Once, when the universe was young
(A short, Calvino‑inspired origin tale)
Once upon a time, before calendars learned to number themselves, a city of listeners built an observatory of water. They lowered brass cups into their river and watched the whirlpools speak. Each eddy, returning like a remembered tune, seemed to whisper that patterns were a kind of gravity: the way events invite other events to follow.
At night the listeners turned their cups upward. The sky was a darker river; the stars were bright eddies. They kept two ledgers—one for happenings on earth, the other for the sky—and drew lines between them the way fishermen string beads. When two lines held their shape over many seasons, the listeners would nod, as if feeling a handhold in the current.
We inherit their curiosity but not their certainty. Over thousands of years the sky itself has shifted (precession); calendars, longitudes, and timekeeping have changed. Our work is to re‑index the old ledgers against today’s coordinates and clocks—gathering carefully, then reconciling claims with contemporary evidence. If there are eddies between the heavens and our hours, we aim to trace them with precision; if not, we’ll say so plainly. Either way, the map improves.