‘I love you.’ In his letters, he never did quite write these words to me, at least, not in that order. Instead, he wrote ‘I place my love in you.’ He had a love for logic. The roots of love were active. They liked to engage, move, and place themselves inside inner circles where they could be activated multiple and multiple times. Yet, love had no logic. We agreed.
When he traveled he wrote long poetic ungraspable lovely letters. He was a mathematician and a poet, a sailor of structures, patterns, precisions, and symmetry of thought. His planet needed mathematics and poetry as much as our planet needs suns, seas, oceans, and moons.
Like the words of the great poets of the world, the force of his words bled into the caves of my soul bodies. His words counted for the echoes of my thoughts. He lived between raindrops so he could count them. I lived between the pages of his books.
He was a penman; there was no doubt about it. The pen was body flesh. Ink, the colours of humanity. He felt through the pen and wrote not to discover what he knew, but what he believed. The difference, I have yet to forget the look in his eyes when he explained it. They pierced into precision.
Mathematical beauty, freedom of inquiry, peaceful galaxies and planets, forces of wisdom in nature, facing the rivers, the sounds of G’d, and the eyes of the soul: he walked these worlds. Poetry was a colour of heart and hope. Poetry was Pessoa, Neruda, Whitman, precise as math, and other quantitative spirit-sciences.
He believed in the powers of handwritten letters and poems, even in the age of computers. In his pocket, he always carried 2 letters + 1 note + 4 poems = a total of 7 pieces of paper. ‘Seven: the number of completion.’ But, his favourite number was 3: ‘Thought, word, deed, complete the sum of human capability.’
- 1. Flaubert’s letter to Louise Colet in which he wrote ‘Poetry is as exact a science as geometry.’
- 2. The letter of Samuel Taylor Coleridge to his brother with the words“ I have often been surprised that Mathematics, the quintessence of Truth, should have found admirers so few…”
- 3. And my words nested in a note ‘Before you do your math could you please clean up your socks! Should you forget, I will not be able to calculate them.’
- 1. Pablo Neruda’s An Ode to the Numbers
- 2. The Kiss Precise by Frederick Soddy
- 3. Robert Browning’s poem called Rabbi Ben Ezra, inspired by the great Abraham ibn Ezra who lived during the Middle Ages. He was also called Abenezra, or The Wise, The Great, and The Admirable Doctor. He was a great master in multiple subjects including math and poetry. A crater on the moon was called after him, Abenezra. What I also found most interesting, was that the first words in this poem by Browning inspired John Lennon to write his song “Grow Old With Me.” We loved sharing these kind of stories. We loved stories. We loved Lennon. We loved songs.
- 4. And, last but not least, he carried a poem in his pocket, which I wrote called ‘A room of my own. You!’ -with no relation to mathematics what so ever.
These letters and poems were, he said, ‘just elegant and beautiful proofs of linking poetry to geometry, divine expression to grace.’
He was gentle. He was wise. His spiral way, he was able to define it way before I was able to define mine. He loved me for everything I disliked about myself. Yes, it is true. His exact words: ‘Sometimes we need the other to show the one the billions of colours inside the eyes of our own.’’ He was my Soul mirror. I was his, ‘Earthrise. Earthrise.’
It was so sudden and so unexpected. But, when he lost his ability to count, I think he knew. His genius was tortured. His pen turned syringe. On the last night of his life, I curled up beside him. I took his hands in my hands, looked at his fingers and kissed each one of them the way I would kiss his poems. Then, I reached for his eyes with my lips and planted 3 white butterflies on the flesh of each lid. ‘10 + 3 + 3 kisses adds up to 7 kisses, the number of completion and the kissing butterfly circles,’ I whispered. In that moment, he became his last smile.
For the next 300 years, I lay there beside him in a fetish position. Assailed by an inferno of sadness, I lost my life after he lost his. ‘Oh my soul, how to survive this second world of silence? How to exist without existing? Oh, gift of death, why slice my soul and leave one slice behind? Take me. Take me!’ Take me never came.
Stories heal. We become what we believe. I believe in stories.
Why do the winds blow people towards us, only to rip them from our lives after some seasons? I now know I will never know. I will not be here forever, but I am here now. That is all I know. I know that he placed himself in every piece of my human more deeply and intensely than can any other human. Perhaps, he was not human. Perhaps, he was a sun spirit. A moonwalker. A wonder of a great love.
Twelve months later, I found a letter in one of his books. It was he to me. Clearly, it was a letter he wrote during his final days when he could barely write. But, I was able to read him. At night, I keep this letter under to my pillow, by day…between the pages of his book. The letter:
Oh my soul ~ Fanny ~
Promise me, you will not be afraid to create new worlds.
Where I go and where you are,
I will still see the 3 billion colours in your eyes
And, watch your hands ~ create the dance ~ of the Soddy circles.
I am your Soul mirror. You, my Earthrise. Earthrise.
I place my love in you, Fanny ~ Jacques
- His imperfections?
- Well, he snored. We had our issues.
- However, if all my body parts now ache to be cradled inside the songs of his snores, does his night music now add up to be the grand total sum of an imperfection?
- ‘Precisely, Fanny, Precisely.’