sum((0:10).^2)\11 :
a Zero-based Least Squares Solution in 11 Fits
(©Tim Davis, 2013)
A romantic-mathematical poem, wherein the kth Fit consists of k vectors, each of length k. In each Fit, vectors 1:k-1 rhyme with k, and the final kth vector is terminated in k. Fits 0:4 require additional support vectors. Written in 2013 (do the math...).
Fit the 0th.
[ ]
(Which raises the question, an answer I sought.
Is zero a something, a nothing, or naught?)
Fit the 1st.
[ 1 ]
(To live alone is singular,
Before a wife is won.
But matrix [1] has signature
Of (1, and nil, ... and none?).)
Fit the 2nd.
With you,
we're 2.
(For Connie my wife and my optimal dual;
Of that I'm most certain, by logic of Boole.)
Fit the 3rd.
You and me:
Emily!
Now we're 3.
(For Emily, my lovely lass,
And most delightful daughter,
Who can be silly (just for laughs),
But not quite like her father).
Fit the 4th.
Who's keeping score?
Don't ask "what for?"!
We'll add one more --
Timothy's 4.
(For Timothy, our 2nd born,
and 1st and only son.
Who perseveres, for 1 to n,
until the deed is done.)
Fit the 5th.
Our kids like to strive
With digits alive
When numbers arrive --
There's math to derive!
22345.
Fit the 6th.
Do the math when it clicks:
I'm the number she picks.
And the rest of the chicks?
To them all, I say "nix!",
For a marriage that sticks
In our year 26.
Fit the 7th.
It took a year of savin'
To buy a ring engraven
With promises I've proven --
A theorem I'm believin'!
So witness, earth and heaven:
To me, her hand was given,
In May of '87.
Fit the 8th.
Grabbing a byte and negating,
to printf a seven in oct ...
Writing in C can be grating;
my software has bugs! (and it's late).
Connie thought, "He left me waiting;
our date was for seven o'clock!"
Bugs take a back seat to dating,
and so we had dinner at 8.
Fit the 9th.
If a poet should toss in a line
To a pirate who's saved from the brine,
Fully drenched, will his map stay affine?
Oh, it warps! -- like a cosine or sine,
And the X, still unknown and malign,
Hides his pieces of eight, by design.
But no pirate can't take what is mine,
For I'll circle thee, wife, and what's thine,
In twice 3.14159.
Fit the 10th.
Shall I compare thee in true precision?
Or round, to nearest approximation?
Thou art more lovely than a summer glen,
Where paths traverse the leaves and nodes, and then,
Amidst the 'edges cycle back again.
Where we can hear the song of lark and wren
Transformed by FFT's beyond our ken.
And where can none divide our love, and when,
Our union's sealed, by diagrams of Venn.
How do I love thee? I count thee my 10.
Puzzled at the math? Click here for an annotated version.
