I was eleven probably, and had just been introduced to the idea of atoms and molecules. The illustrations in the elementary text struck me as identical to the schematics of the solar system. “The universe is infinite,” someone had told me. I decided that the earth was a charged particle in the atom of the solar system and that our universe was a large, cast-iron skillet being heated by a giant for the purpose of cooking his supper. This giant’s world was a particle in another universe comprising the skillet of a yet larger universe, and so on. I remember washing dishes, standing with my hands drooping into the steaming water and mulling over my theory. It was exciting. In fact, it made me nervous. I couldn’t sleep. I asked my arithmetic teacher about the idea the next day. She listened and nodded and said it wasn’t possible in a Euclidian geometry. I had no idea what that was. The frying pan theory went underground, became valuable to me, a mystique.

My acquaintance with physics went no further than that quick look at the picture on the page. It was too late, years afterward, when someone in conversation idly revealed to me that there are geometries other than the Euclidean. Still, when I think of it, the Great Skillet theory is accompanied by bland “why nots.” I do not disbelieve it; I only do not believe it anymore. I call it my first religion. I am proud of it, not because I see it as original or ingenious, but because it is evidence of the patterns of my impulses. It was a convenient cult. It had no effect on my daily life. There was nothing to be done about it. It did not call on me to tell the truth when a lie was obviously in order, or to still my hand when I felt like giving my brother a smack. It was simply an idea, a smooth, round thing to be contemplated in idle moments. It was good for fending off other ideas, the headachy ones like time, space, the void, and the belly churners like death. It gave, you might say, a certain perspective.

I entertained less healthy cults after that. I was a great follower of persons. Flex a bicep, and I’d espouse your gospels. Lift an interesting brow and I’d follow you up mountains or sit on wet pavements swilling romance with my diet of river air. But the forms and fables of other people’s minds were never more to me than the color of your hair or the length of your legs. They set a tone and gave a rhythm to your activities. Mine has always been a flesh worship, and now a time has come when I am allowed to admit it, when the purposes of my religion can surface. There are only two sins I recognize—venial discomfort and cardinal pain.