— Mr. Spock,
“Dark energy is real.”
— Press Release,
May 2011, WiggleZ Team, Australia
“Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter. I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutter and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow gave the lustre of midday to objects below.”
— “The Night Before Christmas,” Clement Clarke Moore/Henry Livingston
“My mind to your mind; your thoughts to my thoughts.”
— Vulcan mind meld,
“That is one of the great difficulties in experiencing the unconscious — that one identifies with it and becomes a fool. You must not identify with the unconscious; you must keep outside, detached, and observe objectively what happens ... it is exceedingly difficult to accept such a thing, because we are so imbued with the fact that our unconscious is our own — my unconscious, his unconscious, her unconscious — and our prejudice is so strong that we have the greatest trouble disidentifying.”
“It is ironic that Einstein’s most creative work, the general theory of relativity, should boil down to conceptualizing space as a medium when his original premise (in special relativity) was that no such medium existed . . . It turns out that such matter exists... Subsequent studies with large particle accelerators have now led us to understand that space is more like a piece of window glass than ideal Newtonian emptiness. It is filled with ‘stuff’ that is normally transparent but can be made visible by hitting it sufficiently hard to knock out a part.”
— Robert B. Laughlin, Nobel Laureate-
Physics, Stanford University
“I endeavor to be accurate.”
— Mr. Spock,
Yes, the gift: It has been given and it has been received. Mixing and matching. Of that much there is clarity.
Beyond that, it all becomes like recycled heroic theories, like the aether declared dead but then revisited in the new garb of dark energy, appearing and reappearing in Heraclitian scalar fields and Parmenidean cosmological constants.
Now, please don’t mistake my uncontainable exuberance for hubris. Silence is not the only humility. Perhaps quietus is neither meek nor modest, but merely an analogue for arrogance. Who knows?
Because, you see, I see the unopened box, clear as the day sky. And then there is opened box, splayed and deribboned, pouring forth inner wrappings, all shiny. And just as there is about to be a view of the gift, the box is as it first appeared.
And there is no magician.
Just a kind of lucent allusion to a Santa’s workshop in which toys, elves, reindeer — even the
Pole itself — wax and wane, sleighed amorphous suggestibility pulsing with life like protoplasm content to hint and re-hint.
Who was that masked man?
So, appearing again: riding a fiery horse with the speed of light, silver bullets to remember the preciousness of human life, a black domino mask cut from the vest of a murdered relative, with a native American side kick: Timeless. Hi, yo, Silver! Away! Ride to new heights of excitement.
Bate the breath: to be continued... ¦
— Rx is the FloridaWeekly muse who hopes to inspire profound mutiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx may be wearing a pirate cloak of invisibility, but emanating from within this shadow is hope that readers will feel free to respond. Who knows: You may even inspire the muse. Make contact if you dare.