On the shores of the Red Sea

A story to travel through light, with the imagination, and with the feelings. He reflected on perseverance, on the correct path, he reflected on the obstacles of entrepreneurs, travelers, passionate people. I was looking for a goal, and I found myself in a mathematical singularity, which lives in the meeting of the East with the West. He found the answer, in seiza, in front of the dawn of a Red Sea, in the dawn of a soul.

Today I remembered my dojo. Last night I dreamed of a tree full of paper cranes. Yesterday, after many years, I spoke with a sensei.

During the morning, I recognized the fear in my belly, that fear that works like a sixth sense, that fear that is the best friend of the most precious thing that human beings have. It is a fear that is born from love, from light. It is a fear that puts a shield on your arm, clenches your teeth, focuses your gaze. It is a fear that is capable of turning your skin white, like the leaves of a jasmine flower, sending all the blood to the right place; It is a fear that goes from the sky to the earth, from the air to the water, a fear that is fire.

At 12 noon, in full sunlight, an ippon, a mae geri, straight to the pit of the stomach. It was precise, invisible, subtle. It was as delicate as it was powerful. I curled up in pain, for an infinitesimal part of the time, my mind was transported far away from there. That same morning fire was teleported, like a tiny drop of light, by the lightning, which at 12:00 p.m. intercepted my body. And he passed through it; from my heaven, to my earth, by the shortest possible path.

I traveled directly to the heart of the Sun; I traveled there, to its deepest center.

The trip lasted several hours, at first, it resembled that path in Kyoto, in Japan, known as “The Path of the Philosopher”, or as “The Path of Meditation”. During the first hour, I watched 10 years pass by. Summer, fall, winter, spring, summer, fall, winter, spring, summer, fall, winter, spring, summer.

For some reason, summers lasted longer than winters, and springs longer than autumns. This made autumns and winters intensely beautiful. Season after season, he walked a beautiful path, the phenomena of nature were repeated; It gave me a sense of order, a sense of security; It made me feel that surprises did not exist, that uncertainties disappeared.

As ten years passed, the situation became different. Facing a sea of stars, the movement was only evident by the transformation of the luminous points into small threads of light; The further I advanced, the more they crystallized, they had a firmer, more structural consistency; It was similar to the feeling of entering the stem of a rose from the root; It felt like watching it grow inside, from the heart of the seed.

Suddenly: Pluf!

How the birth of a flower in ultra-fast camera felt me transforming into part of a whole. At 12:00, and an infinitesimal portion of time later, I came back to myself.

It was what is defined as Mathematical Singularity.

A Mathematical Singularity, beyond seeming like something scary, but I mean the other fear. I am referring to the other side of the coin, to the shadow of the light, to the opposite pole, to the perfect complement; Romantics call it “the better half.”

Let's not get into debates.

Let me explain better, the authoritarianism of my last expression does not lie in the fact that I do not like the plurality of voices. Although I encourage structures to grow creativity and imagination, my flag is freedom.

With my refusal to debate, I mean that there is a plane, which I want to see in my society; that I wish to see throughout the world; that I wish to see throughout my world; that I wish to see in your entire world; where harmony exists. I'm talking about the magic act. I'm talking about an act of global genius. I'm talking about the beginning of a golden age, or a green one, or the color of a butterfly's wings.

The Singularity exists, as it exists in our imagination, in our mind, as it exists in our mathematics, in our body. A Mathematical Singularity is a phenomenon that we all experience on a daily basis, we know it very well.

Mathematical functions are like machines that live in the imagination, they also live in the neural networks of AIs, it would seem that they lived in the light, between the threads of the synapse, and between the copper, silver, and gold wires. Mathematical functions are generators of change, they transform something that enters into something that leaves. There are many types of mathematical functions, but some of them present strange, unpredictable behaviors if certain numbers or certain substances are put into them. This unexpected behavior is called Function Singularity.

In mathematics, the Singularity is mentioned when the rules fail.

In the thirteen books that make up Euclid's mathematical and geometric treatise Elements, written by the Greek mathematician and geometer Euclid, around 177 BC. C., in the city of Alexandria, there are points of failure. In the depth of 2 + 2 = 5, there is a truth, but it can only be true who navigates those depths of knowledge.

