North Street Fourth Dimension and Two Iterations of Time — Thoughts on Observing the Usual in an Unusual Way
By G. H. Diel
Sitting on the concrete bench--just a ways up North Street from where I originally began counting steps on my pedometer, just past the Boys and Girls Club, and, across the street from the Dairy Cone--I close my eyes and feel my neck bend forward, lowering my chin to my chest. I am slightly entering what I call a creative hypnagogic state, what my wife calls ‘goofing off’. No, no, no, that is a stereotype, my wife is totally supportive of my creative premises as both an artist and writer, for she too, is one of each--less I return the favor, she tolerates me.
The last image in my mind before I doze off is the hand lettered paper sign written in large, looping, fine-line felt tip pen letters, filling the window of the ice cream shop. From more than five feet away the sign's message is illegible: ’Closed Until Spring, Thank You For Your Business’.
I look up, making an uncomfortable, deep nasally, snort, to see Roger and his F-150 drive into the empty parking lot of the Dairy Cone. He walks up the ramp to the window displaying the sign, shields his eyes with his hand, leans forward, taps the window several times with his finger tips, moves over to the next window, does the same thing. Rog walks back to his truck, stops, turns, folds his arms, and looks at the vacant building one last time.
“Hey Roger, they’re closed.” I call out; he turns, searches around, and then sees me on the bench. ‘Physicists‘, I think … they just have to prove everything for themselves.’
“Richard, old bro,” he calls back, and flashes me a ’V’ for victory salute with two fingers, at least I think I saw two fingers.
“Do you have time to talk a bit?” I yell from across the street. ‘Didn’t Roger just stop here a few minutes ago, my memory is not real sharp this morning, I must’ve hallucinated.’ The thought evaporates almost as quickly as it formed, like a dream unremembered.
Roger pauses for a gravel truck to pass, and then heads over my way. He’s dressed top to bottom in authentic L.L. Bean: a muted plaid long sleeve flannel shirt, a weathered cordovan leather belt with brass buckle, plain front, khaki chinos--without cuffs, and what must be a new pair of oiled-leather engineer boots. Totally appropriately attired, especially for the chairman of the Physics department at the college, he flashes a cheesy smile in my direction.
“They’re closed,” he says.
“I know,” I said. “Got a minute? I’ve got some questions about quantum states, Planck values, you know, the usual.”
Roger perks up. “You bet, always got time for you, Richard. I don‘t have to be anywhere for another hour, what time is it now,” and he looks down at his stainless steel field watch, squinting with his one good eye he studies time.
“Six fifteen, that’s cool. Go.”
He gives the go ahead to start the discussion and sits down next to me on the bench.
“Look,” I said watching his expression carefully, pausing for emphasis, “… at the quantum level there isn’t much dimensional space, is there?” I offer.
"Well quan-tum lev-el, as you call it," he says slowly, phonetically separating the word's syllables, “The quantum ... state, is, in my analysis, both discrete and invariant--simultaneously, and I suspect that to be a condition of the universe, multiverse in fact, and at a founding state a homomorphism, a wave function that exists to support particle states, you know: matter. I have described it to students as a wave that can be perceived individually and not as connected to, or part of something else, but at any observation permeates, guides and founds reality and dimensional space. It is also a never changing state; call it quantum if you wish. It sounds a little confusing at first, but think of quantum mechanics as a model representing this wave preceding and entangled with particle assemblage--I’m not sure about particle creation however, you’ve got this wave fabric in the nether regions of the Planck Scale, and then you have matter and energy, which cannot be created or destroyed.”
“Really.” I said, and raised an eyebrow, what about peer review?
Yep, I think so, I'll shoot an email to you clarifying that notion. My peers? Well, that’s a long travel for acceptance.”
Standing abruptly, Roger rockets upward, he's suddenly anxious.
"Peer review," he whispered, chuckling to himself.
He wiped a tear, or maybe sweat from one eye, the good one, I think. Today he was fully, prosthetically equipped, shiny plastic teeth, glass eye, what a charmer.
"I should be going, come by and see the new ultrasound acoustic levitation unit the department is building, it’s a meter sized test-bed, really impressive, we’re working with globs of mercury right now, planning to introduce living creatures, mice and frogs soon. I’ll give you a personal demonstration.”
“You know, the acoustic waves supporting the mercury, it’s kind of like what I was saying about quantum mechanics, depending on how we calibrate the sound generator we can cause the mercury to separate in to small globs or reform back to a single glob, kind of like putting a broken egg back together. Want a ride?” He looked up at the sky checking the probability for weather change, or, perhaps, evidence of ... waves.
Rogers’s abrupt change of direction startled me. “Huh, yeah sure, thanks, just up to the bridge.” I pointed to the base of Blyoc Hill and the aging bridge spanning the Messalonskee Stream, just past the hospital.
We walked across North Street, now lightly traveled with morning commuters, to the truck. I opened the rider’s side door; the floor of on that side was covered with a good six inches of red and white empty Marlboro boxes.
“Just kick them aside, make room for yourself,” Roger said.
“I thought you quit smoking?” I said.
“I did,” Roger said. “They’re somebody else’s.”
I said nothing more as Roger started the old truck, loudly rumbling, mufferless, slowly rolling at first and then he accelerated the old thing fast enough to push me into the seat, running the yellow, just turning red, stoplight at Eustis Parkway. We pulled up into a turnout just after the bridge, and Roger skidded the truck to a stop, I got out.
“Hey, Thanks Roger,” I said.
“No problem, See you later, come visit.” His window down, his hand jabbed into the air marking a distinctive screwing and unscrewing motion of the aether.
Spewing gravel from the rear wheels, he shouted as he sped away, “Bon Appétit, dude!”
I walked back to the bridge, and looked over the railing at the stream below; the water level was high due to a recent rain. I leaned on the railing and folded my hands, thinking about nothing in particular, then, turning my head I looked back down North Street, and jumped straight up as if kicked in the ass. There, in front of the Dairy Cone was Roger’s truck and a little further down, Roger’s truck again, Roger, or somebody like him had his arm up in the air from the drivers side window. Everything around me moved as I expected, but the old F-150 in two places at once on North Street. I wiped my eyes, and looked again, still there! I started to walk toward the unreal scene, rather fast for a fat old man, expecting the enigma before me to dematerialize as I approached closer and closer ... it didn’t.
TO BE CONTINUED
(See October 18, 2007 for Part 2)
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