The Tyndall Effect

Jasper is watching a rerun of an old children’s program on TV. He laughs as an anthropomorphic turtle and his monkey companion tell kid-friendly, punny jokes to each other. He takes a sip from a red-and-white-striped straw. It’s nine in the morning and he’s already drinking his second bottle of his favorite cola. He looks out the window.

He notices the thick galaxy of dust floating on the beam of light that permeates the room. He puts the soda bottle down on the coffee table without looking at it; it almost loses balance and almost pours the liquid on an open book with a picture of a rather peculiar mountain, with walls that look as though they were clawed on by a giant bear. The turtle and the monkey say goodbye and a baby shampoo commercial, promising moms and their bathing buttercups no more stingy lachrymations, takes their place. He goes towards the windowsill, where he then slightly disturbs the majestic dance of dust with his hand. Yet again, he finds himself marvelling at this vey common but, at least to him, still awe-inspiring demonstration of a physical phenomenon.

As he waves his fingers gently, making the airborne particles move away from his hand only to move back towards it a second later, he muses. If it weren’t for these bits of dust, dead skin cells and dirt, the path of sunlight on which they’re swimming through, randomly and ephemerally, wouldn’t have become visible to his eyes.

Jasper is back on the couch. The TV is now showing an animated program based on a beloved literary classic. Directly above it, the irregularly shaped clock and its quirky hands signal the hour of ten. He quickly finishes his soda, getting rid of the straw and drinking straight from the bottle’s mouth. He carelessly puts the bottle back on the table. This time, it topples over, but the travel book is safe. He disappears from the room, leaving the TV and the window open. The dust particles continue their dance. On the floor, the Tyndall sunbeam shines on a crumpled piece of paper.