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The Go Master Of Tenor Hill acrylic on canvas

Growing up, he had nothing to read in the house but the books his father had left; math books, theory, complex and mundane, application of mathematics, physics. He saw the beauty in the esoteric sentences, saw the intricate balance of these numbers, seemingly abstract ideas, woven into the real and tangible world around him that he could touch, taste, feel. He would dream of how the formulas applied both in an out of context, he would reel and swoon at the idea of infinite universes within universes, interpreted through the fractal representation of Benoit Mandlebrot's set. And he played Go. Learning the game to the point that one day he would be considered a master, a title that he would take humbly, though a bit of secret pride locked away deep in heart that even with the obvious birth defect of his ear, he should be named a master in a world where people are concerned more with the perfection of how things look, as opposed to how they are. They say that jacket he wore and wore, with it's checkerboard pattern, sewn decoratively with buttons, took shape and changed as he grew older, turning into a living Go board, with moving pieces that would play against each other as he walked, a dance of quiet harmony unfolding on his back as he travelled into town and back up the hill to home.