A Mind-Blowing Little Story

The Egg

By: Andy Weir

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.

“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup,” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Are you god?” You asked.

“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”

“My kids… my wife,” you said.

“What about them?”

“Will they be all right?”

“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”

“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”

You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”

“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.

“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”

“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”

“Where you come from?” You said.

“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”

“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”

“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.

I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”

“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”

“Just me? What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”

“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.

“I’m every human being who ever lived?”

“Or who will ever live, yes.”

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.

“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.

“And you’re the millions he killed.”

“I’m Jesus?”

“And you’re everyone who followed him.”

You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

You thought for a long time.

“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”

“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”

“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”

“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”

“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”

“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”

And I sent you on your way.

*

What do you think?


Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER

Spring Break and The Daily Scribble

A New Blog

Post-Bemoaning Poetry Classes

After wailing about my teacher and his caustic attitude, a description that means: a personality that's reminiscent of the sound made by fingernails on a blackboard when the silence was ever so much nicer, I decided to actually DO something about it. I have started a new blog - all about writing and books and stuff so that for those of you that really do just want updates about the ins-and-outs of my life over here in America/general (because you either have nothing better to do or you're my mother) then you don't have to be plagued with updates about nothing but words, words and more words. 

It's designed with  Brett Helquist illustration from The Series of Unfortunate Events, so if you see Violet anywhere on this blog then you can usually click her and it'll take you over to The Daily Scribble (aka ScribbleReview). 

Anyway, on with the rest of everything else. 

The main thing that's happened this week is, sadly enough, the beginning of The Daily Scribble but I think if you're interested you'll follow the link over there without me saying any more. However, there's also been some interesting developments which I'll quickly share with you now. 

SPRING BREAK 

Drama, drama, drama (hella yes to the second use of epizuegxis). Originally it was Orlando, then it was Cancun, then it wasn't Cancun, then it was three girls and a car, then it was one girl without anything to do. The problem is money, as it always is with first-world problems. Flights are heinously expensive here in the States (although for cheaper tickets you should always book on a Wednesday), which means trying to organise a holiday can easily go from looking like a $400 deal to a $1000+ bank buster. This was the issue with Cancun and then became the problem with Orlando/Miami etc. 

Fiona and Andrea were the two others in the same position and they've now sorted themselves - Andrea's going to fly back home for the break and Fiona's been invited by a Pritchard girl to join her at a house on the beach somewhere. Since I want to also go with Maggie, I've sort of been left behind. It's not a problem so much as it's sudden and I've had to change my plans from imagining going with a group to just a pair, but it can be done and will be done over the next two days. I'm thinking a cruise to the Bahamas.

NEW PRITCHARD FRIENDS

Jess S. and Lexi K. are now on the other side of the Atlantic for the semester. With Jess in Spain and Lexi in my own beloved Edinburgh, there were two spaces at the Excellent 304. These have been taken up by Kelly and Jess.2, both of whom are equally as lovely as their predecessors, though we still miss the originals desperately. Jess and I bonded over a ridiculous American show called 'Strange Sex'. Did you know there was fetish for balloon popping? No, neither did I.

We've also made lots of new international friends as there's been an influx of new arrivals this semester - particularly from Kings College, London. There's not as many Aussies this time round but those that remain are just a funny and drunk as ever!!!

FIONA & THE SHAG PAD.

Fiona has moved rooms. JEALOUS. She has her own room, at last!! She can walk around naked, dance embarrassingly without worry, play her own music at all times. Oh the delights of freedom. And of course she can now bring boys home.... dun dun dunnnnnnn.

BOYS

Yup, at last, there's a boy to mention, although I'm not sure what to say. He's 22, not too tall, very typical Southern in some ways but very metropolitan in others. Quite the gentleman when it comes to dates and such. I'll update you if the dates continue!!

I think that's enough for now.

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 
SCRIBBLER

That Poetry Class

20th Century British and American Poetry

A Snippy Moment 

I'm sure you have better things to do than to read my rambles on the way a straight-backed professor runs his class but I'm going to do this anyway. You might want to do something more interesting, such as sharpen pencils or wash behind your ears instead, I'll understand.

I know also I said that the next post would be on An English Christmas, as a counterpoint to An American Thanksgiving, but since my photos desperately trying to avoid being uploaded, I decided to skip over that for now and launch into the new term. I will come back to Christmas and New Years though - I owe it to the 22ft tree and Zoe CJ to mention it.

In the mean time, I wanted to talk about poetry. This blog started with several ideas in mind - to let my parents and family know that I was alive on a regular basis, to try and construct a narrative about the life of an exchange student, to talk about my ideas (creative and academic) and then finally to simply see if I could. I admit, I haven't been the most successful when it comes to maintaining this thing - I constantly forget about it, start writing and end up boring myself, start reading and realise I'm likely boring you... etc. And I've probably told you a tonne about being here - in terms of the night life and the girls of 304 - but it's not like I've reviewed a night out at East End or critiqued the varying attitudes toward the Greek System. I've told you about meeting people, about feeling new but I've avoided mentioning anything about homesickness or inter-room bitching, or the stress of trying to organise a dozen disparate groups into a single Spring Break plan. I've also completely neglected to put up any ideas whatsoever - except my brief narration of The Epiphany Moment.

