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The Morning Stars of Math (excerpt)

by Samuel Dumas  
4/24/2020 / Family

Excerpt from “The Morning Stars of Math”, page 105 (The Tenth Word Series.)


To a friend: It was a busy day today. I only had time to write a couple of sentences on the present book. Those words, however, brought me to page 270 of the second draft, and I assess without too much thought, that  these two lines are the greatest wellness-of-verse that I have written in the whole book thus far. When I think back on all of the ideas that coalesced into the theme of the book, these two sentences seem to express for me, and hopefully for the reader, the most healing thoughts that rave for the cohesion of the book.  

In chapter 7 I have come to the height of the organization phase, where I finally define the single reason for writing this book about the highest work found on the planet. Because I am at this pinnacle in this book, and find myself still elated about giving it ever more motion, I thought I would send you an excerpt and give you a few more 'behind the scenes' notations. This book commemorates the best star event in the universe, not a super nova by any means, but if not the best star event, then certainly one of the most singular. There is not another like it, and the logic which has brought me to this top spin helps resolve me in my agreement that this is solidly so.

In this chapter of the book, when I step out, as it were, on the roof of my success building,  I take full prize of the kind of nirvana that I had experienced when my first daughter was placed into my arms by the doctor, and thereafter became mine, to hold and to love both her and her gifts forever. The thrill I felt then did not come from her 6 pound 15 weight, but from a whole suite of expectations, and the pride of just being asked to be her father at all. But this exhilaration was superseded 2 years later when our two points of starlight really connected—like the starlights of Star Trek Enterprise warp-driving to a single point of divine flash, far deep into the black of space. She, with her aggressive love of words, began to master voice and called out to me to come and play life. Every day thereafter, she sang words about her living, and with her golden brain made church bell memories, which have increased my love and my affection for her to this day.

And that was only the first of such moments; she was only the first of three children to be born into my arms. Twice more would I hold a child in my hands and smile my love into their whole being, care-giving to their sweet frame using what little maturity I had at that young time.

The second arrival was a she, as well, and I watched her grow through the age of two and then on to four, where she mastered the voice of She-Ra as she stepped down, stepped down, stepped down into my deepest of hearts. There she resides, having become the only birth of the three that deserved my poem-label of ‘a world and a universe in this one child:’ doctor, mother, linguist, Sergeant—and good ones.

And then my last, the writer, the only child I brag about daily to my students. He writes among the best in our family of writers. His voice is one that wraps around lines of copy-lingua that began at eight with the oblivions of pain on the planet Vagelon II, and now traverse their hard, tongue-trudging beats into songs which I could never carry in a million…. He too, has mastered voice, and sings—literally— out to me by my window. Although he is the only ‘son of my life’ in these three births, this morning star book is meant to especially encourage him. And out here in my ‘end of years,’ I still call him some of his 31 childhood names—names for talents, talents for names: Joe-E Louis, No Tae Woo, and all his Shamelis others.

Thus these three wanted children are the ‘all for one and one for all,’ and I alone, the fifth with them.)


(She who bore them shall always be the force (fourth) that is with them.)



Chapter 7

O Star!

The Blossoming

 And here I was, on the 5th Floor of my success building, standing on the final ceiling under a darkening evening; I was looking out at the far, far glistening of the sea. From its silver edges in the great distance its silent cinema answered back to my inner quest for even more clarity of why I would choose to erect this building to explain my love for life.

I could not hear it roaring or feel the chill, whistle blow of its air tides as it onshore-dribbled my way. Just being here at last on the roof top was eventful enough, and I was in a smiling kind of rest knowing that my ‘choosing something like a star’ was finally at a satisfying end. I don’t think I could have counted all of the chaotic, dizzying word-thoughts that had come crashing into me since that first day in which I stood stare-stopped before that paper elevator in the yellow hallway of Foss High School. Only now, while I reflected out on the horizons of these thoughts, I could feel the flash heat of nirvana settling in: it was no big deal though, for I had been there before 39 years ago.

As I surveyed  this ‘view from a height’ of my making,  all of the cool fresh distances (those which were on my top-skull, and those that zeroed in from every side) began to sail in on me. The first of these quiescent fronts hit my face, and then, as they cavitated around me I could feel them entirely cloaking me. They next penetrated like an exhilarated dagger  through my 3-haired chest and entered the heated quick of both of my breath sacks, finally to disappear after an electric glance off my spine; this left my whole frame with a missing ‘like a thought abut the brink of scroll—expanse, so taking.’

With silent drum rolls of happiness after assimilating this brief 360 mathematical, I was beginning to realize just how large of an uncovering of my inner mind that had just occurred: Here I am, thinking monumentally about the number one worthy in the present world in which anyone could write through, and at the same time trying to fully grasp that sum with my elderly brain. As I had expected, though, here on the 5th floor, I had finally pin-pointed, and had finally took hold firmly of that star. The overall weight of the task floated ghostily before me, but now seemed less foreboding; only the last, higher hurdle still loomed. This consisted of how to use my writing discipline to craft into the construction all of the hundreds of mysteries involved with this morning star. And then, after having written the whole of it, to place it where I could never forget it: just above the most favorite gallery in my entire known universe; six day-dawns above the western semi-curve and one and a half neck-turns to my left. This would fix its shine well under, but next to the Daystar, the son of the morning.

—Dumas fils

Link to my Amazon book, "The Tenth Word, I"

As an educator no part of the Bible is of greater value than are its biographies. Conversely extended: for a biographee, what they are is what has been written (educated) into them; these inner-man things are what they will love writing about....

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