I had just finished mowing, still sweaty, euphoric. Someone’s already there—barefoot, shirt open, tapping a rhythm with a spoon and a La Croix can. “Don’t freak out,” he says, “but I taught your crow how to samba.”
It’s Richard Feynman. Of course it is.
He declines a beer—says it dulls his attention unless he’s painting or watching ants. You sit, and he starts talking about safes and minds, about joy and quantum mischief. “The thing about cracking safes,” he says, “is people think it’s about the treasure. But it’s about the code.”
You talk about dancing, about entropy, about how curiosity is the only worthy addiction. “The best questions hide behind the ones you’re told not to ask,” he says.
You ask about God. “Only when I’m listening to bongo drums,” he grins. “Or watching someone take something apart just to see what’s inside.”
Later, you bring him the big ones.
“Have you seen the new data on early galaxies?”
“Perfect!” he beams. “That means we don’t understand something. That’s the best kind of news.” He sketches loops in the dirt. “Maybe the universe makes sense—to itself.”
You ask about the cosmic spin bias. He laughs. “Asymmetry is nature’s signature. Spin isn’t a bug—it’s style. The universe is showing off.”
And consciousness? He pauses.
“A mistake,” he says first. Then, “No—not a mistake. A feedback loop. A mirror in a safe. The universe built something that could notice itself. Now we’re all pretending we’re separate from the joke.”
You sit in silence. He adds, “The best minds don’t understand the universe. They let the universe understand itself through them.”
He nods, thanks you, and vanishes barefoot into the evening. The crow stays.