Jesus says to the paralyzed man, “Stand up! Take your mat and walk.” The man does, so Jesus says, “by your faith you are healed.”
This is also how planes work. We pile into them, assuming without thought that they work, and the universe feels it would be improper to let us down. This is also how birds work. Instinct makes them assume they can fly, and the universe humors such improprieties.
It is along a similar principle that objects acquire more detail as they come closer. The universe scrambles to resolve itself into something without any disturbing fuzziness or blank spaces.
Actually, planes work because the wings are curved on top, which forces the air to go faster over the top side than the bottom to prevent a vacuum from forming, meaning there’s more pressure on the underside of the wing than the upperside, creating lift.
This is easy to understand if you think about it a little. If you think about it longer, you realize it’s wrong, or at least so incomplete as to be worse than wrong. Actually, planes work according to complicated rules about angle of attack, vortexes, and “planing” through the air, which I don’t understand. The world is that sort of hard to understand thing.
“When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you.” This was a nonsense phrase till I realized my pupils are imperfect, pathetic imitations of an abyss. What looks out through the eye that is the abyss is generally benign. It noticed one day that we’d sprung up, and, in a moment of whimsy, began a project to make a nice space for us, but got bored and stopped halfway through. This has happened multiple times, the most recent being the industrial revolution. The stuff we have now wouldn’t have worked before then.
It is hard to say whether we are more like house cats, or more like the songbirds in the yard, which house cats eat.
Actually, the universe is just something that happened, because something had to. The above are just fantasies–they are religions that not enough people have gotten around to believing in yet.
I can make no defense for the telling of fantasies, of convoluted lies; I can make no attack either. But all children tell these lies. All children I have met are inveterate fantasy tellers. They’re not writers–they practice an oral art, and not yet very well. Like language, the telling of fantasies seems a behavior both natural and learned.
I meet people who have sworn it off. They cannot stand that claptrap, unless, perhaps, it is very tongue in cheek. It is like meeting someone who has sworn off language. Not some Catholic monk who has taken a vow of silence, but a misanthropic hermit who has sworn off also listening, reading and writing.
Actually, that’s not true. They practice realist stories–stories in which the creator presents life as he or she pretends to think it is. They’ve only sworn off their vowels, and speak now a staccato languages of clipped or clicked consonants. It is interesting to listen to once in a while.
Still, when I speak to these people, my skin prickles, and I wonder what they keep in their basements. That’s also a lie. Some of these people are friends of mine. Besides, where I live, we don’t have basements.
I want to tell you fantasy stories, like I did when we were five. I want to tell them so well that, in the way of the child you were at five, you become for a moment confused about what is real and what is not. But because I’m an adult, I think I’ll tell the stories better than when I was five. Because I’m an adult, I want to write it all down.
If my lips move when I read, there may be many reasons why.
This is something like a mission statement, because if the fantasy is being believed that corporations are people, why shouldn’t people have mission statements too?