The Village God

Denver sprawls at the base of mountains, its granite skin pockmarked by pitiable green. Outside my hotel a woman sits on her cycle rickshaw, sipping on caffeine to boost her spirits, on warmth to ward the cold. There are no takers for the ride she offers. Luxurious rooms of marble and gold line the streets in open view of the homeless. Half-naked men roam the streets asking for directions to nowhere in particular.

There are a great many physicists in Denver today, so many as to excite Fake into paroxysms. Under his lens, they are a sea of fish ripe with knowledge to reel in. I picked a spot to be stationary, but years of interactions exert their own gravity, and I am jostled by a steady stream of perturbations. It feels to me a continuation, of honest and half-forgotten relationships, of friendships that have dimmed with separation.

I met the seer who prophesized the coming of Yismuth. His name loosely translates to Village God. What a chat we had, I lost feeling to my legs. Our dreams twist through similar pathways. We are pushing at the veil of possibilities, we actualize abstractions, we design. Afterward, we gazed upon the bustle around us, the madness that will surely consume us again but not yet. The silence sat between us as a soft interlude, having acquired the stolid grace of long companionship. He revealed to me his admiration, and I am uplifted.

Night’s star is rising in haphazard, disjointed bursts, invisible but not inaudible, it rises by word of mouth rather than of eye. The prestigious journals and their mad circus have taken their toll on her. She gave me a sobering account of my future prospects in the job market, then humbled me with three gifts, for our shared love of the intelligent, the beautiful and the sincere. I gave her a blue faceted bear which she proclaimed hideous.

B wore a ring to remind me that she is newly wed, and perhaps also to chastise me for not witnessing it. Sleep in Denver is markedly difficult, without D to lull her. I peered at her diamonds with such intensity that she anxiously pried it back, lest I accidentally eat it. She tells me that I have changed, but I already know this.

Stream tapped me on my shoulder. I remember dinners in Aspen where conversation poured from her in bright flowing streams, her thoughts are actualized with an impressive immediacy. Her pace has slowed since then, I don’t know why, I think she is not yet excited. She invited me to the Physics-sing-along, where she played violin to an audience of singing physicists. Physicists spontaneously break into dance, their energy overwhelming their skill.

Shotgirl and I roamed the streets of Denver. Despite her warmth and extroversion, I am surprised that her close friends are few. We discussed women in science, women in science in Princeton. “What do you feel strongly about?” she asked me. I sidestepped, “With regard to sociaI issues?” No, she asks, quite generally. So I told her about Katie.

Alcoholic wore a suit to secure his position in IOP. Like me, he is immensely cheered by the sight of suited bartenders proffering free wine. Such were our celebrations.

V’s talk marked the end. She disappeared with characteristic abruptness, but not before registering my confusion. While ruing another lost opportunity, a beaming stranger stumbled upon me. A student from Penn, he had begun reading my paper on the plane to Denver. I imagine I had given him a fat sandwich crammed with myriad flavors he could almost identify, if he chewed on it long enough he just might. He gushed about the tasty bits: Weyl fermions popping, the mathematical rigor. I was astonished how happy he was just shaking my hand. I left the convention center in bright spirits, thinking of favors one can return forward.