March Mad Rant

Irrational. Numbers, Irrational Alice. What is the connection?

Pi. Hole. Pi- Irrational ratio of a circles circumference to its diameter (di-two); (meter-metric system). Alice falls down a Rabbit Hole, where irrationality meets dream, two alternative realities. Irrational, talking rabbits, mad hatters, disappearing cats, card soldiers, and a mad Red Queen. “Falling down a rabbit hole,” is a saying. Meaning, things might get weird.

But first, some math.

Circles Quartered into Angles. Tri-Angles. (Trigonometry- the study of triangles).

360 degrees is in Full Turn. A Revolution. A Ration. Ray, Radius, means spoke of a wheel or a beam of light.

end of math.

Radius- in biology. Forearm bones/ Ulna rotates.

History- Lewis Carroll was inspired by 7 year old Alice Lidell to write Alice in Wonderland. I wonder if you want to continue reading this. Alice was one of three sisters. Lewis took a liking to Alice. He was fond of photography. Alice was abruptly taken from his care. Yea, it is as sorted as you might think. It remains a mystery, but the question is, who’s story was it?

Mystery, is that although Lewis Carroll is credited for Alice in Wonderland, there are parallel stories that pre-date Carroll himself. Humpy Dumpty, for example. In the Annotated Mother Goose, Martin Gardner claims that the poem, which first appeared in 1810 but was much older, had always been intended as a riddle to which the answer is: an egg. The OED gives two definitions of the term, though doubts that the two are related. The first, dating to 1698, is "a drink made with 'ale boiled with brandy.'" The second is the Humpty we're more familiar with now.

Point is, do you really know the story of Alice? Math? Language?

I.School, like dear Alice is an adventure you must make Alone. Take your time (or someone else will). Plan a course. Always have a plan. When in doubt, search for the Original source. Interpret for your self. Think, for yourself. Seek what NOT talked about. Seek Truth.

Dear Alice begins her “down the rabbit hole” sitting alongside her older sister who had a book, that did not have pictures, which bored Alice to sleep.

The End

My favorite part of the novel, Alice in Wonderland is the very end:

“Who cares for you?” said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.) “You’re nothing but a pack of cards!”

At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.

“Wake up, Alice dear!” said her sister; “Why, what a long sleep you’ve had!”

“Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!” said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, “It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it’s getting late.” So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.

____________

But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:—

First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers—she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that would always get into her eyes—and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures of her little sister’s dream.

The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by—the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool—she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution—once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess’s knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it—once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard’s slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock Turtle.

So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality—the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds—the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy—and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard—while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s heavy sobs.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

THE END.

I Wonder if some wholesome lessons to be learned got lost in translation. The interpretations of, interpretations of, built on derivative stories of, but what we think is the real story. And who has time to delve? And what might one find?