Through a mist of confusion and primitive fragments of thought, a muffled message kept repeating: “Something is out there. Something is out there. Something is out there, and it has touched me.” The “me” was the most beautiful part, a special electrical pattern created by many cells at once that could have no other meaning. Quite beyond any analysis of its individual cells, beyond its electrical and chemical impulses going this way and that, the thing had a sensation of Unity.
They were aware of themselves, yes. They were thinking, yes. But they were more than thinking. They were feeling. They were feeling the connection of themselves to the galaxies and stars. They were grasping the beauty and depth of their existence and then expressing that experience in musical harmonies and rhythms. And in paintings. In metaphors, and words. In dance. In symbiotic transference. They imagined the cosmos beyond their own bodies. They imagined.
An act can be glorious whatever its intention. … I can see you are troubled, he said. What are you concerned about? I am concerned that something unpleasant will happen, I said, something terrible. Maybe many terrible things. If an act can be glorious whatever its intention, an act can also be disastrous whatever its intention.
Wouldn’t the beauty have more meaning with other minds to admire it? Wouldn’t it be transformed by other minds? I’m not talking about a passive admiration of beauty, but a participation in that beauty, in which everyone is enlarged. …life-forms are made of the same atoms as everything else in the universe. The beauty you speak of – the stars and the oceans and so forth – is part of their beauty, those living things. And so much enhanced by their participation, by their absorption of that beauty and then the responsive outflowing of their own beauty. It is a spiritual thing, don’t you see?
How was it possible that something I’d created from my own being was now larger than my being? Is it possible that the created can create the creator?
The slow shift of the light through each day caused shadows to drift, shorten and lengthen, producing constantly changing silhouettes. The summits of mountains, which might be pink in the mornings, turned violet and amaranth in late afternoon. At certain times of the day a landscape might appear craggy and hard, and at other times the same landscape could seem delicate and soft, like evanescent veils in the Void. These phenomena could not be quantified, like temperatures and densities. Instead, they heightened one’s sensations. They seeped into one’s insides. Like music, they created a feeling that was not there before.
The liquid oceans were particularly beautiful. Jostled by winds, their surfaces rippled with liquid waves. These glided across the surfaces, crest to trough to crest, glittering with starlight and reflecting the colored atmospheres above. Some liquid waves were so delicate and slight that they dissipated after traveling a short distance, barely leaving a memory of their presence. Others, fierce and rough, rose up to great heights and pushed a quarter way round the whole planet. I believe that the ocean waves were music in material form.
“Do you think it is possible for a thing and its opposite both to be true?”
“A thing and its opposite cannot both be true in a rational system of thought,” I replied. “But rational thoughts lead only to rational thoughts, whereas irrational thoughts lead to—”
I had toyed with various numbers of dimensions. Two seemed unnecessarily confining, suffocating in fact, while four or more struck me as extravagant and could lead to the misplacing of small objects.
I knew that I could make whatever I wanted. But that was the problem. Unlimited possibilities bring unlimited indecision.