereallfull.

“Dear,oursonhasbecomeanOxfordMan!”

MyTroublewithMath

“I’msorry!Ireallytriedmybest!”Iimplored.“That’swhatyousaidlasttime!Ialreadygave youachance.”Ms.Wanggaveherfinalsentenceasshedraggedmelikeadecapitatedchicken outoftheclassroomandintothehallway.“Gotellyourexcusestotheprincipal!”

Alongtheway,severalheadsofstudentspoppedoutfromtheirclassrooms.Intheoffice,Isaw myparents,bothsodisappointedasifitwasmyfirsttimeinthissituation.

“Thisisyourson’srecentmathgrade.”Ms.Wangpulledoutaquizpaper—a3outof10.“Allthe otherkidsintheclassscoreatleast8ontheseeasyexams.Idon’tunderstandwhyAndyalways failsthemsobadly.”

IfeltlikeafelonfacingthefamilymembersofthoseIhavemurdered.Ms.Wangkeptgoing.“Ha, thankstoAndy,ourclass’averageistheworstofallclasses,asalways.Whatdoyouhavetosay, Andy?”

“I’m…sorry”Istammered.“It’squiteoddtomethat,”theprincipalremarkedwithafrown. “Andy'sgradesareatthetoptiersatalltheothersubjects,butheseemstobeabitclumsyat mathematics.”

“We’veobservedthattoo.”Mymomsaid,“Iguesshisleftbrainissimplyinane.”Asshespoke, Ifeltapiercingpaininmychest,asifsomeonehadpushedanewlysharpenedpencilthroughme heart.Iwantedtocry,yetIcouldnotheapfurthershameonmyparents.Atthatinstance,Iputon aclownmask,coveringmytruefeelings.LittledidIknowthatthismaskwouldbecomemyface forthenext8years.WhenIwasnotdoingmath,Iwasthebrightlittleangelwhospreadmyjoy everywhere.WhenIwasdoingmath,Iwasthefoolwhospreadlaughtereverywhere.The laughterofderision.

Ihadneverclaimedmyselftobeanaturalatmath.LeonhardEuleroncesaid:"Thestudyof mathematics,liketheNile,beginsinminutenessbutendsinmagnificence."WhenIwaslittle, addition,subtraction,andcountingwerethemostrepulsiveandblandsubjectsinmymirthful kindergartenlife.Thehorrifyingturbulencethatthosenumbersandsymbolsfabricatedalways mademewanttoturnmybackonthem.“Howboredwerethosearchaicmathematiciansto inventnumericaloperations?Howoneartharethesemonotonousequationshelpful?”

Eulerspenthiswholelifeinthepursuitofmath.WhenIfirstheardofhim,Iscoffed,“Whoon earthwouldadmirehim?Sure,heinventedtonsofmathematicalequations,butthat’stotally useless!”Oneofthemainreasonsthatcontributedtosuchcontemptishowsimplemany

formulashediscoveredare.Take,forexample,e^iπ+1=0.However,littledidIknowthatthe unsimplifiedversionofthisandthetheoriesbehindrequiremonthsofintensestudytomaster.

OneSundayafternooneightyearslater,Ihadfinishedallmyacademicworkandhadnothingto do.Mostboysmyagewouldlockuptheirbedroomdoorandkilltimeplayingvideogames.A voiceinme,however,urgedmetodosomethingelse.

“IguessI’llwatchatedtalk.Ithought.Whatshoulditbeabout?”Then,themostbizarreidea cameintomymind:I’llwatchoneaboutmath.Ididnotknowthatthatwouldbeapivotal decision.AlectureonprofessorSautoy’sSymmetryandReality'sRiddleamazedmedeeply I feltasifheconjuredagoldenkeyoutofthinair,unlockingtheprisonofmymind.Avoice insidetoldme:“Godosomemath!”Ifthathappenedanhourearlier,Iwouldhavesnarledand thrownawaythethought,yetbysomestrokeoffortune,Ifollowedit.Iopenedmycomputer,not toplaygamesthistime,buttostudymath!

