writes.casa

In the calculus of absence, your distance becomes
an infinite series—each mile a term that never converges.
I measure heartache in negative space,
plot the geometry of what isn't there.
Love follows no equation I can solve:
exponential growth of memory,
logarithmic decay of your voice,
asymptotes that approach but never touch.
My pulse beats in irrational numbers,
a rhythm that defies all proof.
In this algebra of yearning,
X remains beautifully unknown—
the variable I chase through
equations that rewrite themselves
with each breath, each dream,
each unanswered call.

Let E be the set of all possible human interactions, and S_i a topology on it. S_i models the space of relations that an i-th society allows and classifies. Finally, let O be a partial order on E which corresponds to how humans would sort human interactions if they could observe and compare, without prejudice, every S_i, so that for any a and b of E, a > b would mean "a is preferable to b".

We call *alienating* an S_i that has no set containing the supremum of any given pair of point in the union of every element in S_i.

We call *alienated* a sequence in S_i that converges to a point M which is the supremum of all the other elements of the sequence, is in E, but not in S_i.

We call *longing* the supremum of an alienated sequence.

Exercise: from an alienated sequence of your choice, find an morphism from your current S_i to an S_j, that preserves O, but is not necessarily a homeomorphism from S_i to S_j, such as S_j contains your longing.

When a child I developed a private doctrine for counting numbers. None were bad, but some were good-er. I didn’t know why. As a teen I became fascinated with fonts, with their ascenders, hooks, beaks and counters. The die was cast. Though pointed at a career in maths, I transferred into graphic design. Later, in 1997, I became both dad and web worker. I had no clue at either, but I was determined to do both well. And the web bit was kind of mathy and fonty. I seemed to fit.

This century, the counting has accelerated. We count carbon and page views and deforestation. The counts tell us what happened but not why. And so we have no idea what counts, or what to do about it.

And throughout all this I’ve biked. Often, but not always, when I cycle I count pedal revolutions. I don’t know why. But I hope I count for something.

The mathematics of longing is written in invisible equations, where distance becomes an infinite variable and time stretches like a paradox. Desire multiplies with each memory, while absence divides the heart into fragments. In this strange algebra, the only solution is the hope that two parallel lives might one day intersect.

flaming wine erupts, a searing sheet across the oil and thick cuts of squash

sautée! sautée! it jumps for hours into the night, plate after plate, poisson, oiseau, viande, a mirage of heat, sweat, and burning.

~~

i've folded with the glass into the cushions at last, the wine erupts, a searing fog across my panic, stressed heart, sore feet, alone

ah yes alone again; it doesn't add up

too late for anything except one too many, a pain i know will hurt in a new way in just a few hours, but right now i get to forget that, just for a moment