“Not so fast,” Bors interjects. “A universe without a big bang is like a fuck without an orgasm. You can’t leave it hanging there like that. You say there was no big bang, but the universe is definitely finite!”
“It isn’t,” the Nordic man insists while sunbeams play aquatic ripples across his face; wavy lines of light reflected from the child-shattered peace of the platypus pool. “Regardless of what the dominant paradigm believes, the cosmos goes on forever. Invoking a creation event doesn’t xplain anything - you might as well ask, ‘who created god?’ Humans have an unfortunate inability to conceive of infinity…”
“Nothing unfortunate about it; it’s just realistic. Nothing lasts forever,” Bors declares.
“It certainly does,” Ram agrees. “Nothing lasts forever, and all energy and matter continually condense out of the nothingness.” The older man frowns and shakes his head. “But when we look out there,” Bors says with a glance at the big blue sky shining above the little rainforest valley where David’s new family cavort in the transparent pool, “no matter what wavelength we’re viewing it through or the tools we use, all the evidence for a big bang just fits too perfectly. Everything backs up what you belittle as the ‘dominant paradigm’ - as if it’s just some repressive dogma - too damn well. Like Eddington proving relativity by demonstrating that gravity bends light, or the Michaelson-Morley experiment, or…”
“Actually,” the shaman interrupts, “if you care to take a closer look at Eddington’s data it seems he fudged his figures…”
David takes up the baton; “Because that’s just what he couldn’t do back then. He couldn’t take a close enough look - not with the equipment available in nineteen thirteen, and particularly not at a remote outpost on the far side of the planet. There was no way to determine minor deviations of seconds of arc with such precision, and he simply made the data look like it agreed with Einstein’s theory. He just made it all up and recorded that the stars’ positions had apparently shifted due to the Sun’s gravity lensing effect, as Einstein had predicted…”
“So you say the Astronomer Royal lied and that Einstein was wrong, too, and that relativity doesn’t exist?” Bors guffaws loudly and David’s smile slumps into a slight frown. “No,” he says, his narrowed gaze sidling toward the sunlit river while the ex-teacher laughs aloud, “only that it’s never really been proven, unlike what everyone’s been taught. It’s a widespread and generally uninformed belief.”
“Misinformed.” Ram’yana continues in his stead before Bors’ laughter fades. “And if you repeat the Michaelson-Morley experiment with slightly modified apparatus that takes the rotation of the Earth into account, it turns out that you can detect an ‘aether wind’ after all.”
“Bullshit,” Bors declares in a neutral tone. “If that was true we’d all have heard about it.”
“Where?” David asks as he watches the playful kids dive beneath the surface. “All the scientific journals toe the same party line and the education system is designed to fit star-shaped cogs into square boxes. Besides, you’re hearing about it right now.”
“And I don’t believe a word of it. I mean to say, thinking the entire world is wrong and that you’re the only ones who know what’s really going on is pathological; paranoid, megalomaniac stuff. You’re just kidding yourselves, but you sure aren’t fooling me – or anyone else who knows a little science.” He shades his eyes against the onslaught of bright reflections. “Modern science isn’t just a religion, you know. It’s not something we’ve made up -. it’s all built on carefully laid down and thoroughly examined foundations and tried and tested axioms. The modern world wouldn’t work if everything was actually the way you guys think it is. Technology wouldn’t function.
“Besides – like I said, having a finite universe without a big bang is like having a fuck without an orgasm.” Bors seems to be waiting for polite laughter to break the icy crust of their argument. The ex-teacher watches David’s eyes linger on his comely Danish lover while he shuffles on the spot in a parody of wearisome trudging. “Maybe we should discuss this stuff later, when there isn’t so much ego involved.”
“Suits me,” says David. He strips off and waves to Anike before diving into the pellucid water.
“Just one more thing,” the hippy shaman insists while they watch David knife past the squealing children through liquid crystal, dazzling them with more flashes of sunlight. “The Sun isn’t a nuclear furnace, you know. It’s a vibrating bubble of energy immersed in an essentially fluid medium.”
Bors’ rises to the challenge with a weary tone; “A vibrating bubble of what?”
“Energy; electricity if you prefer.”
“If that’s the case, where’s the fuel come from to sustain it for billions of years? Come on, man, you’ll have to do better than that!”
“The key is the aether – the fact that space isn’t empty but chock-full of energy that acts like a compressible fluid. All the physical manifestations of the solar system and matter in general are the result of resonance in that fluid matrix – it’s all a series of standing waves.”
“Nice try, but you can’t fool someone who knows about this stuff. You can’t have a standing wave unless it vibrates between two nodes, not one, and the Sun is a single node…”
The shaman has been waiting to counter this objection. “Ah, but the Sun vibrates within the solar bubble that extends way beyond Neptune - or Pluto for that matter - and that acts as a boundary layer. The extremities of the heliosphere form an event horizon that surrounds the whole system and acts as the second node. The vibrations all resonate between those two polarities, creating harmonic shells in which the planets nestle and rotate, like matter accreting at Lagrange or Trojan points – it’s all a structure built on standing waves that beat like notes in the Music of the Spheres.”
