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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. ![Merit Badge in Quill Award
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Congratulations on winning an honorable mention for Best Blog at the 2018 Quill Awards for [Link To Item #1196512] . *^*Smile*^* This award was sponsored by the blogging consortium including [Link To Item #30dbc] , [Link To Item #blogcity] , [Link To Item #bcof] and [Link To Item #1953629] . For more details, see [Link To Item #quills] .](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/type-Blogging-2180.gif) ![Merit Badge in Highly Recommended
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   PROMPT November 14th A Mystery Genre prompt tonight. You are researching your genealogy and find that ancestors from a different generations and different countries made visits to the same remote place. Tell us about this remote place. Why were your ancestors going there? I don't much care about genealogy. This is not to say that I think people who do are wrong. Everyone needs a hobby, and if that's yours, great. I'm only talking about my own proclivities here. I know a bit about my adoptive family's ancestry. They shaped who I am just as surely as genetics must have (when it comes to the ancient nature vs. nurture debate, I'm firmly on the side of "both"). I know about it because my parents, aunts and uncles told me about it. I know, for instance, that my father's mother died when he was very young; later I put two and two together and realized that she was a victim of the Spanish Flu epidemic of the late 1910s / early twenties. I've even tried to find records of them, out of curiosity, but ran into brick walls after grandparents (only one of whom I ever knew, and she died the day after I turned seven). But I didn't care enough to dig deeper. As for my biological family, I have no interest in finding out about them at all. I am who I am, and I prefer to think of myself as unbound from any ancestral shackles. Go back far enough, and we all come from the same place anyway. It always bugs me in shows and movies when a character is like, "Oh, I need to find out who my REAL parents are" when they've been raised by perfectly acceptable human beings, people who cared about them. And they're going to snub all that for the family who gave them away? Rude. In one of them, the character was a law enforcement official; she discovered that her biological father was a criminal, so she started acting like a criminal because she thought that was a part of who she was. Turns out (plot twist) he wasn't her bio father after all, so that was all her, not genetically programmed. I know that's just a story, but stories reflect attitudes, and that was an attitude I didn't appreciate. So, to address the actual prompt, I'll write a story of my own, something I rarely do in this blog, but it fits. The only thing I'll preface this with is to keep in mind that every place on Earth is remote from somewhere. "So, Dad, I was looking into family history." Ted spooned another morsel of chili into his face. "Oh?" The older man dabbed his napkin at the corners of his mouth. "Find any skeletons?" Ted swallowed. "Just one weird thing I don't understand. Seems like everyone on your side was born in Baltimore." Ted's father leaned back in his chair. "Yep," he acknowledged. "I was. You were. Your father, his father... not sure about great-grandpa, but even his father was born in Baltimore, and they were still living in England at the time. And we've always lived here in California." "Well." Dad pressed his lips together. "That's all because of the prophecy." Ted blinked. "No, really, what's the deal with that?" "I'm not kidding, son. There was a prophecy. Let's see." His eyes searched the ceiling. "Nope, I don't remember the exact wording. Something about how a son born in Baltimore would one day save the family." Ted snorted. "Right." "My dad thought I might be the one, so he took your grandmother to Baltimore to have me. His dad thought he would be the one, so, same deal. And on back as far as I'm aware." "And none of you fulfilled the prophecy?" Dad shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. What exactly is saving the family?" "Maybe it's about me," said Ted. It was Dad's turn to snort. "Son, I love you, but you're 45 years old, single, childless, working at Wal-Mart, and living above my garage. You're the last Thistlethwaite. You ain't savin' nothin'. Prophecy's bullshit." "I'm 47," Ted corrected him. "Whatever." Dad stood with a grunt and picked up his empty bowl. He headed toward the kitchen. "Doesn't change my point." "Hey, at least I have a job. What do you do all night while I'm at work, anyway?" Dad raised his voice from the kitchen. "Sleep, like a normal person. And I worked for thirty damn years to put food on the table for you and your no-good mother." "You call this food?" Ted mumbled, pushing the chili around the half-empty bowl. "What was that?" Ted cleared his throat. "I said, at least Mom could cook." "You're a disappointment, son." "You're disappointed now? Wait 'til you see your nursing home." |
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