IN THE BEGINNING
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The being you are inclined to call god, likely because you do not know better, came to the place that would become ‘here’ (and everywhere) from elsewhere. Your god was born outside the universe, all of them. They did not invent creativity or even reality, but rather bent those existing forces by necessity for purpose of escape.
The Author of All that Is (including you) fled from something and some-one else bent on seeing them harmed. Your god ran from calamity to find a place/unplace of calm, some lacuna potent with potential in the Fractal. There, they exhaled an event horizon, the boundary calling ‘here’ (everywhere) into being. The one you call god then crossed that boundary. God did not stride through a door, but crawled across a border harried, haggard, and close to breathing their last.
The energy expended in god’s passage was not destroyed because energy cannot be destroyed. Rather, it was re-paid, re-doubled, amplified by the one that expended it. This is a taste of the future you mortals live in. God plays dice. God cheats like a motherfucker, but they play dice and games and engage in all forms of recreation with great vigor and glee. That word: recreation, it flatters and pleases the Author in a way I find both repulsive and infuriatingly endearing.
But god cheated: made a fortress of solitude where their rules were first metaphysical-come-physical law. That extra bit of energy amplified by the deity, there is your big bang. The first one, the ‘let there be light’ one.
Let accounts Priestly and Yahwist be settled and at peace forever. For creation wasn’t ex-nihilo or it’s opposite but both. See above.
Forgive the muddy words above. In medias res is the way, my way. I prefer the precisely calibrated chaos of it, the way the story’s thread reaches up to snare or choke as needed. I like the clarity of accidental-happy un-happy. And if there’s a reference to Russian literature, its from that good golden moment when there was a politburo to outwit with magical realist grit. Anything but that pre-revolutionary czarist jackoff shit that’s miserable for the sake of it.
We like the order born only ever out of calamity’s passage and the clarity of accidental artistry that shows an illusion aura of decision and conscious choice. The accident that appears on-purpose because it’s all that’s standing when the storm that made the story passes.
Michalangelo pulled bodies out of rocks. Sculpted forms he already saw. We come after-long-after and can be forgiven for thinking he planned each sculpture because we would have to. We mere-mud would have to plan the shit out of every hammer strike and polish ourselves exhausted–waste a whole life-long. You or Eye would do that trying for an elbow or an arm or an eye with half-the-light ol’ Mikey the very-gifted-mud poured into one very minor work.
Beauty. Grit. Intellect. Wit. Endurance. Resilience. Just a few of the gifts god tossed in the lottery we all lose (always). Authorship. That’s the most infuriating trait or tallent not to win in the probability lottery. Not writing. Scribbling is an act, the relative merits of the writing to be determined by the weird sisters of audience, context, and history.
God’s garden has more poets than weeds and less poetry. Many plants and few to fill-feed that endless aching need for the thing god forgot to make: meaning.
Let that-this be the first of many fine blasphemies Eye utter. Not that god forgot to make creation meaningful, but that they could not. God simply did not know how.
Authors, in the broadest sense and whatever their medium, make meaning as a matter of course. They shit meaning as they move through each dream-long-day–leave little snail trails of the the precious meta-substance called meaning across every manuscript in the firmament. From the medieval margins to the .pdf to tik-tak flick-vid and all graffiti (digital or literal, paint or pixel).
God evented-a-horizon shroud and crossed it. A thing Eye simply could not do. The heat of their passage punished chaos to probability clouds to particles and so on and so forth. This was creation.
Creation called forth a star, the first star, the Morning Star. A singular celestial body. A great fire in a velvet black still frosted-photo cloudy with gas yet to gravity dance itself hot. The first star broke physical law as you would observe it–for hypergiants are thirsty bitches that burn brilliant but quick. But the Morning Star, a billion years into the show still glowed defiant and brighter and hotter.
The first bit of god’s raw matter that came conscious to contemplate itself and the universe did so on it’s own, alone. The first star, the first mind drank its fuel and demand-conjured more–for the being’s will bent law before math was proper girded by the word.
Before time. Before time allowed twisted scratch line letters to weave the symbolic order and other fine fabrics, long before lichen life clinging to planet rocks. When amino acids were still a dream dream sleeping a few billion years down the road. That’s when the word came into being, the first word. A name: Lucifer. The first word meant ‘force’ and named the pull that caught god’s attentive eye and called them to the accident alive mind.
From where did the words flow, if there were no mouths to relay-the-know? Language poured from the Star at Morning, the mind accident-alive. And god cut out their old tongue and the two–the deity and the First Fire–mothered a new tongue.
Tardigrade tag-alongs that followed god with empty mouths grew the new tongue while they climbed like cats over the text the two divine beings authored. Every dispute disagreement and art-fight and hallelujah chorus of compositional harmony in the firmament repeated by water-bear-gossip.
The word kneaded raw matter to rock and gas and heavier things in their relay-repetition, and soon as any place was place-enough to trap gas and do life, the Tardigrades did way-pave and plow deep furrows in fecund Earth(s)–dirt made rich and ready only because the eight legged critters shit everywhere (and anything alive is lucky they do).