MyantipathytomathwasdevastatedwhenIlearnedwhatlogarithmswere.Logarithms,in essence,weresimplyadiversewayofrewritingexponentialdigits.Thisnovelmethodopenedup numeroustransformationstome.Mathwasnolongerthiscolossal,immovableopaquestaircase thatIhadtoclimbupstepbytediousstep,butafoldingladderthatIcouldexpandandcontract tosuitmypurposes.

Inschool,Ineverhadalotoftimetostudymath.SqueezingoutanhoureverydaywasthebestI coulddo.Oneday,whenIwasdoingtrigonometryquestionsduringstudyhallperiod,my geometryteachersawmynotebookwhileIwentoutforthebathroom.Shewasastoundedby whatquestionsIwassolving.WhenIcameback,sheaskedme:“Andy,doyoulovemath?”I noddednervously.“Doyoufindmyclasseasy?”Inoddedagain.“Verywell,Andy…”She thoughtforabit.Then,asifshehadmadeaharddecision,shesaid:“Andy,doyouwishnotto participateinmyclassexceptforexamsandtests?Ithinkyoudeservethetimeofmyclassfor doingsomethingmorechallenging,somethingmoremeaningfultoyou.Ithinkyouhavethe righttogotomyofficeduringmyclassandstudymathbyyourself.”

IcouldnotbelievewhatIheard.ThepicturesofhowMs.Wang,myformerschool’sprincipal, andmyparentsscoffedatmymathskillsflashedacrossmymind.Whatweirdcontrastitmade withthissaintlyteacher?

AsthemathIlearnedbecamemoreandmorecomplexandasmoreandmoreconceptswere introducedtome,IbegantorealizehowmuchofaclownIwaswhenIscoffedatEuler’sworks. BertrandRusselloncestated:“Mathematics,rightlyviewed,possessesnotonlytruth,but supremebeauty—abeautycoldandaustere,likethatofsculpture.”Ihavenotevenclimbedonto halfofthesculpturecarvedbythosemagiciansInowprofoundlyadmire.

XiaoMian’sNoodles

Hewasalwaysquiteraunchy,bothinandoutofschool.Hiscollarwasneveratthesame horizonline,hispantswereill-fitting,hisundersizeduniformdrewoutintricatesilhouettesofhis belly,andagreasysmilealwaysloomedoverhisface.Hewasthe“thatguy”,theoutsiderwho wasn’teverdoingwhathewassupposedto.Everyafternoon,themiddleschooldeanwould succumbdesperatelytothatguy’sbarrage,throwinghishandsintheair.

“Heh,anotherafternoon,withthesweetaccompanimentofmybeststudent.”He’d alwaysexclaim.“Whichteachersentyouheretoday?Oo,letmeguess.Mrs.Shavarez?Nono, that’syesterday.Oh!IsitMr.Cannon?”

Thestudentwouldalwaysfeigninnocenceoractasifheknewwhathedidwrong.Yet, nomatterhowhardhetriedtopretend,hisboorishmannersalwaysbetrayedhisbuffoonery

“Ah,Isurvivedanotherday!”heChuckled,dragginghisbackpackalongtheground behindhim.Twoquizpapersfellout,thefirstonewasaD,theotheraC.

“Mom,”Hecalledtohisphone.“Toomuchworktoday,comingbackat9.”Beforeshe couldanswer,heendedthecall.

Helovednoodles,particularlythereallyslicky,spicyonesservedinXiaoMiantwo blocksfromschool.

“13A.”Readthelabelonthetablehesatdownat.Hefavoredthattable,partlybecauseit wasinthefarcorner,andpartlybecauseitwastheonlyplacewherehecouldputhisfeetonthe oppositechair.Asalways,heorderedabowlofXiaoMian’ssignatureextra-beefynoodles—four timestheoil,twicethebeef.

Twoyearslater,“I”cameback.Samerestaurant,sametable,samedish,lessoilandmoreextra veggiesthistime.

AfterCalvino’s“Octavia”

Onthisplanet,itwasalwaysnight:orrather,theydidn’thaveasun.Everyonceinawhile,the peoplewouldseealuminousbodysoaracrossthesky,scarringthegray-bluecloudsentangledin lightning.Countlessfableswerewrittenuponitsappearance.