Now, with George Lensing as my teacher, I feel obligated to rectify this situation.

Lensing is described on 'ratemyprof' as having 'no respect for his student's opinions', choosing only 'his favourites works' and having select 'favourite students'. He's also described as a 'brilliant, well-read teacher' but a 'task master'. He sounds like my sort of teacher. I like the challenge of trying to impress them, of having to try hard to prove that you have the right to sit in their class and soak up the knowledge that we haven't leant yet. Part of the reason that I loved having JDHorton as a tutor in Edinburgh was because he was so brilliant: he seemed to enjoy teaching us (as long as we all turned up...) and encouraged us to improve our writing, our analysis, our knowledge. He asked us to give as much as we could and if that was more one week and less another, so be it, there were rewards and debate. Perfect. I think we all thrived in his class. This guy... well I can see why he has such mixed reviews.

He's enthusiastic, incredibly well-read, wonderfully opinionated and I want to impress him. I don't know why people have described him as unapproachable because I think he seems like a genuinely nice guy. Having said that, I find it baffling that a teacher of a class aimed at upperclassmen would set punitive 1000-word papers (I'm going to ask for an extension). Similarly, there's a boy he keeps asking to read who reminds me of that moment in Sense & Sensibility when Edward Ferrars ploddingly reads a sonnet only to be passionately reprimanded by Marianne for being too 'sedate'. I wonder if that kid's a 'favourite'.

I think the thing that bothered me most was last week's Wilfred Owen seminar.

Wilfred Owen, of course, has been part of most British school curricula for years - and most literature students will have studied his poetry at least once, if not four or five times in the course of their studies. I first studied him for GCSE, then the IB, then briefly in First year and in depth again in Second year. I guess we also have Remembrance Day and how many of us had to read poems out in Assembly, stand up in Chapel or attend a Service with our grim-faced grandparents? We generally know a great deal about WWI and Sassoon and Owen and Brook and their influence on the 20th Century. We also know facts about WWI: the number of people killed in the Somme, the amount of money spent on new tanks, the influence of machine guns, the use of trench warfare, the policies of General Haig, the treatment of PTSD etc. So for class I retrieved all my notes on all the poems of Wilfred Owen, I dug up my old essays - including my interpretation of Owen's work against Joseph Conrad's on the theme of Naturalism - and I rewrote a bunch of notes on the general themes of WWI poetry. 

My first realisation was that Americans view war quite differently to us. I can think of few people who believe that Owen's poetry is about anything other than bitterness and reprimand. What else can we take from the heavily ironic final lines of 'The Old Man and the Young' or 'Dulce et Decorum est'? When you read 'Mental Cases', can the images of the 'purgatorial shadows' as they 'slob there relish' be read without cringing or at least evoking a sense of horror? Yet when we studied 'Disabled' alongside the overly cited 'Anthem for Doomed Youth' and 'Dulce et Decorum est', between the students and the teacher there seemed to emerge a strange naivety. Furthermore, Owen's collection famously begins by saying that it is 'not about poetry'. It is about war. This is how I came to write about the role of the witness and the influence of Naturalism on war poets such as Sassoon and Owen last year. I can see why people may find it a strange claim to make on an anthology and was eager to discuss this when the topic arose. So when we begin I have a lot to say and the points I make are, at first, listened to with an ear that's half-cocked in my direction. Then they begin to suggest that the 'drawing down of blinds' is a symbol of the acceptance felt by the people at home over the 'funeral' given to 'those that die as cattle'. My hand shoots into the air, 

"Don't you think," I say when called on, "that whilst the image is a peaceful one in contrast to the first stanza, there is a sense that just as the 'hasty orisons' are given by 'wailing shells', the idea that a 'patient mind' and 'girls pallor' can act as the 'flowers' and 'pall' for the dead, as well that that final image of the blinds... well... don't you think that those lines can also be read with a sense of irony? Can we not read them with a sense of the fickleness of those at home, a reflection of their naivety as they don't seem to understand the grim reality of war?"

"No. I don't think this is a bitter poem." Is the response.

I don't think. 

Seriously? That's the great rebuttal? I couldn't quite believe it. Not because the point had been completely shot down but because he refused to even engage with it. There are a great many reasons to interpret that poem in either direction, I was acknowledging that his word had merit so why not refute mine? 

I think what I'm trying to say is... I think this class is fascinating and I think Dr Lensing is brilliant, however, I wish there was more room for actually debate. There is nothing more frustrating than being told that you're wrong without being given any reason for being told as much. The distinction between Edinburgh and UNC is astounding but surely that should be beneficial - a collection of differing opinions, isn't that one of the most important things to have in a class discussion? I don't want to be agreed with, I enjoy playing the devil's advocate and that's partly the reason why I find this class so underwhelming at the moment. I'd rather argue with someone about a particular interpretation of the meter than solemnly agree with everyone else let alone listen to stories about meeting Seamus Heaney that offer me no insight to his writing. 

Well my rant is over. I am inspired to actually focus more on my writing and reading now so I suppose that's something to consider. I promise to write something less petulant next time. 

Maybe.

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER