Thomas likened the biological structures of energy to the Brandenburg Concertos of Bach, could
they make noise, “if there were to be sounds to represent this process…” But are the Concertos
not sounds to represent this process? Is the orchestra not a structure of energy? It is not only a
structure of energy, but a generator. This ornate arrangement of motion and friction, conducted
into sound waves and augmented by architecture, is so meticulously arranged that when an ear
greets the waves, energy is produced. The listener is lit up, so to speak—though perhaps it is
not only just a manner of speaking. A moving piece of music is aptly named. The soul is stirred.
Although the emotional energy mustered up by a work of art is released in several ways, the most
significant—in this line of reasoning—is that energy which is perpetuated. Inspiration comes,
ideas form, and, as they build off one another, ideas elaborate. Energy propagates. So it goes.
i
i
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Many physicists believe that beyond the event horizon of a black hole there may be another universe. This would not surprise me. I feel the same of my own event horizon, my own
black hole, that center of my brain we call the unconscious. I call it the wordless. Unfathomable energy exists in the depths of darkness, of silence. I can only guess by the words
orbiting around and the few that radiate out. Constantly I send in probes, but the gravity is insurmountable. I must settle and try to understand the little it sends out at me.
But not only am I dissatisfied with the terms of this relationship; so too is the hole, and
it terrorizes in response. It’s made a neurotic out of me, pushing outward as a quasar with jets of energy, working its way into jokes and errors and creative works. When
I notice, it pulls at me, seeking further elaboration. Since I cannot enter it, it brings itself out. It is a universe trying to realize itself through the fantastic worlds of my words.
I do not really care much if my work inspires others or propagates energy. I don’t write for
others. I write for my own realization, not that of the energetic cosmos. These children
I birth I send off, well, because that’s what artists do, like trees shedding leaves. To be
honest, I can’t bear to be alone with them for too long. The kids will asphyxiate me before I know it. But I also can’t let my genitals swell. It’s quite the elaborate trap energy set up for me to do its bidding. Still, I am rather unconcerned with this higher narrative. Then again, I have expended a lot of energy concerning myself with it in thought…