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Very short stories to read at the bus stop.

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Here in Plato's Cave, the bulk of information and experience is delivered in terms of reflected electromagnetic radiation in a range of wavelengths from 390 to 750 nanometers arranged in a two-dimensional array -- nothing but light and shadow, echoes, and whatever smells are distinguishable against the smell of the smoke from the fire that is the source of all of it. Chained immobile at the core of our fragile little machines that we've built to carry us around in the realm of shadows and echoes sits one little cell that contains one little microbe that moves around atoms and molecules like tinkertoys, and that little eyeless and earless microbe collects the reflections of shadows and the echoes of echoes and the ghosts of winds and writes them all down in the tactile language of the tinkertoys. There, in the language of itself, in its innards and on its skin, it has written the true and actual history of everything, and from there can accurately extrapolate the future to the very last moment of the last quark and gluon and lepton.

Well, if not that one, then maybe one of its thousand buddies that share the cell with it. Or if none of those is close enough to the truth, maybe another of its kind in one of the other hundred trillion cells that make up who you are is the one that has it nailed. Or maybe the truth is lurking inside of one of the ten billion co-echoes of you. Or maybe it's in one of the other hundred trillion support organisms on earth that carry the little capsules packed with scribes around and keep them, on the whole, safe. And so very busy.

Each of us is packed with an infinite number of monkeys at an infinite number of typewriters, and the truth is being refined second by second in the collisions of their missives, the perfect signal constructed from the aggregate of perfect chaos and perfect noise.

The only parts of us that understand what's real live so deep in the caves that all they get is reflections of reflections and echoes of echoes, and still they keep on stacking and scribbling. Who we are doesn't even exist at their level -- we only exist in the gaps of their concrete knowledge, reflections of reflections, phantasms that appear only when the light is right, here and gone again in a blink. Any feeling of continuity we have is an illusion of their aggregated attention.

We come and go. We live between.


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

1st Aug 2010, 23:08   | tags:


Dhamaka says:


and wow

2nd Aug 2010, 21:34


Thank you. (I was pretty sure taking pictures of reflections in windows would get your attention. :) )


3rd Aug 2010, 02:22

Dhamaka says:

With you they're worlds within worlds :-)

3rd Aug 2010, 07:12