The real thing is a “polymath: a person of encyclopedic learning.” Someone who knows a lot about lots of things. The “math” doesn’t have anything to do with numbers (which mathematics doesn’t either, technically), coming from PIE root *mendh- “to learn.” One of my favorite sentences is “I was told there would be no math.” The origin is Saturday Night Live, in fact. Chevy Chase often portrayed Pres. Gerald Ford. In this 1976 sketch, Jane Curtin asks him a complicated economic question during a debate. His response is, well, priceless.
My purpose in writing today is 3-fold. There is a lecture coming up on Wednesday by Dr. Scott Dupree, described as a brilliant polymath. He will speak on “Three Masterpieces That Changed the Twentieth Century: Picasso, Stravinsky, and Eliot.” I’m going because I know a little about all of them. He, as a polymath, will know more. Come if you can.
So, yes, I know about art, music, literature, just not at the calculus level. More at the add, subtract, multiply, and divide level, which is arithmetic. The higher functions, not so much.
Next, let me tell you how my Monday has been. Usually, I keep it as a day for self-recrimination, a fruitful pursuit, but today we took a different direction.
First, I found my flutes, which I had looked everywhere for. I know myself well enough to know I wouldn’t have put them someplace out of sight. Literally, out of sight is out of mind for me. (reference: the Ziploc of missing diamonds). Today, searching the car for the third time, I spotted a black bag stuffed behind a tall ladder in the garage. I could’ve sworn I’d brought the bad inside. But no. I am deeply thankful to have them though I am now somewhat interested in what my favorite dealer/repair shop, Rivard Brothers, has on hand—a Tomasi B-foot with a gold lip plate for not too much. Very pretty.
Then I went to Costco for gas, dropped my credit card in the car, figured out how to use the app, put the nozzle in the tank, heard a click (thought I did), replaced the nozzle, and proceeded to drive off. Then I realized I didn’t know if the app had paid. I went inside to check—no transaction. The Costco person told me about police showing up at their door after her newly-licensed daughter thought she’d paid for gas but hadn’t. A note was going on my card. Which I still can’t find.
I left the counter, noticed my bra strap had come disconnected and was dangling out of my shirt, bought pot pies for the Demolition Service, returned to my car, and drove away. After maybe a mile, I noticed that, in fact, I had not bought gas. No wonder! I went back, bought gas (and an azalea for $12.99!), went back to the desk to avoid a note on my card, and returned safely home. So far.
Third, good news. I read a book by Steven Pressfield, The War of Art (2002). As a polyarithmetic, I know its title is based on the famous Chinese classic, The Art of War by Sun Tzu, which is all I know about it. The modern book has me dead to rights: In a nutshell, I’m my own worst enemy. Which I knew.
It’s a short book. After reading it, I worked three straight days and edited three poetry cycles. I dug out the fourth, which is much longer. Once I’m finished, I’ll be ready for that long-neglected, often-promised Amazon book.
Obviously, I wrote this instead. Tomorrow …