Every now and then, it is very restorative to have a traditional Sunday. I don’t mean by that going to Church, hearing the banns read on behalf of some future rancorous divorce, and then the truly awful hip-hop touchy-feely all mod cons CofE nonsense about hugging the person next to you, and saying “Peace be with you”. I can’t imagine anything more awful than that. The last time I had to do it, I felt like saying to the lady involved, “Peace be with you, and by the way Boots No 17 simply isn’t you darling”.
No, I mean rolling over when the bladder alarm goes off, piling up the cushions at one end of the bed, opening the Acer notebook and wandering through the news. I mean ambling across the bedroom later, chucking languidly removed underwear into a large basket, blasting myself with hot shower water, and then flopping around in a tatty dressing gown for a while. I mean going downstairs, digging the lamb-for-one bought yesterday out of its wrapping, picking some fresh herbs, and chucking it into an oven (at a heat level low enough for 94% of all microbes to survive) with lots of healthy veg and Greek olive oil. I mean saying that today the world can sod off while I dabble, potter, think, meditate, and generally do pointless things of a tactile nature.
Today’s thinking took me off yet again down the infinite tunnel of mind-boggling thought. The overwhelmingly consistent finding of the last 20 years in Physics has been that separation is an illusion – as is space; and that Time is relative….and everything is connected.
What this boils down to is that the Universe adds up to 1.
But if it does…then 1 what?
1 atom, 1 rock, or 1 person?
For some time now I’ve been attracted to the idea that the Universe might be just one person – the inhabitant of another Universe that exists beyond black holes. His name might be Wi Yaturp, and he was some time ago shot in the chest by gunslingers. The trauma he is still experiencing is what our narrow scientists call Big Bang, and planet Earth is merely one corpuscle inside Wi’s body. But we’re told that the post-bang expansion is levelling off, and at some point will go into reverse. This is probably Mr Yaturp dying.
Imagine the unalloyed joy of explaining to the staff at Goldman Sachs that they were merely atoms jiggling about in one blood corpuscle of a dying sheriff somewhere in the Wild West of the planet Yplnk. What fun one would have.
But then, if everything is an illusion, is there just past and future, or is there empirical past, remembered past, envisaged future and then The Future? And if so, which of them – if any – is real? And where do dreams about past and future fit into that spectrum?
After all that thinking, it’s time to turn down the lamb, stick some spicy aubergine and spuds in the low oven, and head back upstairs for a nap.
Later, a dinner of succulent lamb and roasted bits. Some mid-evening telephone conversations with chums. Writing this post. And then bed.
No banks, notaires, lawyers, internet loudmouths, media proprietors or builders were engaged in the shooting of this Sunday movie. This probably explains why it was so enjoyable.