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Complex Numbers
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.
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I may have overdone the cultural appropriation of Cinco de Mayo yesterday. My stash of tequila is almost gone. This would be a crisis if I didn't have plenty of other beverages; I'm about done with tequila for at least a few days.
PROMPT May 6th
Write about an object you own that has negligible monetary value, but is priceless to you.
I'm usually wary of revealing stuff that people could use against me if I inadvertently piss them off, so the temptation is there to make up something about a RealDoll. Those things are expensive, or so I've heard, but the used RealDoll market is, understandably, nonexistent. So it would fit the bill quite nicely.
If you've never heard of a RealDoll, congratulations. I strongly suggest you don't Google it.
On a philosophical note, if something has negligible monetary value, can one truly say that one "owns" it? Can a person truly own anything, for that matter? And what is the sound of one hand clapping?
While we're at it, how are "worthless" and "priceless" antonyms?
I have a lousy memory, and I rely on objects to remind me of the past. There's a lot of past, so there's a lot of objects. Most of them are objectively worthless, but, at the same time, I probably wouldn't be overly emotional if they vanished.
For a while, I had a cat named Ghost. I met him as a kitten; he wasn't even a week old, and no one knew where his mother was. His eyes were closed, and he was utterly helpless, a little gray blob. At that age, without maternal care, kittens have a tendency to fail to survive. When he did survive, against the odds, that's when I named him. He grew into a tiger-striped gray tabby with a little white spot on the very tip of his tail.
He was my cat before I got married, and he was still with me after my wife dumped me, more constant than any human. He'd follow me on my walking adventures, taillight held high, and at night he'd stand sentinel at the foot of the bed.
A couple of months after I had a heart attack, Ghost also had a heart attack, at the ripe old age of 16. He was still alive when I rushed him to the vet; afterward, he wasn't.
His ashes, worthless and priceless, stand on a shelf, accompanied by those of my other good kitties, their memory guarded by a statue of Bastet.
I lack the genes that prompt some people to need to have someone to take care of, or to need to have someone to take care of them. But for a while there, Ghost and I took care of each other, and it's nice to have a memory of that. |
© Copyright 2024 Robert Waltz (UN: cathartes02 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. Robert Waltz has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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