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their children. For example, it turns out they didn’t know how to express the workings of their universe as equations, so they are greatly impressed with the ideas of their physicist children, who phrase clearly to them for the first time what they wrought.
On the other hand, it would be misleading to tell you that it’s always been a happy family, because there was a period of time when that wasn’t true. Their marriage was an arranged one, and over the millennia they grew unhappy with each other’s company. By careful observation of their humans over the years, they learned that sometimes couples don’t work out, that people separate, adulterate, divorce—and none of it is so terrible that the universe crashes down. And so, in the manner that all parents learn from their children, they separated.
There were many acts of bitterness. They stung each other with unfair accusations, using information so personal it shouldn’t have been broached. Hurt, in an idea of quick revenge, She created a planet of all females. He retorted with a solar system of males. She encircled His line of planets with a band of women on meteors. The two of them armed the new humans to battle it out, women against men. Both sides were supplied with weapons ranging from sarcasm to tanks.
But something strange happened. The planets and meteors were silent. Orbits dragged like slow whispers through the empty space. No battles waged; not a shot was fired.
Upon close examination, they discovered that the monosexual inhabitants were miserable, crushed like existentialists under a feeling of the absence of something terribly important, something they couldn’t put their fingers on.
Eventually, She dropped Her hands from Her hips and He from His. She spoke the first tender words in months, asking if He was hungry. He responded by offering to cook something for them both. The planets of men and women drifted back together, and the race started again, with its pursuits, seductions, choices, competitions, temptations, arguments, and a great cosmic sigh of relief as they all fell emancipated into each other’s arms.
Spirals
In the afterlife, you discover that your Creator is a species of small, dim-witted, obtuse creatures. They look vaguely human, but they are smaller and more brutish. They are singularly unintelligent. They knit their brows when they try to follow what you are saying. It will help if you speak slowly, and it sometimes helps to draw pictures. At some point their eyes will glaze over and they will nod as though they understand you, but they will have lost the thread of the conversation entirely.
A word of warning: when you wake up in the afterlife, you will be surrounded by these creatures. They will be pushing and shoving in around you, rubbernecking, howling to get a look at you, and they will all be asking you the same thing: Do you have answer? Do you have answer?
Don’t be frightened. These creatures are kind and innocuous.
You will probably ask them what they are talking about. They will knit their brows, plumbing your words like a mysterious proverb. Then they will timidly repeat: Do you have answer?
Where the heck am I? you may ask.
A scribe faithfully marks down your every word for future record. Mother and daughter creatures peer out at you hopefully from observation decks.
To understand where you are, it will help to have some background.
At some point in the development of their society, these creatures began to wonder: Why are we here? What is the purpose of our existence? These turned out to be very difficult questions to answer. So difficult, in fact, that rather than attacking the questions directly, they decided it might be easier to build supercomputing machines devoted to finding the answers. So they invested the labor of tens of generations to engineer these. We are their machines.
This seemed a clever strategy to the elders of their community. However, they overlooked a problem: to build a machine
On the other hand, it would be misleading to tell you that it’s always been a happy family, because there was a period of time when that wasn’t true. Their marriage was an arranged one, and over the millennia they grew unhappy with each other’s company. By careful observation of their humans over the years, they learned that sometimes couples don’t work out, that people separate, adulterate, divorce—and none of it is so terrible that the universe crashes down. And so, in the manner that all parents learn from their children, they separated.
There were many acts of bitterness. They stung each other with unfair accusations, using information so personal it shouldn’t have been broached. Hurt, in an idea of quick revenge, She created a planet of all females. He retorted with a solar system of males. She encircled His line of planets with a band of women on meteors. The two of them armed the new humans to battle it out, women against men. Both sides were supplied with weapons ranging from sarcasm to tanks.
But something strange happened. The planets and meteors were silent. Orbits dragged like slow whispers through the empty space. No battles waged; not a shot was fired.
Upon close examination, they discovered that the monosexual inhabitants were miserable, crushed like existentialists under a feeling of the absence of something terribly important, something they couldn’t put their fingers on.
Eventually, She dropped Her hands from Her hips and He from His. She spoke the first tender words in months, asking if He was hungry. He responded by offering to cook something for them both. The planets of men and women drifted back together, and the race started again, with its pursuits, seductions, choices, competitions, temptations, arguments, and a great cosmic sigh of relief as they all fell emancipated into each other’s arms.
Spirals
In the afterlife, you discover that your Creator is a species of small, dim-witted, obtuse creatures. They look vaguely human, but they are smaller and more brutish. They are singularly unintelligent. They knit their brows when they try to follow what you are saying. It will help if you speak slowly, and it sometimes helps to draw pictures. At some point their eyes will glaze over and they will nod as though they understand you, but they will have lost the thread of the conversation entirely.
A word of warning: when you wake up in the afterlife, you will be surrounded by these creatures. They will be pushing and shoving in around you, rubbernecking, howling to get a look at you, and they will all be asking you the same thing: Do you have answer? Do you have answer?
Don’t be frightened. These creatures are kind and innocuous.
You will probably ask them what they are talking about. They will knit their brows, plumbing your words like a mysterious proverb. Then they will timidly repeat: Do you have answer?
Where the heck am I? you may ask.
A scribe faithfully marks down your every word for future record. Mother and daughter creatures peer out at you hopefully from observation decks.
To understand where you are, it will help to have some background.
At some point in the development of their society, these creatures began to wonder: Why are we here? What is the purpose of our existence? These turned out to be very difficult questions to answer. So difficult, in fact, that rather than attacking the questions directly, they decided it might be easier to build supercomputing machines devoted to finding the answers. So they invested the labor of tens of generations to engineer these. We are their machines.
This seemed a clever strategy to the elders of their community. However, they overlooked a problem: to build a machine
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