Eureka

It's an interesting word, eureka. The story I've always associated with the word is the ancient scientist who was asked by the king to find out if the goldsmiths who had made his crown did so with pure gold or if it was mixed with another metal. The scientist wracks his brain for days trying to solve the problem for the king, until one day he solves the problem sitting in his bath tub. As the story goes, the man runs through the streets nude yelling "Eureka!" He used water displacement to prove what the crown was made of.

It's a fun story to hear, and one that tells of the moments that unexpectedness often shares with brilliance. It tells of the ability for man to overcome and problem solve. Although, it is also a story of science. It is interesting that eureka has become a word of problem solving, science, and math. It's really to express the joy of a moment of inspiration, but I think the story gets it right. There's no way the local poet is running next to the scientist yelling "Eureka!" right there with him.

I'm feeling inspired, I don't know why or really how it all came about, but it's a joyful and serious feeling; I don't want to waste it. So when I feel inspired I try to write, but let me forewarn you (it might already be to late), there is nothing great ahead. I don't think inspiration comes to writers like it does to the scientist. It could be that writers are not trying to solve a problem, but the problem. As exciting as water displacement is, it's not so exceptionally moving. It is a problem worthy of a moment of inspiration, just a moment. But writers, we deal with the problem of life, of human nature. This problem is worth well more than a moment. So in this, my moment of inspiration, I turn over another piece to the puzzle so it's facing right side up. It might just be a piece of the sky, not the most exciting piece, but still vital to finishing the picture. The problem is I'm putting together the puzzle without the box; I can't see what its supposed to make. I'm doing this blind and I only have a part of the border and a couple of sky pieces put together. I have no idea what I'm making yet; I hope one day I do. What I most hope is that all the pieces came with the box so I can fit in the last piece of my solution to the problem like those before me have. Those great 1000 puzzle piece works of Steinbeck or Melville. One more hope and then I'm done. I hope I get enough little moments of eureka to be worthy of answering the great question set before me--because, well, you never see a reproduction of a Van Gogh in a 24 piece puzzle.