At home now with my love of calculators, it is time to share them with the children. Yes, the children.
The Whipple Museum has a wonderful wealth of calculating tools from the past few centuries of the western world. There are slide rules (including groovy circular and cylindrical one which boost up the multiplication power), abacuses, tiny little Napier's bones, big clunky mechanical calculators from the early- to mid-twentieth century, little stylus slide adders and Curta calculators (exceptionally cool) from the 1950s. And of course, a bordering-on-incredible number of hand held electronic calculators from the 1970s and early 80s, some remarkable for being the first of some kind or other (scientific, programmable, touch sensitive, etc), some remarkable for being sensually either thrilling or distasteful to a high degree, some for visual flair, some utterly unremarkable apart from their adding to the general impression of the sheer quantity of these things that so flooded the markets, and some that from a great distance look like flies.
Via the medium of the video-conference, I am going to talk about these tools of calculation to classes of 12-14 year olds, from four different schools all at once. Magic. Then they are going to get together in little groups and do their own research project on them, including designing a mathematical game based on their tool, and in a second video-conference they can present the fruits of their labour to me and the other classes so that we can all discuss. Hopefully it will be fun and give them happy enthusiasm beans.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Silence of
Silence of the children-thought
as blown on carriage train to nought,
with buckets from the mind-well slowly
brought to stretch the light of dusk where
shadows pierce a heart of sorts
and salt marks out the eyes.
Smite not now the over-pass,
where thundered air can breathe at last,
where distance flies us close enough for
bruised lips to return to laugh
and delight is compromise.
as blown on carriage train to nought,
with buckets from the mind-well slowly
brought to stretch the light of dusk where
shadows pierce a heart of sorts
and salt marks out the eyes.
Smite not now the over-pass,
where thundered air can breathe at last,
where distance flies us close enough for
bruised lips to return to laugh
and delight is compromise.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Parameters of touch: calculators are go.
On seeing a clunky, quirky, sleek or sexy calculator from the 1970s in a museum or in a museum catalogue, surely you would be disappointed not to be able to reach out and touch its eminantly clickable keys. I know I would.
And yet here I am, in a museum workspace, with 436 such calculators at my fingertips, making our database ready to publish a catalogue of the collection. I could help you. I could give you vicarious calculator sensuality.
So, I am not merely recording dates and what type of battery these things took; I have devised a language system.
To try and make it clear, I made a few semi-artificial parameters of the act of pressing these little keys .
First is the length of travel: how far the keys can be depressed. This works out simply as short-, medium-, or long-travel. Texas Instruments are generally very short travel, for example.
Next is the process of depressing the keys. Just like the keys of a piano, those of a calculator can be differently weighted. Degrees of resistance. Thus the keys vary between being very light and very heavy to the touch. Some of them require serious finger power. Some are so light you hardly knew you pressed them, and then some, like the Sinclairs, seem so heavy that perhaps the calculators are only meant ot be viewed. Of course, Sinclair can get away with that: theirs are the only calculators that actually pass as sexy, especially the Sovereign.
During depression, the keys may also be 'squashy'. Casio keys are a typical example of this. Note that lightness to the touch is necessary but not sufficient for squashiness.
Then we come to the behaviour of the keys at the end-point of depression. It became fashionable to make calculators whose keys clicked upon depression in the 1970s (in the marketing blurb this was a 'positive click'... helping you have a positive calculator experience, of course). But there are all manner of types of click: it could be soft, muffled, loud or prominent; it could be dull, bright, flimsy, hollow, metallic, or could even give a faint rattle. Some manufacturers ignored clickiness entirely; their keys, in my language, have 'a soft manner of depression'. Decimo tend to be like this. The phrasing here is a little awkward I know, but it is better than my earlier solution, where the keys simply had 'soft depression'. Poor things.
Finally comes the behaviour of keys on their return. They can be increadibly springy and bouncy on some makes. Surprisingly, springiness seems to be almost entirely unrelated to squashiness. A key that squashes limply on depression can suddenly spring straight back out at you on release: a remarkable feat if ever I saw/felt one.
Shape comes into this as well, but only insofar as some are concavely shaped to the finger.
Throughout all of this I have tried to refrain from normative language. Some calculators have such utterly crap keys that quite frankly I'd prefer to take the calculator to bits and gawk at its groovy interior than actually use the damn thing. (Actually its getting to the point where I want to do this to most of the calculators, invalidating my attempt at abuse, but you get it, I'm trying to be emphatic here: some of their keys suck). And then some calculators, some calculators have dream keys. They really do. I want to use language like 'perfectly' weighted, and ridiculous things like a 'delightful click.' But I try not to talk in those kinds of terms. I'm trying to be objective about this. Ha!
And yet here I am, in a museum workspace, with 436 such calculators at my fingertips, making our database ready to publish a catalogue of the collection. I could help you. I could give you vicarious calculator sensuality.
