#s

It's been more than six years since I last dreamed in numbers.

In 2002, during my last semester at Madison, I was a student in Professor Byrd's Logic course. I found a great deal of satisfaction in the proofs we worked week in, week out. I think -- nay, I know -- these exercises appealed to the same part of me that insisted socks be put on juuuuust right as a child, that meticulously applies handlebar tape at precise and even widths to my bicycles, and that relishes freshly "made" bed linens before turning in each night.

In the final weeks of his course, Prof Byrd assigned each of us a super-proof of sorts with which to grapple as part of our final exam. Of course, I immersed myself in this proof, sorting out sections and bits while riding to work at the shop or sitting at Einstein's on State Street chewing bagels. And then came the night before the proof was due; our group met that evening mulling over our efforts line by line but no one -- including me -- had achieved resolution.

Late that night I rode home, tired and stuck on this seemingly irreconcilable proof. I went to bed and slept poorly. I dreamed in numbers and figures and lines of proofs. I awoke early -- something like 4am, well before the sun -- and lay on my back staring at the ceiling and working through our proof. All of a sudden whatever I had dreamed, whatever my mind had worked out in my sleep came together in a solution to the elusive proof! Eureka! I fumbled for a pen and a notebook and started scribbling furiously in the dark. I was elated. I had sorted out the answer.

I passed on the shower, dressing quickly to allow for maximum transit time before the exam began at 8am. It must not yet have been 6am but I wanted to make damn sure that nothing was going to stop me from delivering my proof in time to get credit for it. I grabbed the bike and rode into campus aiming straight for the Helen C. White Library above which was perched the philosophy department.

I knew that Professor Byrd was often in his office early mornings and I held my fingers crossed riding up the elevator that that day was no exception. Success! He was indeed present. I handed him my proof, tired and a bit delusional from all the proof-crunching. He quietly looked it over, page by page, for what seemed an eternity. Eventually he looked up, grinned and before he even spoke I felt everything in the world was right.

I truly miss that class, Professor Byrd and most of all the proofs. It was something at which I excelled in spades and I loved that about Logic. It made sense to me -- it fit with the way I think about the world. It was neat and appropriate and everything had it's place, you just had to figure out where it all went.

Maybe some day I'll get to return to logic. Perhaps I'll become a Logician. I don't really know what Logicians do or even whether this is even a viable profession -- I mean, I can't imagine a great need for Logicians in the world but who knows. Perhaps there's something else. For now, I'll stick with bicycles and get my kicks from elaborate spreadsheets.