text de Roxana Cioriia

“Why is the top quark so heavy? Yeah, that’s the question – why? says Franklin. We don’t know. It’s weird. You’ve got six quarks; five of them are really light, and the sixth is unbelievably heavy. It’s as if you had Sleepy, Dopey, Grumpy, Bashful, Happy, and Kierkegaard.”

Uneori, cand nu mai vezi si nu mai simti bine din cauza de prea mult si prea plin, zice-se ca indicat ar fi sa schimbi perspectiva, sa te rupi de ce stii si sa-ti bagi un pic capul in necunoscut, orice forma ar lua el. La mine, necunoscuta din ecuatie e mai mereu fizica cuantica. Nu stiu o boaba de fizica in general, daramite de cea “cuantica”, dupa cum o numesc fizicienii, nepasandu-le o clipa de enervanta cacofonie. Dar la nevoie ma ajuta. Deschid un manual ponosit, pe care nici nu mai stiu cum l-am capatat, si incep sa citesc aproape pe litere, incercand sa fac lumina cat de cat in fraze si formule. Dupa o sesiune moderat insuportabila de sangerat neuronal, scot capul din paginile ingalbenite mai limpede ca niciodata, cu certitudinea copilareasca a exploratorului care a incetat sa se mai intrebe, ca Frost, despre the road not taken.

Ce mai conteaza ca ajungi sa confunzi o scurtatura cu o fundatura si chiar si cand ar trebui sa-ti fie clara neintelegerea, tot mai petreci acolo o buna bucata de timp, nemiscat, in case the walls idealistically part. Ce mai conteaza ca un autist inconsolabil ca Kafka (cuantic physicists all over the world are probably cheering with big grins on their faces right now) isi dadea ceasul cu o ora si jumatate inainte si spunea despre Felice, in cuvinte desenate din sticla sparta (dupa ce l-au sfatuit doctorii sa nu mai vorbeasca, din cauza hemoragiei), ca are “too much nakedness left in her”. Ce mai conteaza ca oricat de falnic si vasnic ar fi un copac, si radacinile lui se termina undeva, cand quarcii sunt atat de complicat de simpli, si e atat de complicat de simplu sa traiesti dupa o reteta prestabilita.

“Please take back the sparrows. They are bothersome and cute. They are brown and daily all year long. They make a plaything of the wind and the spruce. They come too close. They look right at me with their tiny black eyes. They dart through spaces. They pick up the pieces and the pace. From rooftop to eavetrough to wire to branch- they spring spring spring spring spring spring spring. They are not sorry. They are not singing. Many they are one they are never not somewhere. They are not not singing. They are not slack. They fear the bluejay and the airedale. They drink from the pond! They scatter thinking. They are not asking or telling they are scattering thinking they are shivering. They are awake or they are shivering. Please, take back the sparrows. They bathe in dust.” – Suzanne Buffam

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Roxana Cioriia este jurnalist, a scris pentru Cosmopolitan, iar acum este PR la DRAFTFCB.