“… but if the universe is really completely self-contained, having no boundaries or edge, it would have neither beginning nor end : it would simply be. What place, then, for a creator?”
is mankind a mass (amass?) of needles? is humanity a woven cloth? knitting ourselves into a blanket. some are stars. some are sunken ships. some are orange deserts, some are tall serious buildings. some have the shape of water in a bottle. some are sunken ships. some are the zeros and ones in a computer thread, carrying a virus. are some zeppellins? a coin in the slot of a vending machine? i could be twilight. you could be music. i could be a tom waits song and you could be the air in a harmonica. and is god just grandmother’s hands, wrinkled with time, holding us all in place, swaying in her Cosmic Rocking Chair, knitting us along with time and orbits and geodisics and Newton’s falling apples? Does she scream “eureka!”? does she say “amen”? I wonder … And soon will she hold us up against the kerosene lamplight, hang us alongside her constellations, and say to someone we can’t see, in her 4-dimensional space-time voice : “Look at the quilt, child, isn’t the pattern lovely?”