Myriadropesextendedfromthevillagehall,aballoonitself,connectingthehouses,bridges, boxedfarmlandsandforests,vines,clotheshangers,barbequestandspoweredbytheunrelenting steam,signsandposters,woodentelescopes,lanterns,afewswings,andaplacewherethetown keptfire.

Somesaidthatitistheplanet’sguardiandragon,themostpowerfulandfeistycreatureknownto them.Othersinsistedthattheysawanotherplanetflyingacrossthem,claimingthattheirplanet isconstantlytravelingtoo.Asmallsectofelderlyfarmersstatedthatthetwo,yellow illuminationsatthebackofthebodywereincantationsthattriedtocursetheirbeing,yettheir motherplanethasprotectedthemfromit.

Theirheatcamefromsteaminggeysersfromtheheartoftheirplanet:itpoweredthehotair balloons..Therusty-redplanetwassmall,sotherewasn’tmuchpulldownwards.Theindigenous people,inordertonotbesteamedaliveatthefaceoftheirplanet,livedoncondensedvillages bearedbyhotairballoons.Nooneknewwhobuilttheplace.

Themostcleveronesinthevillage,however,didnotcareatallaboutthebody.Theyclearly understoodthattheywerebeinghungupbyadozenhotairballoons.Theseballoonswere poweredbythosesteaminggeysers.Thesteamwillrunouteventually,andtheplanetwillbeout ofheat.

It’squiteexceptionalforawomentobesounattractive:mamaWoosung‘sskinwasofa nastytan,likerustthataccumulatesonplowsovertime,thelightinherwhimsicaleyesseemed tobedrainedoutbytime,andeverytimeshemanagedtostretchoutherleftlegtowalk,she’d havetowheezewithallhermightnottofall.

Yetshehadahandsomegrandson,whowas,fortunately,nothinglikeher.Hewasnimble andneverhadteethfallingoutofhismouth(notincludingthetimewhenhecrashedhimself ontoatreestumpwhenrunningtoofast).

Everynight,beforebedtime,mamaWoosungwouldtellstoriestohisgrandson—itwas whathealwayslongedfor “Onceuponatime,therewasamountain,onthemountainwasan oldtemple,inthetemplesatanelderlymonk…”

Jovialtimesalwaysflybyfast,asifitneverhappened.“Then,themonkslaughed.The end.”Grandsonhadbeenasleeplongbeforethefinale,yetMamaWoosungkeptreadinguntilthe end,asifshewasdoingittoherself.MamaWoosungmildlykissedgrandson’sforehead.

Theboygrewupquickly Likeallotherboys,hispubertycame.Hetalkedlessandlessto mamaWoosung,stoppedlikingherstories,andwasoftenannoyedbyhercliches.

Quitefortunately,therewasamountainbesidethevillagewhosepeakpiercedupintothe heavens.Everydusk,MamaWoosung’shousewouldhavethemostdivineview.Thelate afternoonsun,unwillingtosuccumb,castsitsvaledictoryafterglowatthecloudsofpurple shades.Asadeclarationofpredominance,themoongloomsthecloudstoasullenview.Yetlittle didtheyknowthateverydawn,whenreincarnationreturns,allwillhappenagain.Everynight whengrandsongazedatthespectacleinawe,mama’sheartwouldstartaching.Itwasfroma woundfromanaccidentwhenshewasyoung,andshebearsthescaruntilnow.

Wheneverhefeelstoovexed,hehikesthemountain.Everytime,he’dgetabitfurther. “Oneday.OnedayI’llgetbeyondthesefootprinttracks;reachthepeakandseewhatitfeelsto belikegodandatopofthosepurpleclouds.

Theboygrewupasfastashismirthfultimesflewby.Themorematuretheboygrew,the lessoftenhehiked.Onewinterdusk,heinformedmamaWoosung:“I’mreadytogo.IthinkIam steadyenoughtofacetheoutsideworld.”Woosunghadanticipatedthisdaylongago,butwhen iteventuallycame,everythingseemedsounreal.“Verywell,mydeargrandson.Letmepack somethingsforyou.”

