Those early days, Olinville Avenue, junk man, street car veggies pouring out of small trucks, little kids up and down the streets, girls with pigtails, boys, scraped knees. At night the steam poured out across the flat, across the house, the street, the sky and carried me far away to the sunflower moon, shining down with mystery and benevolence and wisdom and promise.
So I am dreaming, I am in a Gauguin painting, talking to this beautiful girl, probably around 21, maybe 30 or so, no older. She is not fragile, nor is she athletic, just natural, her face, her skin, her expression, her wonder; standing gently, against this dark, starless sky, she still shines, as if from some inner light.
If you put a cup of cold coffee on your table in the morning, and let it sit there, it will not get warmer, over time.
Such is what bounds our world, the ebb and flow of energy, for all things, living and non-living, dead or alive.
Can you imagine a universe where one or the other, or both are reversed?
Is there such a mathematics?
Is there such a poetry?
And if so, who would open that door first, the poet or the mathematician?