Not for the faint of art. |
Complex Numbers A complex number is expressed in the standard form a + bi, where a and b are real numbers and i is defined by i^2 = -1 (that is, i is the square root of -1). For example, 3 + 2i is a complex number. The bi term is often referred to as an imaginary number (though this may be misleading, as it is no more "imaginary" than the symbolic abstractions we know as the "real" numbers). Thus, every complex number has a real part, a, and an imaginary part, bi. Complex numbers are often represented on a graph known as the "complex plane," where the horizontal axis represents the infinity of real numbers, and the vertical axis represents the infinity of imaginary numbers. Thus, each complex number has a unique representation on the complex plane: some closer to real; others, more imaginary. If a = b, the number is equal parts real and imaginary. Very simple transformations applied to numbers in the complex plane can lead to fractal structures of enormous intricacy and astonishing beauty. |
From aeon, an article aged over seven years: Oh, a new word, eh? Cool, cool. This is an essay first published in 2017, so surely that word's been spread to the farthest reaches of the travel community by now, right? One thing I’ve noticed over the years of bringing my students to Ireland – my homeland – is that they pay rapt attention to the little things. This heightened and delighted attention to the ordinary, which manifests in someone new to a place, does not seem to have a name. So I have given it one: allokataplixis (from the Greek allo meaning ‘other’, and katapliktiko meaning ‘wonder’). I'm not really mocking. I've invented dozens of words that never caught on (and one that did in ways I could never have anticipated). Okay, but I'm also mocking, a little, because there's no fucking way a word like allokataplixis would ever go viral, except maybe if it were the name of a new penis-enlarging drug. Even then, we'd shorten it to allo, which could get confusing. For the past five years, I have travelled around Ireland each summer with a bunch of allokataplixic American kids. And there it is: the adjective form. Marvellous to them also is the slight smell of salt in the air when you arrive in Dublin, the raucousness of seagulls crying overhead... [loads of poetic imagery] ...the sun setting on the Atlantic viewed from the beaches of the west, the melancholy slopes in County Kerry that were abandoned during the famine. Well, yeah. What's ordinary to locals is often fresh and exciting to visitors. It's not just Dublin (never been, but want to go), but almost any place you're not used to. Like how millions of New Yorkers pass by the Empire State Building without admiring its art-deco grandeur. This is why some of us travel: to find the beauty in the mundane, to see it with new eyes and, maybe, pass along some of that newness to those jaded by familiarity with it. Yet over the years that I’ve been bringing students to Ireland I’ve observed that their thirst for fresh experience is contagious. It oftentimes brings out the best in people. A tourist generally has an eye for the things that, through repetitive familiarity, have become almost invisible to the resident. It can also bring out the worst in people. One does not need, however, to be an outsider or a tourist to be allokataplixic. Is it not the task of most writers to awaken us from the dull, the flat and the average sentiments that can dominate our lives? Many of the Irish writers that my students read before travelling have a knack for noticing the marvellous in the everyday, and of making the quotidian seem wholly other and amazing. Just in case you were wondering if this had anything to do with writing. I don't take issue with the general ideas in the article (there's even a foray into the fractal, which is always like candy to me). It's just... that word. You'd think we could come up with something better, something with fewer syllables, something less pretentious than an obscure phrase from Ancient Greek. You'd think so, but I'm stumped. |