meteorology

I don’t think the Universe is necessarily two people having a little chitchat. The Universe, tragically, cannot chitchat. It can sing, it can vibrate, it can thrum, but it needs clay jars—like panpipes or wind chimes—to make a sound. The Universe doesn’t have a nervous system either, so it needs a clay jar to remember how it feels, and then to articulate how it feels. So if I ever, in the span of all time, ever wanted to get a message to you, or maybe if I only just needed to remind myself of something1, to get a piece of information from one place to another, I’d have to get born and born and born again—a carrier pigeon, a cat, a woman, a man—trying to remember a sentence long enough to someday eventually utter it. But they always take your phone away in the ketamine clinic. And that’s how it feels: disembodied and an amnesiac, because the human body is a hard drive, and the memories are written directly on the body. “Of course I’ve read The Egg,” I finally said to a friend—this was…