The Pythagorean Cup

If you pour too much, it spills all over you. That’s the point of it. You’re all supposed to get equal amounts of wine because water does not flow under normal conditions. You must kick it. Suck the tube. Apply pressure. The flow of liquid from one to the other. If you are the type to snub the rules, raise the cup above your head and drink wine out of the clip.

And maybe you are; maybe you enjoy that kind of thing. Maybe you drive on the shoulder of the road even though you aren’t supposed to. Maybe when you’re driving alone at night you close your eyes and let your hands drift from the wheel, lending yourself to circumstance for a moment because you can afford to, because you know that it’s all harmless fun, or not fun, but just harmless.

The car came too fast around the curve after the rain. The top came off and nearly crushed you, but it was fun, it was harmless fun, and you still had enough circumstantial credit to afford the near miss. Those numbers are dwindling. You bent your thumb back but it’s all alright because at least you still have it.

The next day tastes no sweeter. You didn’t lose anything, you just hurt a little. Ice all day. Keep everything elevated.

Put a wine glass on a graph sheet and explore. This is time. This is space. You’re in there somewhere, filling a cup. You’re in there somewhere, going around the curves. Around, around.  Watch the cup.