Month: October 2021

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Numbers

Recollections scrapbook paper

Whenever I have a birthday or when family and friends have birthdays, I like to figure out what kind of number the new age will be. Is it a perfect number, abundant, deficient, perfect square, or prime? I learned of this from a math professor. She commented that her mother was depressed about turning 64, but she had pointed out what a great number 64 is! My ears perked up. There’s the Beatles song, “When I’m 64,” very fun, of course. “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?” But that was my only thought at the time.

She elaborated on the fact that although 64 is a deficient number, it is a perfect square (8 x 8). Thus, as she had told her mother, it was a very cool number and could portend wonderful things. I suppose I probably had learned such things about numbers from high school math, or at least college algebra. Or maybe we didn’t learn fun things about numbers in those classes. In fact, I’m pretty sure we didn’t. Anyway, I was excited to learn about this later in life, particularly with respect to birthdays (which I love) and age (which I don’t mind).

An abundant number is one whose distinct factors add up to more than the number itself. Seventy (my current age) has the distinct factors of 1, 2, 5, 7, 10, 14, and 35 (you don’t count the number 70 itself). Add these up and you get 74. Thus, 70 is an abundant number. Yay! Anyone can readily see that this means 70 will be an abundant year.

A prime number cannot be divided by anything. Thus, it also is very exciting and probably magical. You will have a prime year when you are, for example, 59 or 19. According to the Merriam Webster Dictionary, “prime” refers to spring; youth; the most active, thriving, or satisfying stage or period; the best or chief part; original; not derived from anything else. Wonderful! Certainly we all want to have prime years, and certainly we all will. Oliver Sacks tells, in The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, of twin autistic savants who took great satisfaction from going through the files of prime numbers in their brains and discovering new ones, as well.

Then there are perfect numbers. Their distinct factors equal the number itself. Six, for example, is the sum of its factors–1, 2 and 3. There are only four of those–6, 28, 496 and 8128. Sadly, if you’re past 28, you won’t have a perfect age ever again. But think back fondly to 28. We can tell ourselves that it was just about perfect.

A deficient number, such as 32, has distinct factors that add up to less than the number itself. The factors of 32 are 1, 2, 4, 8, and 16. This only adds up to 31. Poopoo. Whenever I do have a birthday and age with a deficient number that is not a prime or a perfect square, I just figure, who cares about this crazy idea? This is so childish. It’s ridiculous! It can’t possibly mean anything.

And then I just wait for the next birthday.

“It’s like asking why is Ludwig van Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony beautiful. If you don’t see why, someone can’t tell you. I know numbers are beautiful. If they aren’t beautiful, nothing is.” ― Paul Erdos

“What music is to the heart, mathematics is to the mind.” – Amit Kalantri, Wealth of Words

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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Messy Studio

I am lucky to have a room in my house designated “my studio.” I feel a little bit pretentious when I call it that, but that really is what it is. In the state that it’s in, it could not possibly be used for anything else. I don’t imagine accountants are embarrassed to call their office “my office,” but I think it’s a hurdle for people who make art, even for a living, to say the words “my studio.” I usually have to say “the.” Anyway, I know I’m lucky to have this 9’ x 26’ space with lots of windows, all for making art. So lucky!

But it is “a bit of a dog’s breakfast” (see Merrythoughts, 9/20/21) all of the time. It’s a giant mess. I really hate that it’s such a mess and the mess is all mine, so wouldn’t you think I could just tidy it up and make it more pleasant? You’re thinking yes. I’m thinking yes, too, but also how?

When Covid hit and the shutdown happened, I thought it would be a perfect time to straighten and clean up my studio. Did I do it? No. In the Before Time, I had sometimes had Open Studio Shows, during which people would actually mill around back here. For those (although not always) I would make myself clear off the biggest flat surface (not the floor) so that I could display things properly on it. That only lasted for the duration of the Open Studio, though. And then, since Covid, there have been no Open Studio shows, so that has only exacerbated the problem.

