Mr g (2 page)

I had in mind a great number of things I wanted to make. But with no previous experience with materiality, I could think of these things only in terms of their functions or qualities: the quantification of time, communication, light, shelter, et cetera. Soon I grew tired of abstractions. I wanted to touch and to feel. After all, I had been sleeping for a very long time. And I might add that I needed something new to interest me, a challenge, perhaps even other beings to surprise and amuse me. My ideas, for both animate and inanimate invention, required material existence, extension, volume. And for that I needed to create space.

Space did not appear all at once, but in a languorous progression, gradually increasing in length, width, and breadth. (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 decided my first try should be three.) As I recall, space first appeared in a minuscule round bubble that sat quietly in my mind. Then it stretched slightly in length, humming at a high pitch as it did so. For a time, the universe was a tiny ellipsoid. Slowly, breadth and width began to catch up with length, making an impatient, clucking sound. Sphericity was restored. Then, with a sigh and a low rumble, all three dimensions began to unravel at once, tumbling and sprawling into the Void.

My universe had come into being! It was tiny at first, but beautiful, a lovely little sphere. Its surfaces were smooth and silky, yet infinitely strong. It glistened. It spun slightly. And it vibrated with energy. I found that I could not create space without energy—the two were inextricably bound, as if one gave form to the other. The energy howled and struggled to break out of those smooth, silky walls, but it could not, since those walls contained all that was (except for me, Aunt, and Uncle), and it was a mathematical and tautological impossibility for anything from within to emerge without. Only the Void remained outside those walls. In its continual battle to escape the inescapable, the energy seethed and boiled at a ferocious temperature, it distorted the walls, stretched them first in one direction and then another. And then, as if in frustration, it set about stretching space itself, warping diameters and circumferences, angles and curves—contorting the very mathematics of space. The geometry, responding to the fierce stresses and strains, began to emit its own piercing hum, and the two—energy and geometry—fought with each other in a shrill screech, first the mesas and terraces of space muscling the energy by brute force, and then the energy striking back and reshaping the architecture of space. As the combat ensued, the tiny sphere that was the universe began inflating at an alarming speed.

Aunt Penelope, who in a rare moment had been quietly brushing her hair, was knocked over by the expanding sphere. Save me, she screamed to Uncle Deva, overdramatizing the situation as she often did. Uncle helped right her and steadied her. What was that thing? she shouted. The impertinence! Then, without thanking Uncle, she stomped off into the Void. Even though she had disappeared behind the folds and pleats of the vacuum, I could hear my aunt muttering: What’s He done now! There’s no end to this, no end. No end to this. No end. No end to this. No end … 

Meanwhile, my universe was growing larger and larger. Once created, it seemed determined to become as fat as it could. I decided to make another. This one, I slightly pricked at the moment it came into existence, just the smallest of flicks to see what a slight alteration would bring. The little sphere began expanding like the previous universe, but after a few moments its expansion coasted to a halt, it briefly hovered in a fleeting equilibrium, then it began contracting and dwindling in size, getting smaller and smaller until it was just the tiniest dot. Then, with a faint pop, it disappeared altogether. I was delighted. I made other universes. With each one, I tried a different variation. To some, I gave a slight lateral nudge. To others, a bit of extra spin. Some I squeezed just at the moment of creation, to add a smidgeon of energy. In some, I even altered the number of dimensions of space: four, seven, sixteen, to see what might happen. And why not try fractional dimensions, like 13.8. Some universes never came into being, unable to accommodate all the initial conditions. Some leaped into existence with a frightening energy and then petered out. Some remained flaccid from the beginning; others careered through the Void, producing high-pitched trills and vibratos. One universe remained constant in size but spun faster and faster until it split apart at its midsection. Several began expanding, then contracted down to almost nothing, hesitated, and expanded again in a kind of frothy rebirth—then repeated the entire cycle, expansion, contraction, expansion, contraction, on and on in an unending series of births, destructions, and rebirths.

After a time, a gigantic number of universes were flying about—spinning on their axes, throbbing and pulsing, expanding and contracting at fantastic speed. My aunt was nowhere to be seen. Uncle Deva, as sympathetic as he was to my enterprise, had ducked for cover. In short order, as seemed almost inevitable, some of the universes began colliding with others. Each collision made a terrific explosion, sending fragments of worlds hurtling through the Void, oscillating dimensions, fractured energies.

It occurred to me that I had not carefully considered whether I should make one universe or many. Perhaps I should have been more circumspect. One universe would avoid the possibility of collisions, but then again it might become boring. One universe would have one truth. Many would have many truths. There were advantages and disadvantages to both propositions.

