by Theodore R Frimet
That in my own humble opinion every Amateur Astronomer wearing a mask is a masked crusader for our mutual pursuit of life and liberty.
I’ve got nothing. I have been waiting to write that phrase for a few years now. Oft borrowed quotes from the media, steeds sometimes have to rise to the occasion. I too have to turn the page to the genius that is Chuck Lorre. “I’ve got nothing” appeared in one of his vaunted vanity cards.
I can’t seem to put the under age trace of the ministry of magic on it. Without a whiff, or a valid search engine (one that works), it is forever lost. My missing quote has become a tattered piece of laundry linen, flapping endlessly in Springs’ daily breeze.
No, I haven’t hunkered down in a battery of toilet paper. Yet, here I am, confessing my sins using intellectual confetti. Toilet paper, how-so-ever, could certainly make good confetti.
A shout out to the Mayor of New York: be sure to ban tossing unused toilet paper rolls onto the rank and file of those on the front lines! Once the touted parade on Broadway begins its ascent, marking the end of our recently endured pestilence, paper confetti would be best served, shredded then tossed lightly with a showering of gratitude and freshly shed tears.
Looking at the table before me, I vy Allegre (half read, my fellow amateur), a tome on molecular biology – untouched for months, and a few weeks worth of AAAS Science journals. No fodder here for the canon that is Sidereal Times. Wimper.
Off to my library then! Ok. The bookshelf in the living room should do. Social distancing is very important to both life and limb. I concede to what works. I hoof off a few, brew a hot coffee, and hunker down to…um…I’ve got nothing there, either.
K2, where are you, when the children need you the most?
Fritz, the destroyer of dobsonians, appears. He alights onto the table, and drops quickly to the ground. With a single bound, be leaps to the window. What is it, Fritz, old boy? What do you see?
I see nothing, Fritz replies. My hearing however is excellent. And of late, I am getting a little tired of your wimping about. What kind of amateur are you, anyway? Certainly not one that doesn’t spy the night sky and speak of his accomplishments!
Be wary your wordiness, humankind. Try to use your ears, as I do. Listen, learn and be aware of the difference between the truth and the contrivances of misdirection. The night sky is a record of truth. Pure and pristine, even the tidal forces surrounding the disk of a black hole can be dissected by science. Clouds be damned and use your imagination in lieu of your telescopic views.
Big Pussycat, aka Maybelle, sleeps on her low lying perch. Not being disturbed by my temporary insanity, she is blissfully unaware of the dob destroyers’ dominance over my cup of Joe. I take a sip. It is cold. How could that be? I just brewed it. “Twasinow”, says Fritz.
K2 had not only fallen into a time well that lasted 10 or more time-space detents, she had knocked my coffee onto a time-loop. Hidden from my sight, K2 skirmished a slice of time. She bumped my coffee cup. The cup superimposed itself with the vibrations of K2’s temporal nexus.
It perplexes me that the physics of my coffee, in temporal isolation, would work out differently and become a cold cup of Joe. I sputter the drink back into its mug. Get up and brew another. Bad pussycat.
In Cheshire Cat style, K2 pops her head into my timeline. I am not amused. Taken off guard, I jump up. Fritz is puzzled as to the source of my anxiety. He too, runs from the room. Maybelle sleeps soundly. My coffee is ready.
For the past few weeks, off and on, I have been working away from home, doing a job that is considered essential. Each away-evening I give my brain the pre-sleep suggestion that I would like to solve faster-than-light travel all the while bending space-time to my will.
Due to the existential nature that is Freud, many poignant reveries revealed in deep sleep are compounded by the fractal nature of the dream. The deeper meaning, unlike Pascal, is lost upon my hippocampus. The best that has risen, not unlike the cream in my cup, is me traveling upon a road. Slipping to one side or the other, correcting the gait of my car, we encroach upon a tunnel. I enter it as I awake from slumber. And once again, I’ve got nothing. ‘Twasilater.