and the smear of the self on the lip of a black hole. Or universes like sneeches in a Seuss book but instead of stars on their bellies, there would be universes with black holes and some that have not. Just watched a special on Stephen Hawking and felt like my own brain is the size of one particle of finely-ground glitter comparatively. My old friend and momentary roommate used to try and explain Hawking's theories to me and the beauty and elegance of some equations. Those talks captured my imagination and I would rush out to write poems that made some pretty facile connection between science/math and some emotional or aesthetic calculus. In retro., the ideas were naive, but I enjoyed how my mind went all teakettle-whistle when I thought I found common ground between the theoretical, intricate space of ideas I understood barely and could prove less and the playground of invention that writing could be for me. It was fun to think that way and I was like a little kid tugging at my friend's sleeve and asking about this concept or that, string theory, Schrodenger's cat.
Anyway, after that spring day--wasn't it just two days ago? tonight finds my world all whitewashed and my commute an ice capade of cars. It feels unreal enough for me to release the thought-tangle of ruminating about S.H. and the nostalgia of recalling how I used to work everything that caught my ear or eye into my writing. For now, this too-often-insomniac is going to wish for the pull of the black hole of slumber.
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