mATH sAVANTISM*

I was doing things today, normal general things, things that normal well attenuated people do; but as I did these normal things, putting on a shirt, looping a belt, brushing my hair, I counted like a fucking Dervish: spinning numbers in the loom of my {Turing} head. Everything I do, from the frivolously banal to the most complicate (though little I do, I must confess, is complicated) is accompanied by counting, a preparatory figuring out of what number combinations will do, to a repetition of those selfsame numbers, all in the name of getting it right (though right, as anyone with {OCD} knows, is seldom the reason for counting). By now, now being 11:30pm, I am so utterly exhausted, that the mere thought of counting anything is repulsive, not to be confused with compulsive, though I do see how the two can be confused for one another. Once I attend to my nightly rituals, shifting and collecting, correlating and placing in neat orderly rows, I will do one last computational adding up, lift my feet from the floor beside my bed, and fall exhaustedly to sleep. Such is my daily day to day, a mathematical savant’s wet dream, a Freudian Fort/Da without string or bobbin.