So, I am not merely recording dates and what type of battery these things took; I have devised a language system.
To try and make it clear, I made a few semi-artificial parameters of the act of pressing these little keys .
First is the length of travel: how far the keys can be depressed. This works out simply as short-, medium-, or long-travel. Texas Instruments are generally very short travel, for example.
Next is the process of depressing the keys. Just like the keys of a piano, those of a calculator can be differently weighted. Degrees of resistance. Thus the keys vary between being very light and very heavy to the touch. Some of them require serious finger power. Some are so light you hardly knew you pressed them, and then some, like the Sinclairs, seem so heavy that perhaps the calculators are only meant ot be viewed. Of course, Sinclair can get away with that: theirs are the only calculators that actually pass as sexy, especially the Sovereign.
During depression, the keys may also be 'squashy'. Casio keys are a typical example of this. Note that lightness to the touch is necessary but not sufficient for squashiness.
Then we come to the behaviour of the keys at the end-point of depression. It became fashionable to make calculators whose keys clicked upon depression in the 1970s (in the marketing blurb this was a 'positive click'... helping you have a positive calculator experience, of course). But there are all manner of types of click: it could be soft, muffled, loud or prominent; it could be dull, bright, flimsy, hollow, metallic, or could even give a faint rattle. Some manufacturers ignored clickiness entirely; their keys, in my language, have 'a soft manner of depression'. Decimo tend to be like this. The phrasing here is a little awkward I know, but it is better than my earlier solution, where the keys simply had 'soft depression'. Poor things.
Finally comes the behaviour of keys on their return. They can be increadibly springy and bouncy on some makes. Surprisingly, springiness seems to be almost entirely unrelated to squashiness. A key that squashes limply on depression can suddenly spring straight back out at you on release: a remarkable feat if ever I saw/felt one.
Shape comes into this as well, but only insofar as some are concavely shaped to the finger.
Throughout all of this I have tried to refrain from normative language. Some calculators have such utterly crap keys that quite frankly I'd prefer to take the calculator to bits and gawk at its groovy interior than actually use the damn thing. (Actually its getting to the point where I want to do this to most of the calculators, invalidating my attempt at abuse, but you get it, I'm trying to be emphatic here: some of their keys suck). And then some calculators, some calculators have dream keys. They really do. I want to use language like 'perfectly' weighted, and ridiculous things like a 'delightful click.' But I try not to talk in those kinds of terms. I'm trying to be objective about this. Ha!
Thursday, May 17, 2007
I would very much like to buy a little something.
One of those little somethings that a little peckish someone decides they can excuse to themselves in one way or another.
It will surely be some kind of pastry or chocloately thing of some sort. It is that time of day. It is going to be a treat. And I am going to revel in tastification station, lap upall the sensual glories of luxurious deliciousness that such a thing could offer. I must choose carefully.
I must take each one into my mind's eye, hold it up to the light, turn it over slowly, sink into it for a moment, and see where it would leave me were I to choose it in reality. Each one. If the decision is going to be a good one, I can't take anything for granted.
But there is a pressure squeezing from outside, a pair of eyes trained on me, trained yet devoid of expression, a pair eyebrows cocked expectantly yet hardly out of place, the frosty force of that inaudible, inner, impatient sigh. Like a clip around the ear, she wants to know if I have chosen yet. She is worried about the other people, because I came in before them and it would violate the rules of accurate and appropriate queue formation if she were to serve them before me. But I don't care about her queue; I have a much more important queue of imagined pastry samples to deal with before I can possibly even contemplate her human queue.
I am going to have to take a deep breath and hold in mind that this decision is far more enjoyable than she remembers.
And then I think I will find a bench and have a little contemplative sit-down in which to appreciate the end-product of such a momentous decision and subsequent purchase.
How super.
One of those little somethings that a little peckish someone decides they can excuse to themselves in one way or another.
It will surely be some kind of pastry or chocloately thing of some sort. It is that time of day. It is going to be a treat. And I am going to revel in tastification station, lap upall the sensual glories of luxurious deliciousness that such a thing could offer. I must choose carefully.
I must take each one into my mind's eye, hold it up to the light, turn it over slowly, sink into it for a moment, and see where it would leave me were I to choose it in reality. Each one. If the decision is going to be a good one, I can't take anything for granted.
But there is a pressure squeezing from outside, a pair of eyes trained on me, trained yet devoid of expression, a pair eyebrows cocked expectantly yet hardly out of place, the frosty force of that inaudible, inner, impatient sigh. Like a clip around the ear, she wants to know if I have chosen yet. She is worried about the other people, because I came in before them and it would violate the rules of accurate and appropriate queue formation if she were to serve them before me. But I don't care about her queue; I have a much more important queue of imagined pastry samples to deal with before I can possibly even contemplate her human queue.
