B flat. “Let me not be mad”.

There are maybe 200,000,000,000 galaxies, every one possibly with a massive black hole at its centre. A black hole and the matter that is being pulled into it create a resonance. They play B flat, 57 octaves below middle C. Would it be blasphemous to think of it as the throat of God Himself, singing a great bass organ note, a sound big enough to disintegrate a world, as indeed might be happening at a black hole?

 

And those are just the bass notes. String theory suggests that everything, every sub-sub-microscopic unthinkably small particle is itself only a manifestation, one face, of a vibrating string, each vibrating at its own excitation level. The whole thing, so achingly vast that we can only think about it in metaphors, is, then, one enormous interharmonized act of music, God singing. Maybe He didn’t say “Let there be light.” Maybe He sang it.

 

That would make the universe and all of its concomitant multiverses, into a living paean of joy, breaking outwards into the uncreated, into the great not-yet. And maybe one day that great outbreath becomes an inbreath, and He calls it home again.

 

Is the universe bi-polar then, manic on the outbreath, depressive on the in? Or is it that I in my own tiny particulate way emulate the act of Creation? Over and over again. When I am happy. When I am sad. When I breathe out. When I breathe in. If God, as Voltaire suggested, is a circle with no circumference whose centre is everywhere, then I occupy the centre, where I in some way collaborate with Creation.

 

Terrifying. Absolute freedom and absolute responsibility, the freedom only to be found in surrender, the responsibility only to be held by its own abrogation. Like dropping off a cliff that goes all the way down to the centre of the universe, except that I’m already there.

 

For some reason I think of King Lear wandering on the heath crying “Let me not be mad, sweet Heavens, let me not be mad.” There’s nothing of humanity in this vast explosion, only the inevitability of the mind’s collapse, except for this: that everywhere He is, which is then everywhere, He reaches out His hand, that everywhere He is, Christ waits for us.

 

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