He is not Algernon, nor ever will be
In my white linen sort of intelligence (the kind you can buy at a drugstore),
the only part of the conversation I will remember
when I look back is that
he can never be footnoted.
It's one of those "you have to have been there to understand" moments that elude history textbooks.
A story is a wayward churlish bad-mannered thing. When
you are taught cause and effect,
you can never be entirely sure, can you?
Maybe he can.
From the catacombs of margins (where I used to doodle Styrofoam coca-cola cups)
he tells the teacher we can't maneuver the numbers back
to their original positions. And so, immoveable as we all are,
I pretend I can explain it all by recounting anecdotes of slower times.
He cannot be defined by a handful of words, quotes,
maybe a few theorems we attempted to prove,
dead dried long forgotten bones drawing skeletons of solutions,
but two can play that game.
Only a nameless thoughtless group can agree
without knowing which devil we signed our souls to in order to gain
some infinitely unending tree of knowledge
in the form of a fractal graph.
We need to understand the definitions before we can proceed.
A genius- that which he will always be
will never cease to be
would never want to be, if he could have chosen and known the consequences of a choice,
but we are never given our choice of poison, just the choice
of which grind to use when polishing the guillotine.
I told him to be kind.
It will not make a difference now,
but when they learn about him as one learns about Socrates,
they will put me in the endnotes,
right next to the hemlock references.
And I should be very happy to remain there.