Like most creative people (lately called by the dubious word, “makers”), I have accumulated scads of art supplies and pieces of thing that I imagine one day might go into the making of something amazing. Some of this I have never used. There are books about art and art-making. Blank books to fill up in some cool way. Sketchbooks. Washi tape. Pastels, crayons, markers, special colored pencils. Baskets full of framing supplies, gewgaws, ribbons, fake jewels and embellishments, rubber stamps, etc. Cigar boxes. Various (empty) containers in various shapes. All manner of glues. Old dictionaries, maps, and other paper stuff for collage. Packing materials for shipping cards and stuff that I sell online. And my giant rack full of handmade papers, which I’ve already cut down to half its original size, in an effort to make room and tidy my studio.

To complicate things further, I began painting this past summer, which brought in a whole other area of supplies that lie around in piles–paints (so many tubes of paint!); paper, boards and canvases to paint on; brushes and all sorts of mark making tools; masking tape; a large art journal; parchment paper; a hair dryer AND hairspray(!); and several stacks of things that I have painted. (I am hesitant to call them paintings, just yet.) And that large flat surface (not the floor)? Covered with paint now.

The largest flat surface (not the floor) upon which to work

People say, “Oh well, it’s a happy mess!” “You’re an artist!” “It’s fun!” Blah blah blah. But all of this stuff really does get in my way. I have very little surface upon which to work. I’m always having to shove something out of the way, or move one of the piles of thing two feet to a different spot. A friend has offered me an easel, since I took up painting–but I think, where would I put it?? It is stifling, really, this mess. I do feel that physical clutter does clutter up the mind. And yet.

Help me, Marie Kondo!!

“A sane man who is untidy seems crazier than a tidy man who is insane.” Mokokoma Mokhonoana

“There are three approaches we can take toward our possessions: face them now, face them sometime, or avoid them until the day we die.” – Marie Kondo

“Putting your house in order is the magic that creates a vibrant and happy life.” Marie Kondo

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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Words

Part of my dictionary collection

I am a word lover. The other day, during a pickleball game, I remarked to my partner that my shot had been lackluster. He was clearly amused, as he repeated, “lackluster,” with a smile and a slight shake of the head. Not the sort of word you normally hear during a pickleball game. However, another guy who plays with our group often says, “Piffle!” when he muffs a shot. Also not your usual sporting term, but one for which I have a great deal of respect. As a noun, piffle means “trivial nonsense.” I used the word Piffle as the name of a character in my ABC book for children (below). Thus I am charmed by my friend’s use of it at pickleball.

According to Merriam-Webster, synonyms for this wonderful noun include “applesauce, balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah, blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull, bunk, bunkum (or buncombe), claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola, crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers, humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts, nonsense, nuts, poppycock, punk, rot, rubbish, senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, trumpery, twaddle.” Piffle can be used as a verb, as well, but I’ll spare you the list of those synonyms.

From my ABC book, A to Z With Puff & Piffle

Whose vocabulary could not be improved by the use of these wonderful words? And of course, there are so many more where these came from. And yet, we slog along, using very few of the 40,000 words the average English speaker recognizes and can define. Instead, we generally use only about half of those in speech and writing. I myself am guilty of over-using the word “awesome,” as well as many other common words.

The New York Times Mini Crossword for September 19 gives as a clue, “Adjective that’s been called ‘possibly the worst word in the English dictionary.’” The word I eagerly attempted to divine turns out to be “moist.” This judgment seems harsh. Why is this innocuous word deemed “the worst?”

On the other hand, I can think of many words I would judge to be among the best. Palaver is one. Pandowdy. Kerfuffle. Flummoxed. Befuddled. Bumble. Shivoo. Allwither. Rapscallion. Scallawag. Scofflaw. Hooligan. Penultimate and Antepenultimate. Whiffle. Diphthong. Knackered. Bandersnatch.

