Saturday, 13 July 2013

The Beginning

You keep asking me how the world began so sit around, sit by my side and I will start the long process of Tell.

The world began with a tornado. That was the first thing: the spin.

Somehow there was nothing but nothing wanted to be slightly over there in a world that was all just space in different directions and fortunately the nothing that was there wanted to be in the nowhere of the other nothing, so that happened. The nothing began to move.

Slowly at first, circularly, because in the beginning there was no place for corners. The nothing became a small spin, a tiny rotation, a prehistoric vortex at the time before stuff.

And it is quiet in the nothing, in the space, but it does move, it whips around like the gathering noose of a lasso, it rotates. If there was sand, it would draw circles in the sand.

But of course, the thing about spinning is that it cannot stay the same. Spinning gets faster. Spinning goes whee. Spinning is the hands of a clock trying to get ahead of time and even if it doesn't quite succeed, it gets so very excited trying.

So after the tornado gets going, the snap of the whip hits the nothing of real pure air. Don't you know that friction can cause the smallest spark? Don't you know that fire can be made out of nothing? Don't you know that heat comes from the spin and where there is heat, there is the chance for creation, don't you know that that is the way of the gods?

A snap and a crack and a fire is burning beneath the tongue of a dragon, because after the tornado and the fire, there had to be dragons. There had to be creatures in the sand.

Here is a long straight view out over the forever-endless and all that dots the wind is tornadoes like whirpools of the sky, ashing and shooting out lazers of dirt. All that dots the wind is the smoke over forever-burning flames. All that flies in this air is dragons.

I am not allergic to their scales, and I exist yet only in the mythologies that are typed backwards on the skins of their forebearers, and we are so far before cavewalls that I, who am only made of stories, have very little left to say.

I am talking round in circles, heading into and out of the subject, because it is hard to tie together the threads of a shared history that exists only in the tales of mythological creatures that we no longer quite believe in.

I have written the histories of a thousand civilisations and it all comes back to this: The beginning is a foolish place, quieter and less explicable and somehow wilder too. The beginning is a thing we don't have to trust but we do have to acknowledge. The beginning doesn't make sense in our own mouths because the beginning is a place of contradictions, wild and headbucked, wanderlust and witchety.

Of course there are stupid stories, of course there are contralogical dragons, of course, I whisper, of course.

What else is the universe if not changing?

There is a different world and I am not yet in it and it makes no sense that I am the scribe because in the beginning I had no hands to write with. In the beginning, I was not yet a woman...


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