I sat down, centered myself, and began mulling over the matter. Then I meditated. I tried to let all thoughts flow from my mind. I breathed in the Void, breathed out the Void. Breathed in the Void, breathed out the Void. Slowly, I grew calm. A peace spread over the Void. Aunt and Uncle appeared as tiny lights, dancing together to a waltz in andante, and a peace descended on them as well, and the Void settled and sighed and drifted in unwinding time. I breathed in and I breathed out and I came to the decision that there should be only One, one universe, and the myriad temporal universes that I had made faded and dissolved, and the one universe remained.

And then, while still meditating, I decided to create quantum physics. Although I keenly appreciated the certainty of logic and clear definition, I also felt that the sharp edges of existence needed some rounding. I wanted a bit of artistic ambiguity in my creations, a measured diffusion. Perhaps quantum physics invented itself. It was gorgeous in mathematical terms. And subtle. As soon as I had created quantum physics, all objects—even though objects at that point existed only in my mind—billowed out and swelled into a haze of indefinite position. All certainties changed into probabilities, and my thoughts bifurcated into dualities: yes and no, brittle and supple, on and off. Henceforth, things could be hither and yon at the same time. The One became Many. And a great softening blanket of indeterminancy wrapped itself over the Void. My breathing slowed to a sleepy imperceptibility. Listening carefully, I could hear a billion billion tiny rattles and tinklings from all over the Void, the sound of new universes waiting to be. With the invention of quantum, each point of the Void had developed the potential to become a new universe, and that potentiality could not be denied. My creation of time, and then space, had made a universe possible—and that possibility alone, nestled within the quantum foam of the Void, was sufficient to bring into being an infinite number of universes. Soon, new universes were once again whizzing through the vacuum. I revised my earlier decision that there should be only One. Or, more precisely, my creation of quantum physics necessarily required the Many. Peering out into the Void, I tried to find my original universe, the first one I’d made. But it was hopelessly lost among billions and billions of others flying about, throbbing spheres, distended ellipsoids, gyrating cosmoses thrashing with energy. The Void trembled with rumbles and shrieks and sharp popping noises.

By and by, Aunt Penelope emerged from her hiding place, Uncle Deva from his. You’ve been busy, said Uncle, looking with mild annoyance at the many universes flying about. If I were you, I wouldn’t get attached to any of them. You’ll just be disappointed. I took Uncle’s comment under advisement. Already, I was rather fond of some of the expanding spheres.

What’s in those things, anyway? asked Aunt Penelope. Space, I answered. Umph, she said. Well now that we have space, I’d like, please, a chair to sit down on. I’ve been standing for a very long time. So I made a chair for Aunt Penelope. That chair was my first creation of matter. It had three curved legs and an octagonal back, and I’d designed it to be comfortable but not too comfortable. My aunt sat down on it without comment.

Far more awaited. I wanted to make more matter. I wanted to make galaxies and stars. I wanted to make planets. I wanted to make living creatures, and minds. But for the moment, I sat and I meditated and I gazed with contentment at the empty but vibrating universes I had made.

I meditated. I did meditate. I am meditating. I will meditate.

Although I had emptied my mind of thoughts, I was still conscious of the new universes flying about. I could feel the presence of the pulsating spheres, I could feel the volume and space within them. More importantly, I could feel the
potential
of space now scattered throughout the Void. While I drifted in my meditative state, I was no longer drifting through a shapeless and timeless Void, but a Void now tessellated with time and with space. The emptiness shimmered with possibilities, each tiny volume trembling with a nebulous version of everything that could possibly be, everything I might eventually create. It was a pressure, a weight, a low humming sound. And I had changed myself as well as the Void. A great
unfolding
had taken place within my being, as if every degree of consciousness had multiplied into a thousand degrees of consciousness, every possible action had branched into a thousand possible actions. With the new quantum reality, I was exquisitely aware of the fantastic number of possible decisions and possibilities at each point of existence, each with its own consequences leading to an infinite chain of potentialities. Henceforth, when I decided to create a thing, I would necessarily need to create not only that thing but every conceivable variation of the thing, each with its own probability. Existence was now multiplicity. These new sensations and realities were not unpleasant, but they did require certain adaptations and allowances.

When I finally emerged from my meditations, a stranger was standing beside me. And behind him, another creature, a fat and squat being whose countenance seemed frozen in a grin. In the unending expanse of existence, there had never been anyone other than myself, Aunt Penelope, and Uncle Deva. I was pleased to have another being to talk to, yet I was not accustomed to meeting things I had not made.

“Good day,” said the stranger. “If I might take the liberty of using that expression. It will come with future creations.”

“I have not invited you here,” I said.