I adore, as well, imaginative phrases, most of those being British. In the online painting class I took this summer, I was delighted to hear the British teacher refer to one of her own paintings as “a bit of a dog’s breakfast.” !! I find myself repeating the phrase often, but alas, out of context. Then there’s “Bob’s your uncle.” “I’m chuffed to bits!” “We just need to crack on.” And “Just stop whinging and get on with it!” I also love the phrase “More anon,” used by a retired English professor I know.

Particularly great estate sale find

I feel we are all missing out by not using or even inventing more words. Shakespeare is said to have invented 1700 words and Lewis Carroll conjured up 24 absolutely frabjous ones, many of those portmanteaus. Language is evolving every day, with words being given new meaning or actually being dreamed up. Speaking is a pastime in which we all engage, so why not jazz it up a bit?

“Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.” – Rudyard Kipling

“Don’t gobblefunk around with words.” ― Roald Dahl, The BFG

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems on my blog.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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School

The other morning, Miles and I were heading for a street he inexplicably likes to walk on and ended up going past the elementary school just as the kids were arriving. They were shouting, happy, eager, and full of energy, at least to my eye. How nice. When I was a child, I absolutely hated school. From the very first day of kindergarten to the very last day of high school I longed to be anywhere else, preferably at home. I was a very shy child, adored my mother, and kept myself quite busy in our cozy home with my own projects. I had six siblings for company, including two younger sisters to play with. Who needed all those strange children and frightening adults?

To make things worse, for kindergarten I went to a public school where none of my siblings were. No familiar face could be seen even from afar in the entire building. No allies, no big sister or brother to rely on. Terrifying! They had all moved on to the Catholic school, where I would go the next year. Great. Two brand new places in a row without my mother. Aiyiyi!

I somehow believed that my kindergarten teacher was a man disguised as a woman and that made her seem both cunning and frightening. I was too afraid of her to ask to go to the bathroom, so one day I peed my pants while we were all sitting in a circle on the floor. And then I was scolded for not asking. Some mornings I tried hiding behind the couch when it was time to walk to school with a neighbor girl (stranger), but that didn’t work.

From kindergarten it somehow got worse. First grade, Catholic school, crabby, horrifying nuns, a rule of silence while doing practically anything, including lining up to get coats and lunch boxes. I whispered to a tall boy to take down the lunch box I could not reach and Sister John Something-Or-Other pounced on me. “NO TALKING!” she boomed. I was made to stay after school and write “I must obey” ten times, the worst of that being that I did not know how to spell “obey.” I later had the thought that only the meanest nuns were assigned teaching positions in elementary schools. It sure seemed that way.

But perhaps I’m being unfair. The absolute worst teacher I had at All Souls was a lay teacher. Mrs. Schmidt, my fourth grade teacher, was pure evil. She was cruel to a boy in our class who had flunked the previous year, frequently making him cry and then ridiculing him for his “crocodile tears.” He was made to sit with his back to the class right up against the blackboard, where he really couldn’t see much of anything and undoubtedly didn’t learn much. I often wonder what became of him.

Believe it or not, she also filled our heads with horrifying images of things the Nazis had done to children and terrified us by saying we would have to die for our religion if the Communists took over. This was 1961. Cold War. The school basement was designated a fallout shelter. I had nightmares about all of it and diarrhea that whole school year. There is a special place in hell (if you believe in hell and I don’t) for people like Mrs. Schmidt.

A now retired handmade card, “Free! Free!”
My all girls Catholic high school was not my cup of tea, either. I was still shy and quiet, went basically unnoticed, and achieved underachiever status while opting to just endure those four years until my release. On the last day of school, I rolled my eyes at the girls who cried and burned my uniform in our backyard barbecue grill. I had zero interest in going on to college and no one suggested it, either.So when my boys went off to elementary school you cannot imagine how relieved and thrilled I was when they actually liked it! And my piano students all seem to like school, too. (I always ask.) That warms my heart, as well. Even the photos on Facebook of my old school make it seem as if the kids are happy there. I’m glad for all of them. I want all kids everywhere to be happy. Isn’t that their job, really? I think so. Mine was a part-time job. I was happy at home.
If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”