I am a photon off a breasty woman. I am one
among quadrillions. I do not claim to be special or unique, but I will tell you
that I have no patience for grunting Neanderthals of your kind. I do not like
the look of you and I do like what you do, but it happens I am part of
something bigger than myself, so I do as I am told, I do my job, and that is to
bring you the information, whatever
it is, you slobbering lech.
Let’s get on with it.
I go from A to B at 299,792,458 meters
per second. Always. Without fail. Except
under very exceptional circumstances: in a vacuum at near zero Kelvin, or under
the sway of a vast gravitational force, the kind of force a middling mind such as
yours cannot fathom, and one that you will never experience either, certainly not
in your current Ken-doll incarnation.
Right now I’m slap in the middle of your cornea
- that see-through cup you scratched
years ago dicking around with that toothpick. Your new-ager friends will probably conceive that I cross
this barriers, “walk through walls”, whatever. I do no such thing. We part ways
here, you fool. Your cornea will emit a photon of its own and pass on the baton,
so to speak. My work is done, but I will continue in the first person,
so as not to confuse you.
Where was I?
I’m way down the track now, past your aqueous
humor - through all that gelatin - through your lens, and as we speak I’m hitting
your retina, big guy.
Sit still. I’ve done this many times. This
is how it’s done. And I’m not alone, by the way. I describe it as a one-man-show for
your personal edification. In fact we’re plowing into you en masse, a trillion brethren in a terrifying hail of photons. You’re
under constant assault, man.
Once the retina’s hit, what happens then
is a mystery. We are reconfigured, realigned, rejigged, use whatever
term you like - I will read it in your “peer
reviewed papers” - and we are sent willy-nilly
down the optic nerve as an electrical
current.
Suddenly, BANG, she appears like a
hologram “before your eyes”. You experience a shudder, glands press out
hormones all over the place and blood rushes down your body to collect in that
pendulous sack you are always fondling.
Oh, you poor slobs.
Only moments ago I was journeying towards
you in blissful serenity. Next thing I know I’m plunged into fleshy mass, deep inside
a heaving Neanderthal. For what?
Look, I don’t question your ways, I don’t
care, I do my job, but I will say one thing: what I appreciate above all is efficiency
and straightforwardness, so when you’re all done down there please take a
moment to consider if there isn’t a more direct method of observation. If at all possible, extract me from the equation. I have not been schooled in the precise
operations of our kind, but common sense tells me there must be a less
circuitous way! And a more precise
way. Having come from “her” - the object of your
fascination - let me tell you, you big thumping Neanderthal, what I saw on that screen in the back of you head was not “her”
at all, but something else entirely.
Anyway, it’s your party. Grunt away maestro.
