Recursive quality of troublesome Concomitant Reality again spotted at Pyrénées crossing
Standing Waves.
Since they make a kaleidoscope of our otherwise only apparent dull perception of the world around, we all know all about those. Even in Paris, Left Bank, late afternoon.
Karine cares nothing for Standing Waves. She makes it known with a pout backed-up with a viper-fast foot.
But, although also kicked under the table with a patent-leather shoe, which is in no way a fit for Cinderella, Fifi, who is, after all, Karine’s blood-sister and raised in the same cultural pigsty, Fifi, she cares for Standing Waves.
She raises her long-stemmed beer glass to within a millimeter of my nose and cries,
“Trace! Here is to la physique quantique!”
“Damn our eyes,” I reply, and rashly kiss the tip of her pugnacious little nose with a drop of the chilly dew on the elongated barrel of my own long-stemmed beer glass.
We drink the dregs. Mmmm.
Karine frowns largely and thins her lips, raises her eyes ceiling-wards, hands motionless but tense on the table’s probability horizon.
This sisterly contrast, I think, certainly says something to me about Standing Waves, perhaps, even, as Fifi suggests in her toast, about quantum physics.
For instance, just as, quantically-speaking, I am myself as dead as I’ll ever be, my dear Fifi and Karine my love are sisters as sisterly as they’ll ever be, no matter how the probability horizon resolves; ditto my love, hers, mine & hers, love as lost now as loving will ever be.
Who can know what can be said at any given time about anything?
Just so with the evils of the world. I have very little experience of ‘em; I know 'em only at a distance.
I can't say much about the origins of the evils of the world because I can’t even pretend to know much. This is proved by my inability to know whether Karine or Fifi are sisters or only as sisterly-as they ever will be. Or even if Fifi’s toast was mockery or her sister through my agency or even if it was sisterly or ill-meant.
So, unfortunately, just as my father once cheerily prophesied before a particularly good spanking, it will ever be out of my power to profit from anybody’s credulity, let alone the consequent disarray, disillusion and despair – which is where the cream is: no documentary videos, no hefty explicatory books, no early-morning TV pleas for financial help, no populist presidential bids.
I’m not saying here that I don’t think Standing Waves are involved in the world’s evils or that the wreckage littering the Probability Horizon is not chock-full of morally useful answers for the Perplexed.
No.
I am saying that I can only talk about the quantics of the Traffic Snarl. Not hefty and easily documented and certainly not an effective talking point in a suburban barroom, the Standing Wave involved in the traffic snarl is, however, eminently with my reach, as are the true origin and agencies of it.
This is because I am very nearly near enough to the originating Traffic Snarl Standing Wave (TSSW) that I could very well be its personal mechanic or uncle.
The TSSW pushes off from the intersection of the rues de Menilmontant and des Pyrénées, every Earth revolution, except Satudays and Sundays, as regularly as an eclipse.
First, factors and agents.
A worried-looking guy, aided by the silent but fervent prayers of his preternaturally tiny female companion (who has a small baby clutched against her breast) hesitantly advances his battered truck leftward into the intersection just as the lights turn.
At this point, the Right-Hand Priority Standing Wave (RHPSW), washes over the truck and the baby starts to cry, also convulsively wetting itself.
The worried-looking battered-truck driver is momentarily unmanned by an unintelligible curse from just beneath his window. It is a thin, dry, bleach-blonde Change Agent who suddenly realizes that her Probability Wave must reckon with a Dense Discontinuity now developing within the worried guy’s Reality Continuum, manifested on the Euclidean plane by the unmoving battered-truck.
An inertial lull worthy of the seconds before the Big Bang grips the different probable Wave Agents as all realize that all possible Probability Configurations must and shall resolve in a context of a remarkably narrow fractal hillcrest, manual transmissions and a previously-established Saturation Inertia Continuum (SIC).
Thus, the lead-up to the Quantic Event known as The Traffic Snarl that will make the tour of the earth in the following 24 hours. It will bring you, me, Hillary Clinton and, yes, even the egregious Donald Trump, as well as a cast of better than six billion anonymous change agents, into actions involving a series of interesting probabilities with which to grace the day. As follows:
Compare, in the context of quantic lead-up, if you will, the elegant simplicity of Karine’s motionless hands upon the table as she stares ceiling-wards:
Don’t be fooled. In both equations, at this point, probabilities are just bubbling toward a Reality Continuum Resolution (RCR).
The Traffic Snarl, however, introduces certain complicating factors that enable it to break out of the Personal Tragedy Probability Category and go viral.
Acting only, of course, as a purely unconscious agent of the Tardy Guilt Standing Wave (TGSW), which took shape in Jerusalem in an earlier Earth revolution, I arrive personally on the scene.
The personal involvement is key.
I see the bus. As the crow flies, it is less than a minute off.
Twisting my head, I see the TGSW crash into a Concomitant Reality Juncture (CRJ), bleakening the faces of pre-resigned probable bus rider Change Agents either crowded into the shelter or increasingly wet.
Snapping my head back toward the waiting probability agents, one of the ubiquitous random Something Needs to Happen Probability Waves (SNHPW) washes over me and into the cab of the truck, waking both driver and infant.
With the flatus of a Primary Agent of an invigorated TSSW, and as prelude to a three-point turn, the worried man begins backing downhill.
The preternaturally small female companion says something small but extremely tart. Three tall bareheaded guys with cheap simulated leather jackets briskly march off under the drumming rain, knocking down a little boy in their haste, earning an angry shout to their receding backs from a powerless Dad.
The bus recedes 10 minutes over the Probability Horizon as agents all along the limb of the rue des Pyrénées slow, then stop, their vehicles.
The TSSW ripples and shimmers westward, fixing the day’s Concomitant Reality (CR), thus:
Which all goes to prove - if not that the Traffic Snarl Standing Wave is at the origin of the whole existential mess and that it and every other misery starts with my habitual guilty tardiness to the scene - that it is far, far better to stop for a cup of coffee than to be in the cab of a truck with a preternaturally tiny female companion likely the mother of your helpless child at the precisely right wrong time of day.
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