I am going to have to take a deep breath and hold in mind that this decision is far more enjoyable than she remembers.
And then I think I will find a bench and have a little contemplative sit-down in which to appreciate the end-product of such a momentous decision and subsequent purchase.
How super.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
The turning-in-snow diaries
It turns out, the activity of skiing is centred most primarily around turning.
Going straight down the fall-line of a slope is a most distasteful practice, involving little in the way of skill and much in the way of uncontrollable speed. There is nothing wrong with speed. But it should always be controlled.
The way to do this is to turn.
The way to that, however, is tricky.
When you are slowing yourself down, your skiis are roughly perpendicular to the slope, parallel to one another; they are pointing across the slope. You want to make them point the other way. But how could you possibly acheive this, when the middle stage in the process surely necessarily involves pointing them straight down, picking up too much speed and no longer being able to shift them one way or the other at all?
The answer lies in your weight.
Your weight is on the downhill ski (the one of the two that is further down the slope) so that you can push right into the ground to slow down. What you are aiming to do, therefore, is gently to transfer your weight from one ski to another.
When you do this, what it feels like is that you become, for a magical moment, entirely weightless.
It is a piece of mental trickery. You lift your mind away from the ground and let your skiis slip neatly underneath you, until you make (mental) contact with the ground again. At this point you push them right out to the other side and dig them right into the ground again. Your body feels as though it has stayed in the middle. You're leaning totally inwards, facing right down the slope. It just your bent knees, locked together, that are pushing your feet and the skiis attached to them out to the side.
So then you can zoom, bouncing like this from side to side, down, down, down.
But this is only the case in a certain type of snow.
There are many types of snow.
Just now, here, the snow is prone to being rather icey. The above method of turning becomes untenable. You need to dig the edge of your ski in if you are going to control yourself. The very edge. The uphill edge of the downhill ski, to be precise. The uphill ski doesn't matter too much; just forget about it for now.
What we are doing now is called carving. They can be very wide, long turns when you're carving. In fact, right on the edge of that ski, knees bent, weight slightly further forward than in softer snow, you actually pick up speed. You feel it when you get it right. Normally turning slows you down, but when you get it just right, they suddenly start accelerating underneath you in a wonderful glide. You can use this if there's a gentle slope that normally slows people down; you can glide past them. But you can also use it in these icey conditions we're talking about, to carve out a graceful curve that lets you come down the piste in total control.
Of course, when you do the crucial point of the turn, you are still doing the weightless trick, but it's not nearly so pronounced as in the short, sharp turns above; it is much more gradual.
Going straight down the fall-line of a slope is a most distasteful practice, involving little in the way of skill and much in the way of uncontrollable speed. There is nothing wrong with speed. But it should always be controlled.
The way to do this is to turn.
The way to that, however, is tricky.
When you are slowing yourself down, your skiis are roughly perpendicular to the slope, parallel to one another; they are pointing across the slope. You want to make them point the other way. But how could you possibly acheive this, when the middle stage in the process surely necessarily involves pointing them straight down, picking up too much speed and no longer being able to shift them one way or the other at all?
The answer lies in your weight.
Your weight is on the downhill ski (the one of the two that is further down the slope) so that you can push right into the ground to slow down. What you are aiming to do, therefore, is gently to transfer your weight from one ski to another.
When you do this, what it feels like is that you become, for a magical moment, entirely weightless.
It is a piece of mental trickery. You lift your mind away from the ground and let your skiis slip neatly underneath you, until you make (mental) contact with the ground again. At this point you push them right out to the other side and dig them right into the ground again. Your body feels as though it has stayed in the middle. You're leaning totally inwards, facing right down the slope. It just your bent knees, locked together, that are pushing your feet and the skiis attached to them out to the side.
So then you can zoom, bouncing like this from side to side, down, down, down.
But this is only the case in a certain type of snow.
There are many types of snow.
Just now, here, the snow is prone to being rather icey. The above method of turning becomes untenable. You need to dig the edge of your ski in if you are going to control yourself. The very edge. The uphill edge of the downhill ski, to be precise. The uphill ski doesn't matter too much; just forget about it for now.
What we are doing now is called carving. They can be very wide, long turns when you're carving. In fact, right on the edge of that ski, knees bent, weight slightly further forward than in softer snow, you actually pick up speed. You feel it when you get it right. Normally turning slows you down, but when you get it just right, they suddenly start accelerating underneath you in a wonderful glide. You can use this if there's a gentle slope that normally slows people down; you can glide past them. But you can also use it in these icey conditions we're talking about, to carve out a graceful curve that lets you come down the piste in total control.
Of course, when you do the crucial point of the turn, you are still doing the weightless trick, but it's not nearly so pronounced as in the short, sharp turns above; it is much more gradual.
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