“But none of that explains where the Sun’s fuel come from!”
“Visualise the Sun as a vibrating ball floating in a circular swimming pool…”
“But what about the fuel? What maintains all that vibration?”
“I don’t have time for this,” Bors avers. “I have real work to do.” He smiles and nods in mimicry of a bow before turning away. “I have a dozen trees to cut down and drag away.”
Soft fingers stroke a track up his spine and the shaman slips free of his binding recollections, sailing the timestream to emerge inside the Amber woman’s fervid embrace...
The noise of bright laughter and splashing water sound nearby; so much like the playful antics of Anike’s children that Ram’s dreams of the past collide and align with the present reality, confusing his psychoactivated slumberous mind. The day is so bright he can’t open his exhausted eyes. He strokes Amber’s satin skin while he drifts away on the banks of the plashing creek.
He riffles through pages in the Book of Life. “All right,” Bors announces, “I’m ready now.” Some time has passed since their last conversation and there’s no sign of David or his transplanted family. The shaman sits in Bors’ iron-roofed wooden shed of a dwelling, rolling the latest in a number of numbers on the schoolteacher’s large mahogany table. “And so’s the coffee,” the other man announces, plonking a cup on a cardboard coaster.
Ram inhales caffeinated esters of crushed roast beans and sighs. He holds the cup up before his brow, his throat, his heart, and lowers it to the level of his solar plexus. Subtle fluid pours from the spigot of his sternum in an invisible outpouring stream, infusing the transformed liquefied roast beans with the transubstantiated substance of his alchemised essence. He inhales more deeply while sipping the crema and rain clouds begin to condense in the sky beyond the mismatching windows. Bors takes a seat and his dark silhouette faces the shaman from the other side of the table. “Ready,” he says.
Ram inhales the alchemised brew before having a sip. He lights up the first number and recommences their interrupted joust through a fragrant cloud. “If there are, say, eleven fundamental dimensions intersecting to create our perception of reality, we must be in all of them now, just as we’re ‘in’ 3D space and ‘in’ time.” He inhales as he watches smoke spiral up from the nearby remains of an arsonist’s artwork; the forest breathing a sigh of relief after a recent vast conflagration that set the regrowth back by a generation.
“Actually,” Bors rejoins, “it’s said that those extra postulated dimensions are bound up in tiny vibrating circles, entirely beyond our perception and below the level of our reference to them.”
“That’s what some theorists say – a corollary of some of string theories. But if other dimensions exist, they must be here and now, not separated from the more familiar dimensions of timespace, but embedded in them. “
“Let’s assume that’s so - for the sake of discussion.”
“Let’s,” Ram agrees, passing the joint. You don’t need quantum theory to understand the reality of higher dimensions. Consider; our three-space is a cross-section of higher dimensional spaces, just as a circle is a cross-section of a sphere.”
“All right so far. Standard geometry,” the ex-math teacher agrees.
“So one of the identifiable hallmarks of hyperspace and the action of hyperspatial fields on our reality is that they must affect every single particle here simultaneously, from the core of everything to its extremity…”
“Geometrically, they have to, yes…”
“Like, for instance, gravity. Or time itself. These aren’t ‘forces’ – they’re higher dimensional fields interacting with us; our 3D reality is a cross-section of them.”
“That’s a very interesting interpretation.” Bors takes a drag and smiles catlike over his coffee while a deafening birdcall sounds from above - Thyooo… WHIP! Though apparently a single cry, the call is made by a pair of whip birds observing the primates from different places in the shattered canopy above their heads.
“So we already exist in all other dimensions as well. In fact, they may be so familiar to us that we already have names for them – as the names of various forces.”
“But that doesn’t mean our consciousness can comprehend hyperspace or other dimensions.” Bors insists. “We’re not bred or trained to perceive them.”
“Agreed. Nonetheless, we are perceiving them all the time – as magnetism, for instance, or gravity or electricity – familiar dimensions that we’re made of.” Bors drinks deeply as his brow forms a concertina. A logging truck vibrates the entire hill from the road in the valley below, its revolutions oscillating their bones, teeth and organs in the sylvan stillness. “The standard perceptual windows of our eyesight are narrowed by evolution to take up a tiny portion of the available spectrum,” Bors points out. “We’ve had no evolutionary mechanism to drive us to ‘see’ anything else. There’s been no need, so we can’t, any more than we can really imagine, say, six-dimensional space.”
Ram smiles as he takes back the number. “But we can, with practice. Those ‘higher’ geometric dimensions are accessible to us as well. Put it this way; there’s no such thing as an actual, truly flat plane in our material reality; it only exists in the ideal, the world of ideas.”
“Well, there’s always curvature for a start. So nothing is flat. What of it?”
