In The Beginning
Entry by: tinyfeet&bluebirds
15th May 2015
Metaphysical Meanderings
[With thanks to Darwin, Paul Davies, Milton, the Bible and the Rolling Stones - not neccessarily in that order.]
In the darkness, behind the white screens and the strings, the hooded man stands silently. And his hands, long, graceful, bony fingers adorned with silver rings, lift the sticks lazily. Before him, the other side of the veil, a shadowy puppet moves jerkily, dancing frenetically to the whistler’s tune. 'What’s puzzling you / Is the nature of my game.' The music builds steadily around them working up to a frenzy of electric guitar riffs. 'I’ve been around for a long, long year / Stole many a man’s soul and faith.' Silence.
In another room a black haired woman in a crimson shawl hums to herself as she rocks back and forth cross legged on the floor. All around her strewn papers begin to rise and swirl in the air like autumn leaves whirling in the wind. Is it her making the papers fly or something else all together? 'All that we are arises with our thoughts.' The humming is rising, the papers are reaching for the sky like so many dreams spun out into the night. 'With our thoughts, we make the world.' The pattern is unravelling.
In his ivory tower the mathematician works at his equations tirelessly looking for the mysterious motifs that lie elusive below the surface like so many small fry swimming in the stream. He knows they are there. 'It seems as though somebody has fine-tuned nature's numbers to make the Universe.' He has seen it in pinecones and sea shells, waves and tides, morphogenesis and fractals. All around him particles are spinning, atoms are colliding in an infinitely varied architecture of pattern. 'The impression of design is overwhelming.' It is all around him.
Somewhere deep in the oceans a thousand slippery, silvery sardines swim in shoals and cerulean, crimson and corn coloured corals sway elegantly in time with the turning of the globe. 'Whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.' Secret shadows pass above stealth like in their sleek pewter skins, their massive majesty compelling. 'And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.' Secret hand that passes over all.
Finally, the writer in his attic scratches out the words with his flighty, feathered quill, the occasional ink spill marring the otherwise perfect synchronicity of his exorbitant etchings. With the flick of his wrist he unravels universes. 'In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth / Rose out of Chaos.' His is a map, a cloth world of infinite possibility. 'He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart.' His voice rings out like a solemn solitary bell calling men to worship. 'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.'
[With thanks to Darwin, Paul Davies, Milton, the Bible and the Rolling Stones - not neccessarily in that order.]
In the darkness, behind the white screens and the strings, the hooded man stands silently. And his hands, long, graceful, bony fingers adorned with silver rings, lift the sticks lazily. Before him, the other side of the veil, a shadowy puppet moves jerkily, dancing frenetically to the whistler’s tune. 'What’s puzzling you / Is the nature of my game.' The music builds steadily around them working up to a frenzy of electric guitar riffs. 'I’ve been around for a long, long year / Stole many a man’s soul and faith.' Silence.
In another room a black haired woman in a crimson shawl hums to herself as she rocks back and forth cross legged on the floor. All around her strewn papers begin to rise and swirl in the air like autumn leaves whirling in the wind. Is it her making the papers fly or something else all together? 'All that we are arises with our thoughts.' The humming is rising, the papers are reaching for the sky like so many dreams spun out into the night. 'With our thoughts, we make the world.' The pattern is unravelling.
In his ivory tower the mathematician works at his equations tirelessly looking for the mysterious motifs that lie elusive below the surface like so many small fry swimming in the stream. He knows they are there. 'It seems as though somebody has fine-tuned nature's numbers to make the Universe.' He has seen it in pinecones and sea shells, waves and tides, morphogenesis and fractals. All around him particles are spinning, atoms are colliding in an infinitely varied architecture of pattern. 'The impression of design is overwhelming.' It is all around him.
Somewhere deep in the oceans a thousand slippery, silvery sardines swim in shoals and cerulean, crimson and corn coloured corals sway elegantly in time with the turning of the globe. 'Whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.' Secret shadows pass above stealth like in their sleek pewter skins, their massive majesty compelling. 'And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.' Secret hand that passes over all.
Finally, the writer in his attic scratches out the words with his flighty, feathered quill, the occasional ink spill marring the otherwise perfect synchronicity of his exorbitant etchings. With the flick of his wrist he unravels universes. 'In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth / Rose out of Chaos.' His is a map, a cloth world of infinite possibility. 'He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart.' His voice rings out like a solemn solitary bell calling men to worship. 'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.'
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