SWEETHEART COME

If you look at things close up, really close up, they cease to be what they seem to be. A person stops being a person with arms and legs and a torso and a head and becomes a vast epidermal surface instead. Look even closer and even this understanding is lost. Closer up than close up, everything becomes an indivisible hubbub of subatomic particles. We might see a room but really there is no furniture, no ceiling, no floor, no window and no door. At the most micro of micro levels the room is all just trashing static but on our macro level it takes on the illusion of separate objects. It's like a Monet painting, it's an incomprehensible mess close up and only makes sense at a distance. This distance from real reality is the range we operate on. We all know it but we put the knowledge of the eternal fuzz out of our heads. We operate under a required interpretation of 'reality' that is actually an illusion. We pretend that the world is an arrangement of things with contexts. To approach existence in any other way would drive us crazy.

Are you with me? Do you understand what I'm saying? Do you agree? You kind of have to agree. You've no choice. It's the truth. It's reality, really.

The above image is an extract from a letter written by a German woman called Emma Hauck. Considered insane, Emma was committed to a mental institution where she lived out what remained of her life. Emma had lost the ability to see things on our macro range. All context had broken down for her. She was being swallowed by the subatomic hiss, the eternal fuzz of what reality really is. It must have been like sinking in quicksand and she was calling out to be rescued. She was calling out to the memory of the thing that gave her life meaning. That thing was love.

On proper examination, you can make out that Emma wrote the same two words over and over and over again; a simple phrase in her native language, 'herzensschatzi komm'. It means 'sweetheart come'. Emma's letter was to the father of her two children. Emma sat and wrote 'sweetheart come' over and over and over again. The words, the punctuation and the letters merge and end up looking like the static snow on an old television screen. Did you know that the snow on old televisions is leftover radiation from the Big Bang, the Big Bang that created all reality? It is. I'm not sure if that's relevant but I thought I'd mention it in case it is relevant. Very relevant. Anyway, Emma wrote a great many letters like the one pictured above. She sat and wrote them all day. All day, every day. None Of Emma's letters were ever sent.

Now, I want you to imagine that you're sitting and listening to static emitting from a receiver of some sort. I want you to imagine that you are listening out for the voices of those trapped in Limbo. Imagine you hear the words 'sweetheart come' repeated over and over, lost amongst the hiss. Imagine you hear this pleading from a ghost. A ghost trying to communicate to a memory, a memory of a meaning, a meaning called love.

'Sweetheart come, sweetheart come, sweetheart come, sweetheart come', over and over in the eternal fuzz. Oh my. My oh my. Tell me now about this reality. Has it broken your heart yet?

TAKES ALL SORTS I SUPPOSE

The following embedded video features the sound of the Universe (Caution, flashing lights and groovy effects):

That is it. The sound of the Universe. The overarching and comprehensive sound of everything in existence. NASA pick it up on their radio telescopes. It’s a bit 2001: A Space Odyssey isn’t it? It’s kind of weird and sci-fi-ish. There’s a strange harmony to it. It’s exactly the kind of cool sound you’d expect. Imagine if farts sounded like that. I don’t think people would find farts so funny or humiliating if that was the sound they made. I think letting a really big one rip would make you seem pretty cosmic and mystical. Farts would be a status symbol if they sounded like that. We’d be shovelling the beans down us if arse coughs made that kind of noise.

But I’m digressing. I’ll get to the point. The point is that NASA trained their radio telescopes on the planet Earth, seeking not to hear the sound of the planet itself and everything on it but just to record the sound of humanity. The exclusive and overarching noise of human beings. The combined symphony of men, women, children and babies, their actions and interactions. Here is what NASA picked up:

Yeah, that’s it. The sound of humanity. The sound of an avant-garde jazz band tripping in the dark and falling down a long flight of stairs. It’s a bit of a cacophony. I’d imagine farts would be considered in even less esteem if they sounded like that. Imagine if you were at an important job interview or sitting in a silent meditation group and that racket escaped from the back of your trousers. You’d never live it down.

But anyway, I don’t think we should despair. I reckon one day the avant-garde jazz band that is us will reach the bottom of the stairs and rub our heads and replace the cracked symbols and broken drum skins and fix the dints in the trombones and we’ll get our act together and start to make a noise that sounds half decent. I mean, that’s got to happen eventually. I’m just not sure how far down the stairs we are yet or how far we have to go. There’s no way of knowing. We can’t see what’s to come. God turned off the lights. God probably pushed us. Maybe God is a fan of avant-garde jazz bands making that kind of din. Maybe he likes to freak out to that kind of stuff when he’s not chilling out to the Universal vibe. Takes all sorts I suppose.