Diigo Links

Wednesday, May 04, 2011

more 3 minute fiction
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There was a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. The normally sedate and painfully civilized murmur of shoppers had been shattered. A normal day would see racks of clothes absorbing the middle-class monologues, attenuating their anxieties and warming the tone of their purchasing considerations. But this wouldn't be a normal day.
The monolith of department store peace had been brought crumbling to the ground by a mad man. Recently cracked, I confess it was me. I’ve broken with my rank and file. I’ve ranted and raved. I have come to grief at the hands of quiet sanity, and finally come to the terrifying conclusion that greener fields are found o'er there, in yonder turbulent washing machine of unbridled mind.

What sleuth braved my labyrinth and led me to undoing? What brave key threaded my pins and rolled my bolt back with a clank? What wind blew that door open? I think you'd be surprised to know. I think I have you now. The game is mine, lain out before you, the wonder of odds and chance. But more, I think, of art.

The humble dipping bird. I have one. Well, these days I think it more has me. Let me explain. The dipping bird is portrayed (gravely misconstrued) as a novelty toy. Made of blown glass, balanced in the middle, a bulb on either end, filled with a liquid. The dipping bird can be "brought to life", simply. Wet the furry head, which cools it, draws the liquid up into the head, pushing the balance, affecting the eponymous bow.

This dipping bird is the key to everything. It balances in the middle of our world. Science, art, comedy, tragedy, farce, chance, meaning and meaninglessness, the very Buddha alive and acting in the now. By the one, let me unpack my meaning.

Science: By some simple artefacts of science, the dipping bird is (on the inside) made to work. It is predictable - to a degree.

Art: The action of overbalance is in no way intrinsic to a bird, per say. But applying the image of a bird to the action gives it relevance. And then, a name, as in a pet, or maybe a position, as in; "Oh I always consult the bird when making big decisions" as is my wont.

Comedy: The top hat? A bird in a top hat? Lol.

Tragedy: As alive in action as the bird appears, there is the business of the soul. There is none. Passion. None. Purpose. Also none. We only can give this, like a god would our own.

Farce: This purposeful professional goes round and round in earnest, reliable action, a perfect mirror of my life.

Meaning: That true inspiration is an open palm. That the applause of one hand our rich reward.

Meaninglessness: That in every bow of prayer this bird pays holy tribute to a higher power. No. The bird, like me, only moves, or doesn't. Only bows, or stands waiting in endless time and eather.

For all of this, I protest atop a vacuum-cleaner display, loudly and unrehearsed to the most unwilling ears I could find. And for my trouble, a group of recent immigrants from the Pacific Islands, now subcontracted to the Westfield Corporation for the purposes of security, have lain hands and are treating me to their firm embrace.

Folded warmly in their care, progressing somewhat horizontally towards the door, I consider more how sailing on endless seas, from island to island these people's ancestors made great progress, but never discovered or invented a dipping bird - as far as I know. ===============





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Meant to be 600 words in 60 minutes, this one goes a little long. I wanted to write a fable and I'm happy with how this turned out.
The way I see it, it's sort of a cargo cult explanation. Or on the flip-side it's an honest criticism of the idea of a "simple" origin story. ( turtles all the way down )
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Once before a time, a photon told this story to a Higgs-Boson. The laughter and tears inspired by this tale caused our universe. And because no time ever passes for a photon, I saw him recently and he was still smiling as if he had just uttered a joke.

The story of spin.

In a place with fewer dimensions than we know, the daughter of a great Boson went to work in the fields to increase their strength. A passing lepton noticed this girl, flushed and beautiful in the light. He fell in love. But it was a love that was not to be. As a common lepton, the boy was not fit to marry such a high-born Boson. So, the boy was made to suffer.

One day a remedy to the boy's suffering was suggested. He could fight in the great-field and show his strength in the wars. In battle he might make for himself a name and gain influence and force.
Upon the great-field he strongly threw himself into battle. There were all sorts of energetic particles there, the massive hadrons dominating the fields, photons danced lightly above the fray, and all other possible combinations.

The boy stood in high probability of total annihilation as there were an abundance of anti-particles present as well. Against the highest odds, he prevailed. This left him, understandably I think, in a substantial energy state. So high, that he became quite great in mass and import to the universe.

But with his new size came attraction to more menacing and serious a challenge than he had ever known. On his way from the great-field, our hero had become entrained to the draw of a super-massive black-hole, the inexorable gravity of which no escape was certain.

For beyond eternity the boy spread the heat of anguish in a uniform, spherical membrane about the horizon. It was only by the advice of a grand old helium atom that he was able to negotiate a release from that wallowing maw of blackness. But there was a price. He would give up his acquired mass, information and memory. In return, he could be released a googolplex years in the past.

So freed, but without all that he had fought to gain, and with only one memory (that of his only love, which he had secreted in the hem of his pant leg) the boy began his journey to she whom held his heart.

In all that is out of time, the suffering and devotion of this boy had become legend. Every interaction he found now was met with excitement, with every particle imparting to him their very utmost, conveying him within mere days to speeds approaching that of light. When he, with great excitement, landed upon the steps of the house of his intended, he was met by her father.

Knowing the story of this boy, and now seeing the magnitude of his devotion, a great pain came over his face. And the father said to the boy; "Before you let spill your intentions to me, let me tell you this. My daughter is not well, and it is almost without uncertainty that she will die. There is a choice I'll ask you to make on her behalf today. Are you prepared to give all that you have, or at least one half? " The boy answered that without hesitation he would give any fraction required. To which the girl's father replied; "Without half of your spin, she will surely cease to exist. But know now that while you can give this fraction easily, once given you will no longer be able to perceive her. Your worlds will forever be divided – she of her type, you of yours. Forever existing, forever apart."

Without a moment's hesitation the boy gave exactly half of his spin to save his most certain love, and with that prevented himself from ever seeing her again.

And that is why to this day all bosons have an integer spin, while every lepton has only a fractional spin. 

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