I drove my father's van the other day for the first time in my earthly existence. To the casual, uninformed bystander, the van appears to be a mini-van; to those of us who have been in the thing, however, it is more like a space-craft/school bus. At least, that's how my sister describes it: when prepping me for my first operation of the monster, she told me that driving it makes her feel like a "strange combination of astronaut and bus driver." At first I laughed at this remark, but once I took my place in the driver's seat, I knew she wasn't kidding.
My father's van is a handicap van, so it is outfitted to suit his needs (my father has multiple sclerosis, and is confined to a wheelchair). Thus, the layout of the van is much more complex than the typical mini-van. There is no passenger seat, but a big contraption on the floor that my father drives up to in his motorized wheelchair and "locks" into. There is also a small box on the floor for his feet to rest on, but my mother, sister and I use it for ulterior purposes; namely, perching on it when father isn't in the van and we want to sit up front.
The bus characteristics are revealed in the back seat of the van. The door on the right opens via button (opening it manually is forbidden) and releases a ramp. Before the ramp is released, (I suppose this is where the spacecraft comparison is relevant) the van lowers itself eerily, like a futuristic elevator. So my father has space to drive into the van via ramp and "lock" into his passenger contraption, there is no middle row of seats like a regular mini-van; instead, the only back-seat is found in very back of the van. I suppose this element combines the characteristics of both spacecraft and school bus: the driver is far removed from the back passengers, much like a bus driver is removed from the passengers on a bus; being in the back seat also makes you feel like you are galaxies away from the people in the front. In fact, in order for the front-seat and back-seat passengers to have a conversation, both parties must yell to cover the distance. Most of the time it isn't really worth it, and we just listen to the radio.
I learned to drive the space bus in a craft store parking lot at 10:00 p.m. My father wasn't there, so my mother sat on the box beside me while my sister sat in the galaxy far, far away. Driving the beast was easy enough in a desolate parking lot; the problem was starting it. The van is full of gadgets and buttons, and I had to know how to use them. When I put the key in the ignition, for example, the van screeched until I pressed a button. It was the van's way of alerting me that no one had locked themselves into the passenger contraption. Pressing the button was my way of silencing it's protests, and preparing for take-off.
The best aspect of the van, I discovered, was the drivers seat. There is a set of three joysticks to the right of it that control the position of the seat: up, back, or to the side. These controls allow my father to transfer from his wheelchair to the drivers seat; they also allow me to experience life as Yao Ming. Curious, I opened the sun roof and moved the seat up as far as it would go. It turned out that I could move the seat so far, my head was almost completely out of the sun roof, peaking out from the top of the van. I wanted to attempt to drive around the parking lot in the van as a makeshift convertible, but my mom wouldn't buy it.
I am taking a math class this summer to get the requirement out of the way. I am taking Math 105, the lowest level class I can take for credit, because I despise math. This Math 105 class I am in, to my delight, is hardly math: we write haikus, sing camp songs, and dance to Whitney Houston for extra credit. To my extreme delight, our math final is a three to four page essay on a math topic of our choice, accompanied by a creative representation of the topic. This could be anything, from a baked good to a musical performance. I chose to paint the Mandelbrot set.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Mandelbrot set, you should search for a video of it online. The starting image looks like a big black ink blot, or a magnified flea. In online videos, however, the camera zooms in to reveal psychedelic colors and swirls, all to the tune of trippy music. I imagine the double rainbow guy would have a hay day with the Mandelbrot set: "So intense!" he would say. "What does it mean?! Its too much!"
The Mandelbrot set includes infinite repetitions of itself, and is thus a mathematical concept. What interests me about it, however, are the bright colors, trippy shapes and funky music accompanying it. Plus, it has an edge called seahorse valley, named after the shapes' resemblance to a colony of sea horses.
Due to it's awesomeness, painting the Mandelbrot set seemed like the only option for my final project. The task lured me in, much like Marion Cotillard lures Leo in Inception. I couldn't shake its image out of my mind or my dreams.
Once I sat down to actually paint it, however, the task became more daunting. I mean, the Mandelbrot set has infinite repetitions of itself, meaning there are tinier Mandelbrots piled onto tiny Mandelbrots. To put it bluntly, that shit's crazy!
So I simplified it. I painted the Julia set instead. Apparently there are Julia sets inside the Mandelbrot set too. These are less like ink blots and even more trippy: some of them look like electric snowflakes. I started the task with fervor and excitement, making sure to pay close attention to detail. As the task wore on, however, and I had listened to Arcade Fire's new album three times (Its great, by the way), I started to lose enthusiasm and attention to detail. I began to make fat, careless strokes, in eager anticipation of the end. The finished product is mediocre, but I take solace in the fact that painting the Mandelbrot set, regardless of the quality, earns one some major street cred--as long as math people are hanging out in the streets.
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