Little Things Can Mean So Much
The LHC must be a form of love, some EEG of God’s synaptic pulse, a whirligig, that our invention prove the Other under matter where the Else allows we are at all. Professor Higgs was curious one morning where the mass of quarks and leptons came from, so that big’s inertial lump clump from each ertial ass those newly baby bits of bangage mooned at the Great Nothing. Higgs conceived a field, by which creating, while he afternooned, the weightiness of cosmos unconcealed.
Such heavy thought bore all he had invested. Each sign was mete. Higgs, the evening, rested.
A-stunk of ozone, concrete damp, and cold, I figure, smells and feels that darkened place where, in the clicks and thumps of curving space, a hum’s as deep a word as God has told.
And if I wonder at a space-time fold approaching speed of light, streams of grace colliding face to face and so embrace what ordinary particles withhold, I might just fear what I can’t know of stuff and prophesy “Black hole!”, or “Fatal burst of neutron radiation!” or, yes!, enough of taxpayers’ cash to make things worse.
Oh, don’t be silly. Higgs wished not offend the godly, nor give the world so sudden end.
* From darkest matter, what we best might learn is God Herself most likely’d not dis CERN (though CERN, God bless’em, got it wrong with Higgs, and thought his thought a flying of the pigs, ennuaged in an if (they didn’t take his paper (God smiled at that mistake))).
Around, around, by a magnetic pull of more raw juice than villages might use on darkest nights when wolf might howl its call in darkest woods between, and heart refuse to think the demon any sort of man the villagers call God, though no heart admit the sacrilege,
to stalk God’s plan, the magnets rend the mysteries apart.
The wolf waits in the ’cello at A#. I’m not so good a player that the G gets stopped that high that often. Since it’s me the wolf awaits, my bow pressure that’ll warp such stuttering vibration, oh, how I harp on ’cello imperfections. But better be a poor player than never get to see that G string flutter, hear that warbled yawp!
I try to note in that unmusic all the lengths of strings that bring the forces knit as atoms. As Pythagoras might have done.
And times I sit just to sound that caul of oscillation, since such compose this git.
That by it, far and other, I’m unalone.
I think that God must be a word (for some so abstract as to be unspelled); belief’s a self-hypnosis come from staring dumb at this so filled and empty world deceives in being almost here. O leptons, sing!
The long of all that is and spanned can be equivocates along each tensioned string that fixed at this end plays a speck of me, and at the other? What entanglement has twinned me to this question, this desire?
If going ’round in circles with our toys reduces God to just a biggest noise, we untranslate the spells to what is meant, not what was spoken. O very hadrons, choir!
Just what is this ennuaging business? Find out in Quarc.
Wayne Clifford’s atomic components were once used by Marcus Aurelius, Yikin Chan Kawiil, Vlad Tepes and Pocahontas.
For more of Wayne in the world, get your hands on Quarc! Offer ends soon—subscribe to both The New Quarterly and Arc for 38% off!