Theboy’sbackturnedintoasilhouette,andthengraduallydisappearedintothe capriciousbillowsofsnowandwind.Heneverlookedback.MamaWoosungsmiled. “Farewell.”

Yearslater,whenspringcame,flowersfilledthelittlevillagetheboyandhis grandmotherpreviouslylivedin.Theboy,whonowgreweventaller,camebacktosayhito mamaWoosung.Bizarrely,hecouldn’tfindher.Hesearchedforheraroundthehouse,untilhe sawathin,flatstoneatthebackoftheirhouse.Onit,itread:“Dearboy,Iknowourlittlevillage cannotimprisonyourheart,sogooutandfacetheworld.”

Grandson,whonowgothisname,Zephyrus,gawkedlethargicallyatthestone.Verdant memoriesthathehadentombeddeepinsidehisheartallswarmedoutlikemass-firedarrowsand piercedintohishead.

Thatnight,heboughtajugofLotusliquor,hisvillage’sspeciality Hehadn’teverdrank winebefore,asMamaalwaysreiteratedtohimthatthatisn’twhatgoodmenshouldhaveintheir hands.Hesatonthegroundofthebackyard,crisscrossed,asthat’showhealwayssatwhenhe listenedtoMamaWoosung’sstories.Exceptthistime,hewastallenoughtolookdownuponher “Mama…”Hegazedafaratthemountainhehadalwayscravedtosurmount…

CountlessboysofZyphrus’villagehadattemptedtosurmountthemountain.However, theseniorsalwaysrepeated:“Onlygoattheplaceswhereyouseetracks!”“Ifyougobeyondthe tracks,youwillfalloff!”Zephyruswasalwaysperplexedbythesesayings:hewasquitesurethat themountainhadbeentherefarbeforetheirvillage.Andifboyswerenottobeallowedtogo wheretherewerenotracks,howwerethereanyoftheminthefirstplace?

Thenheunderstood.

Iftherewerenoancestorswhohadprobedtheperilsandleftbehindprints,there wouldn’thavebeenthefollowerswhohikedforfun.Afterall,therehadn’tbeenanyroad.Yet afterit’sbeenwalkedonbyseveral,it’sbecometheroad.

Ashehikedstepbystepupthemountain,thereemergedahintofepiphanyatthebrinks ofhislips.Then,itslowlythrivedintoasmile,thentoagrin,thentoalaugh—alaughof sophistication.Littledidhenoticethathefarexceededtheprintsofarchaiclegacy.

Ifthereweretobeabystander,hewould’vebeendumbfounded.ForeverystepZephrus forged,hegrewyoungerinappearance.Themarksthattheoutsideworldleftonhisvisage slowlycalmeddown.Untilhisfacebecameasimmaculateasboiledeggwhite.Exceptthere weretears,intertwinedwithsweatonhischeeks.Thenewlyunraveledtrackbehindhim, nourishedbythemingle,sculptedoutnew,flamboyantflowers.

Gradually,anotherworldlytempleappearedintohissight.Hebecameyoungerand younger.Hisface,alongwithhissize,lookedlikeakidthatwouldasktheirmamaforafew coinstogototheoppositeofhisvillageaisleandbuysomesugar.

Heenteredthetemplereadily.

There,hesawnumerousyoungmonks,bothboysandgirls.Somegatheredinsquads, chattering.Afewspottedthenewstranger.“We’vewaitedathousandyears,andtherehasn’t beenanynewones.Now,insimplyeightyears,therearetwo.Great.Inthefuture,youwillbe theoneinchargeofwindsamongstthemortalworld.”saidarelativelyseniormonk,appearing roughlyhavingtwentyyearsofage.

Thatnight,ZyphrussawMamaWoosung.Shelookedthesameageashim,butforthe eightyearshelefther,hedreamedofMamaeverynight,makingherfaceinmemory transcendentallyvivid.

Silence. Themonkslaughed. Theend.