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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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SHUT THE FUCK UP about LOST, already!
I've been getting the DVDs from Netflix which of course is a season or two behind, and I don't want to hear about the goddamn ending.
Bad enough I had to put up with that shit with the Sopranos.
It's not that I care about "spoilers." I'm just sick and goddamn tired of references to shit I haven't seen.
I'm on the internet so I don't get tempted to buy cable, and everywhere I look, some geekfest is blabbing on about how Darth Vader is Sawyer's father, or how Keyser Soze killed their whole families, or what Ginger did to Mary Ann, or how John Locke named his sled Rosebud.
SHUT UP ALREADY!
I know how this works, you know. Now everyone's going to comment here about the goddamn ending. That's okay. I can ignore [blog comment] emails for the duration. |
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http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/news/after-keeping-us-wait...
Exactly a century after rumours of his death turned out to be entirely accurate, one of Mark Twain's dying wishes is at last coming true: an extensive, outspoken and revelatory autobiography which he devoted the last decade of his life to writing is finally going to be published.
The creator of Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn and some of the most frequently misquoted catchphrases in the English language left behind 5,000 unedited pages of memoirs when he died in 1910, together with handwritten notes saying that he did not want them to hit bookshops for at least a century.
Apparently some of it is already known, but here it'll all be in one place.
I suppose a personal account of his meetings with Nikola Tesla would be too much to ask for... and if Twain ended up bad-mouthing the inventor, my head just might explode from cognitive dissonance. |
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I've never really come out and said this, but it should be obvious from some of my entries that I'm prone to depression.
Some time ago, before I joined WDC, I tried a prescription for antidepressants that my doctor recommended. That didn't last long. It lasted, more to the point, for about a week, until one night I found myself floating above my bed and looking down at myself lying there. Sure, it was a dream or hallucination - I don't levitate - but that's just one of those things that we're not supposed to experience or, if we do, we should be under the influence of something more recreational than Paxil.
Not that I do recreational drugs, mind you (well, I drink, but nothing illegal. That would be the LAST thing I need, getting a dependency on something like that.)
I lived with it - the depression, not the medication - for a while, rationalizing it by thinking that some of the best writers have suffered from depression, and I might as well get what creativity I could out of it.
The problem is, I don't get very creative when depressed; instead, I find myself starting to write angsty poems which I immediately delete (teens, take note: write them all you want, but freaking DELETE them before inflicting them upon the rest of us. You're not Poe. You're not even Morrissey.)
More recently, I've found that a combination of two things clears the depression right up: exercise, and vitamin D. Either one alone helps, but together they make me positively cheery, at which point none of my friends want to be around me because they're used to me being cynical and apathetic. That bums me out, which makes me depressed even when I'm not. Maybe I need new friends.
Well, I haven't been exercising very much over the past month - no excuse for that, just haven't worked it into my schedule, but I've been taking the vitamins.
Last night I forgot to take it, so today I found myself driving down the back roads of rural Virginia listening to Leonard Cohen and Brandi Carlile - not something I recommend in megadoses for one's mental health.
What really bugs me about all this is that it's all chemical - either directly as in the vitamin D, or indirectly through production of endorphins via exercise. In other words, no event can "cheer me up" for any length of time.
I don't know WHY it bugs me that this is the case; it just does.
So tonight I'll remember to take the vitamin D, and tomorrow I'll go to the gym. And maybe I can save a bit on gas in the process. |
© Copyright 2025 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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