The stranger nodded, an acknowledgment of my comment but without any apology. He was tall and thin, and he held himself both with ease and with a formality. “You have a congenial existence here,” he said. “I have recently traveled through these regions, and they impart a definite tranquility. I imagine that you would want to stay here as long as possible, perhaps forever.” His voice did not enter my mind in the same manner as that of Aunt and Uncle but seemed to be swept in by a breeze from the Void, even though the Void had been windless for eons of time.

“Not that I envy you,” said the stranger. “But you do have comfortable circumstances.”

“Too comfortable,” said the grinning beast beside him.

“You forget yourself, Baphomet,” said the stranger. The creature suddenly yelped, as if it had been struck a vicious blow, and then bowed three times to the tall stranger without releasing the sneer on its face.

“Pardon Baphomet,” said the stranger, his gaze fastened on me. “He makes a good traveling companion.” He paused. “I wonder about this emptiness,” he said. “It would seem not to have any existence independent of our perception of it. An interesting substance. One could think it pleasant or unpleasant, strong or weak, and that would in fact be its reality. The mind is its own place, don’t you agree? Let us take the music, for example. Quite lovely. I congratulate you. I have been listening to it and enjoying it for some time. However, is it not conceivable that to some other mind, to some other sensibility, this same music might sound … let us say, unlovely?”

“I, for one, do not like the music one bit,” said Baphomet, and the beast quickly bowed again and grinned.

The stranger turned and stared at the beast, then turned back to me. “But there is a more serious question I wanted to ask you,” he said. “Do you think it is possible for a thing and its opposite both to be true?”

Despite having been startled by the stranger and his rude companion, I found myself captivated by him, even mesmerized. I decided to answer his question.

“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—”

“New experiences.”

“Yes,” I said. “My mind encompasses both the rational and the irrational. But certain things must have logical consistency, and thus rationality.”

“Exactly,” said the stranger. “For example, mathematics. But logical consistency can be misleading. Even in mathematics, the truth or falsity of some theorems cannot be proven. Curious, wouldn’t you say?”

“But that is beside the point. Each mathematical theorem is either true or false, whether it can be proven within the limitations of mathematics or not.”

“Yes, yes,” said the stranger. “I see that we can converse with each other.”

As we were talking, Baphomet was doing flips and somersaults, all the while watching us with his relentless grin. His master paid no attention to him.

“Without knowing for sure,” the stranger continued, “I would think that you are more fluent with the rational. It has its appeal. But the irrational permits a greater exercise of … shall we say,
power
. If that is your aim, of course. At the moment, you would seem to have no need to exercise your power.”

“I prefer to use only the scope and magnitude of power that is required for each situation,” I said. “But I have unlimited power, if necessary.”

“I would very much enjoy seeing a demonstration of that sometime.” The stranger moved closer. “But the target of power is more interesting than its quantity. In that regard, tell me: Would you say that the end always justifies the means? Or, in attempting to achieve your aims, do you draw the line at some degree of sacrifice and cost, beyond which you would not go?”

“I cannot consider this question in general terms.”

“Ah, you do not believe in absolute principles. We will get along even better than I thought. Your response implies that in some situations you would be willing to accept any price in order to achieve your end, in others not. Depending on the situation. Yes. That is an important thing to know about one’s self.”

The stranger unfastened his gaze from me and stared out into the Void. He was apparently occupied by something in particular, a particular one of the cosmoses, misshapen and throbbing as if it were about to explode. He looked at it with fascination. Then he turned sideways. He was so thin that he practically vanished, appearing as only a black line. “Have you wondered,” he said, “whether it is possible to imagine everything that will ever exist, or whether some things lie beyond our ability to imagine them?” I nodded. “And the set of all possibilities being infinite, as it is,” he continued, “if there is even a fraction of possibilities we cannot imagine, then there is an infinite number of possibilities we cannot imagine. So, even with infinite power, we might be surprised by what transpires in the future. Would you agree?” The tall stranger turned towards me again, cocked himself at an angle, and looked at me with an odd expression.

“Yes.”

“These universes you’ve created,” he said, and gestured at the quivering spheres and ellipsoids flying about. “Many of them will end in tragedy. Or I should say, the animate matter you fill them with, the intelligent beings, will twist and suffer and meet unhappy ends.” He smiled.

“I have no intention of that,” I said. “I would not allow that to happen.”

“I am sorry if what I’ve said disturbs you.”

“I command you into nonexistence,” I said.

“I’m afraid you cannot do that.” As tall as he was, the stranger grew taller, as if he had been crouching. “The glittering multitudes,” he said. “So many little lives, amounting to nothing. I ask you: What is infinity multiplied by zero? It is hardly worth our discussion … Give my regards to your uncle and aunt.” The stranger bowed. Then he and his beast, looking back at me with its incessant grin, moved off through the Void.