Singularities cannot be written on paper, through elementary arithmetic techniques, those that we all know, and I know that many hated, but rather a language composed of other types of symbols is usually used.

Symbols, such as chains of codes, business logos, designs, films, Maradona's Hand of God in Mexico '86, or Messi's 3-2 against France in Qatar '22. Symbols.

This type of symbol that represents the Singularity contains the notion of "limit", of "infinities", of "negative infinities" and "positive infinities", of "infinitely close to...", both "seen from the left", and " seen from the right.”

So, looking into the eyes of the love of your life, in the Piazza San Marco in Venice, under a completely blue sky, the blurred shadow of the needle of the great clock of the Torre dell'Orologio, behind the girl's face with honey-colored eyes, coming from the shores of the Red Sea, in that plane where time seems to stand still, but still does not stop, an instant before 12:00, "approaching infinitesimally close to 12:00 from the left", a ray of light The Sun at its peak ejects a beam of light that crosses the center of the axis of its body, "from the left, from the right, through 360°, infinitesimally close to the axis of its body", and it was already past 12:00, and we crossed the another singularity, “the portion that exists approaching us from the right an infinitesimal distance from 12:00,” and we definitely passed 12:00.

Everything that the human being is capable of imagining, is also capable of creating, and to imagine a Singularity, one must only be capable of Love.

During the afternoon, just after 12:01, I was watching a soccer game, it was called Club Deportivo Branca, I was sitting on an iron railing, drinking mate with friends, the wind was blowing strong, player number 11, with the inside of his foot left, hits the ball with force, and in the instant immediately after, let's say "a portion of time proportional to that which exists approaching from the right an infinitesimal distance of 12:00, after hitting the ball", straighten his spine deviating the center of gravity of the body the same advance of its shadow on the grass, and harmoniously impacts the net on the upper left edge of the goal, for an infinite portion of distance inside the white line that delimits success, failure, glory, defeat , the darkness, of the shadow.

A simple singularity, which continually trains a person's ability to acquire one of the greatest virtues: perseverance.

This time the effect won, Branca wins 3-0.

This sensei approached me. Of course, one doesn't recognize a sensei like that just because. Invariably you must talk. It wasn't difficult at all. On every court, in general, in my situation, everything starts with: Don't you play?, and continues with: "No, I do karate." In this particular case, in front was a sensei. The tone of voice, the serenity in the manner when the discipline of karate is mentioned, the position of the body at all times, the presence of his hands, which at all times feel light, agile, and in young people, at least the portion of time needed. In any case, there is never a reason to need their skills, these types of people prefer to shake hands, simply, with the posture of respect towards the other, the look above all changes.

I hadn't spoken to a sensei in a while. From my pocket I took my wallet; Behind the photo of my grandparents, I have been carrying two small sheets of paper for years, one contains a phrase and the other a poem, both written by me by hand; While I travel, while I walk unknown lands, I always carry my weapons: books, which appear, disappear, and transform, through travel; a pen, and a notebook; these two pieces of paper, behind the photo of my grandparents; some other things.

Those two pieces of paper are engineering tools for my mind, for my imagination; They are like mathematical functions, or like the melody of a song; I use them only when necessary.

With the sensei, we reminded each other of the silence of the dojo, the respect of the dojo; We remembered the feeling of entering a different world, the feeling of entering a place isolated from our routine. Little is spoken in the dojos, I would even say that what is spoken is similar to listening to our own voice, when one speaks to oneself in front of the mirror.

We remember the makiwara, a semi-rigid wooden pole, developed on the Island of Okinawa, Japan, which is used to learn how to hit a blow, which is not talked about much. The main objective of the makiwara is the alignment of the body, and the projection of force at the moment of impacting the blow. Sometimes a lead weight, known as a “plumb line,” is placed behind the makiwara, hanging by a thread from the ceiling. The makiwara is very rigid, and difficult to move, however, it has the ability to contour as a whole, if perfectly hit. As the wood contours, it hits the lead and hits the wall. It is a very strong blow, very delicate, and subtle at the same time.

