When it starts to rain I peek out, lean a little forward until my cheeks feel the spray. I don’t have shoes on (but I’ll die with my boots on) and I’m thinking about the interplay between setup and follow-through. A mathematician once explained to me — he was staying with my parents for a fortnight to “investigate some properties” with my father — that math was the human endeavor that focused most purely on the follow-through. He told me about stairs of deduction all the way to the moon. There’s really no reason I’m thinking this now, as I debate heading out, except the only reason I ever end up thinking about things. They always creep up on me sideways, or up my spine, or in my sleep, or when I’m eating, or paying my taxes, going to church, cleaning a hallway.
One more time, with feeling
Today I thought about a girl and a boy, just like you and me. They weren’t quite sure they were in love, and then they married each other. This story isn’t about what happened in-between: I’m not a wise enough storyteller to make that choice. First I’ll tell you their names; their names were Calliope and Krishna. They had a baby a few years into their conjugal adventure. Then a few years after that they sensed the same boredom that had plagued the weeks before their decision to have a baby the first time around; and having found out the way of things by experience, they had another baby.
This is important: the second baby was the same as the first. Two young people fell in love and had the same baby twice. And then thrice. And then again and again.
Now you are wondering, What happens when the same person is born into a family full of older versions of himself? I will tell you what happened.
(to be continued) (maybe, if I’m still interested. What if I eat a really good orange for lunch tomorrow? Then my mind may change.)