“True; timespace recurves on itself. But all surfaces and planes have some depth in our world, even if it’s an atom or molecule thick. There’s no such thing as an actual two dimensional plane in our ‘real’ world. Idealised two dimensional forms always extrude into the third dimension in practice – and likewise with all other dimensions. They extrude and intrude into each other. We’re already composed of higher dimensions.”
Bors nods. “We’re extrusions from the other. This is just a local extension of a wider reality, a fractal of a fractal. But that doesn’t mean our consciousness can comprehend hyperspace or other dimensions.” He sips the strong aromatic coffee while Ram draws a smoky breath, encouraged by the lightening of his neighbour’s previously sardonic tone and expression.
“If other dimensions exist then they must be here and now.” Ram becomes aware he’s repeating himself. “We’re already in those dimensions - and one of them is consciousness.”
“But we’re not trained to perceive them.”
“We perceive them all the time, but they’re cloaked in the illusions generated by our reflexive, regressive language structure and the thought patterns it reinforces. The hallmark of hyperspace and ‘higher’ dimensions is anything that affects all points in space simultaneously and equally within what we misname as their ‘field’ – like gravity and time, for instance…”
“You already said that.”
“Okay. They affect all points within matter identically, as they would if the material world is a partial cross-section of them. Like electricity or magnetism; not ‘forces’ but dimensions that impinge upon us in familiar but misconstrued ways.”
“Haven’t we been over this before?” Bors frowns.
‘Worrummm – POO!’ The rare fruit dove intones its returning presence; a feathered rainbow rustling in the branches of a nearby scorched buttonwood. Ram leans across the mahogany table, his image reflected and refracted in the translucent surface and deep within the living crystal grain. “And all our words are shorthand for many interpenetrating levels of communication - carrier signals that piggyback other messages to and from many other realms of consciousness at once. Cloaked by the mundane, each phrase we ever utter exudes multiple levels of meaning.
“All language is magical, Bors unexpectedly agrees. “Let’s try some of this, man.” They pause to sample some of his hand-blended liqueur and its fragrance overwhelms their senses and infused their plasm with carefully blended tinctures. Transfused with strong cannabis resin, the men’s wood-smoked breaths pass between them and the world as they sit in the shade on the bulldozed man-made plateau that surrounds Bors’ home. The wind changes and clouds begin to curl and curdle overhead.
“You wouldn’t know, being here, that there are so many people in the world, all living out their lives,” Bors muses. He glances up, suddenly. “And all their lives are, like all life, expendable.”
“Eye prefer to view them as extendable,” Ram opines with an emerald forest glint in his gazeless stare. “They may be immoral, but they’re definitely immortal.” A cloud of brilliant comma-shaped sparks turns a corner between realms and emerges into the space around them just as the forest suddenly swirls and as swiftly subsides into preternatural stillness. The shaman is uncertain whether his neighbour perceives the scintillating sparks that some call prana and others orgone; others still know it as chi or mana. As the cloud of commas surrounds the table Ram is suffused with the subtle glow of tingling energy.
Bors smiles. “Billions of people, all living their lives. But there are just too many of them.”
“Scarcity’s an illusion maintained by greed – along with outmoded beliefs and false ideas; like illusory money, for one. There’s more than enough of everything, but our B-grade societies and technologies are only trying to squeeze the life out of matter - and money out of life.”
“Then how many billions are too many for the planet?” Bors parries. “There has to be an ultimate carrying capacity and many say we already need three or five Earths to maintain our current levels of expenditure. All right – maybe there are technological and social fixes for all that. But there’s no need for so many people.” He begins to roll a cigarette as he awaits the inevitable riposte.
“One suppressed branch of the Illuminati believe there are actually too few humans to bring about the evolution of the species and take us to the next level of the spiral,” the prince replies, scanning the sky. “Ten billion – equivalent to one tenth of neurons in the human brain – may be required to bring the New Humankind to birth.” He lights up the second number and begins mulling more herbs in the palm of his hand. “On the other hand, one billion may suffice. Another branch, of course, believes that only half a billion or so are required as slaves, vassals and vessels. They consider themselves suitable governors of a maimed population and prefer that we maintain the Earth as a prison planet.”
Bors leans forward, hands clenched around his cup. “They view and maintain Humanity as just a gene pool, of course.”
“And the wider and deeper the pool, the greater the potential - and more diverse possibilities can arise than many are prepared to envision or cope with. But these two opposing positions are centuries old and thoroughly out of date,” Ram points out. “After all, new – or rediscovered - technology and concepts have now advanced to the point where there’s an infinitude of alternative worlds to choose from. Every power-hungry potentate can literally become king of a world.
“What a limiting perspective to be trapped in,” he concludes. A frantic flurry of rainbow lorikeets and scarlet rosellas flee the approach of distant thunderheads as another round of coffee pours into the cups and passes through the vessels of their simian bodies.
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