We karatekas spend years in front of the makiwara, and there is no end. The fact why we don't talk much about makiwara is that, whoever doesn't know the philosophy, sees violence and pain, but whoever knows the deep philosophy behind the Art of Karate, knows that pain is simply a side effect, of an internal path. , spiritual, and full of peace.

The karateka knows that, despite training the perfection of a blow for years, on the one hand he will never get it right, and he also knows that he will never put that blow into practice. A priori, it seems absurd, it reminds me of the Myth of Sisyphus, by Albert Camus, and perhaps it is.

The first piece of paper contains a phrase by Anneo Seneca, which I read in letter number 76 of the book: The Letters of Seneca to Lucilius, which is a literal quotation from Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy, Virgil, Aeneid, VI, and says, in Italian:

“O virgine, nessuna forma di travaglio mi giunge new and unforeseen; tutto ho omen; tutto ho ponderato. I mali che oggi mi annunzi io li ho always annunziati a me estesso; “Soo soon to all the events connessi con la mia condizione di uomo.”

This is Aeneas' response to Sibyl of Cuma, who had predicted the adversity he would encounter in the region of Lazio:

“O virgin, nothing that happens to me is new and unexpected; I have foreseen everything; I reflected, above all. The evils that you announce to me today, I have always announced to myself; "I am prepared for all the events related to my condition as a man."

This phrase is an instrument for those moments where one needs peace, it is not a battle cry, nor is it a moment of resignation, nor is it about pain or suffering. This phrase reminds me of the love for life. It reminds me of a gift, of my Mother, and of my Father.

After reading that sentence I look at the Sun, the Moon, the stars. I remember that I am here, in the heart of the earth, where the Butterfly Garden exists. I remember those who are no longer here, and who look at me, shining, from that same Sun, from that same Moon, from those same stars. I smile; deep breath; I blink only once, at the same rhythm as my breathing; Make a decision; I accept the consequences of action, the consequences of unfolding the sails, in the face of a gust of wind that heads towards the unexplored, towards adventure, towards the uncertain.

The other piece of paper contains a poem that I wrote, in 2016, in Chivilcoy, Buenos Aires, Argentina, after talking about love and life, with a brother, with a sempai, with a traveler, one who five Years later, he would give me my black belt, well, his black belt, in karate we would say: the black belt.

The poem, titled “Destiny,” read like this:

"On your back, princess, a feather of honey rises and decants.

The wind of a thousand jasmines, with the light of that lantern, from the window, embraces you.

The fire in your eyes consumes the oxygen of my mind.

Restless your mascara, paint the work of the year, on the canvas of my chest.

Your authoritarian power over my senses, more queen than princess in my land, takes root.

There is no path without love, there is no love without life, there is no life without light, there is no Light without memory, there is no life without end.

On the journey through the beam of light of the meeting of our souls on earth, instinctive like lions of the Atlas, we dance, harmonious, to the rhythm of thousands of Qraqeb.

We reveal the secrets of the mysticisms of cultures, we live, for a moment, and in

the singularity of time, in the belly of the Sun.

I will be your Moon, moving the tides, until you reach port, while I go, dazzled by your brilliance, to raise the anchor.

Fleeting and free, I contemplate you in the stars, waiting to see you arrive. Waiting to see you arrive from the journey that began 500 light years ago; that began when that molecule caressed the wings of the great stellar butterfly.

The causes and effects are far away. But they meet."

I will not talk more about karate and love in this story, nor will I talk about mathematics. I said goodbye to that sensei, in that Alacuas Lake.

I breathed in the aroma of the great jasmine flower that lives in the heart of the Sun. I greeted Euclid, Dante, Anneus, Aenea, and Sibyl of Cuma. I greeted number 11, and the entire Branca team. I greeted my brother. I sent this letter to Lucilio.

On the shores of the Red Sea, in the singularity of that moment, I travel through 10 years of seasons, watching the dawn of the soul of the girl with honey-colored eyes on the distant horizon; with the peace of being in my dojo, sitting in seiza, with the stone paper book in my right hand, and a pen in the left.

Mr. Outheway, the Poet.

Franco Bogliolo.