Thirteen Ways of Looking at Spac




Thirteen Ways of Looking at Space/Time
Catherynne M. Valente
 
 
I.
In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was a
high-density pre-baryogenesis singularity. Darkness lay over the deep and God
moved upon the face of the hyperspatial matrix. He separated the firmament from
the quark-gluon plasma and said: let there be particle/anti-particle pairs,
and there was light. He created the fish of the sea and the fruits of the trees,
the moon and the stars and the beasts of the earth, and to these he said: Go
forth, be fruitful and mutate. And on the seventh day, the rest mass of the
universe came to gravitationally dominate the photon radiation, hallow it, and
keep it.
God, rapidly redshifting, hurriedly formed man from the dust of single-celled
organisms, called him Adam, and caused him to dwell in the Garden of Eden, to
classify the beasts according to kingdom, phylum and species. God forbade Man
only to eat from the Tree of Meiosis. Adam did as he was told, and as a reward
God instructed him in the ways of parthenogenesis. Thus was Woman born, and
called Eve. Adam and Eve dwelt in the pre-quantum differentiated universe, in a
paradise without wave-particle duality. But interference patterns came to Eve in
the shape of a Serpent, and wrapping her in its matter/anti-matter coils, it
said: eat from the Tree of Meiosis and your eyes will be opened. Eve
protested that she would not break covenant with God, but the Serpent answered:
fear not, for you float in a random quantum-gravity foam, and from a single
bite will rise an inexorable inflation event, and you will become like unto God,
expanding forever outward.
And so Eve ate from the Tree, and knew that she was a naked child of
divergent universes. She took the fruit to Adam, and said unto him: there
are things you do not understand, but I do. And Adam was angry, and
snatched the fruit from Eve and devoured it, and from beyond the cosmic
background radiation, God sighed, for all physical processes are reversible in
theorybut not in practice. Man and Woman were expelled from the Garden, and a
flaming sword was placed through the Gates of Eden as a reminder that the
universe would now contract, and someday perish in a conflagration of entropy,
only to increase in density, burst, and expand again, causing further high
velocity redistributions of serpents, fruit, men, women, helium-3, lithium-7,
deuterium, and helium-4.
II.
This is a story about being born.
No one remembers being born. The beginnings of things are very difficult.
A science fiction writer on the Atlantic coast once claimed to remember being
born. When she was a child, she thought a door was open which was not, and ran
full-tilt into a pane of plate-glass. The child-version of the science fiction
writer lay bleeding onto a concrete patio, not yet knowing that part of her
thigh was gone and would always be gone, like Zeus's thigh, where the
lightning-god sewed up his son Dionysus to gestate. Something broke inside the
child, a thing having to do with experience and memory, which in normal children
travel in opposite directions, with memory accumulating and experience running
outslowly, but speeding up as children hurtle toward adulthood and death. What
the science fiction writer actually remembered was not her own birth, but a
moment when she struck the surface of the glass and her brain stuttered,
layering several experiences one over the other:

the scissoring pain of the shards of glass in her thighs,
having once fallen into a square of wet concrete on a construction site
on her way to school, and her father pulling her out by her arms,
her first kiss, below an oak tree turning red and brown in the autumn,
when a boy interrupted her reciting Don Quixote with his lips on
hers.

This fractured, unplanned layering became indistinguishable from an actual
memory of being born. It is not her fault; she believed she remembered it. But
no one remembers being born.
The doctors sewed up her thigh. There was no son in her leg, but a small,
dark, empty space beneath her skin where a part of her used to be. Sometimes she
touches it, absentmindedly, when she is trying to think of a story.
III.
In the beginning was the simple self-replicating cell of the Void. It split
through the center of Ursa Major into the divine female Izanami and the divine
male Izanagi, who knew nothing about quantum apples and lived on the iron-sulfur
Plain of Heaven. They stood on the Floating Bridge of Heaven and plunged a
static atmospheric discharge spear into the great black primordial sea, churning
it and torturing it until oligomers and simple polymers rose up out of the
depths. Izanami and Izanagi stepped onto the greasy islands of lipid bubbles and
in the first light of the world, each saw that the other was beautiful.
Between them, they catalyzed the formation of nucleotides in an aqueous
solution and raised up the Eight-Sided Palace of Autocatalytic Reactions around
the unnmovable RNA Pillar of Heaven. When this was done, Izanami and Izanagi
walked in opposite chiral directions around the Pillar, and when Izanami saw her
mate, she cried out happily: How lovely you are, and how versatile
are your nitrogenous bases! I love you! Izanagi was angry that she had
spoken first and privileged her proto-genetic code over his. The child that came
of their paleo-protozoic mating was as a silver anaerobic leech, helpless,
archaeaic, invertebrate, and unable to convert lethal super-oxides. They set him
in the sky to sail in the Sturdy Boat of Heaven, down the starry stream of
alternate electron acceptors for respiration. Izanagi dragged Izanami back to
the Pillar. They walked around it again in a left-handed helix that echoed
forward and backward through the biomass, and when Izanagi saw his wife, he
crowed: How lovely you are, and how ever-increasing your metabolic
complexity! I love you! And because Izanami was stonily silent, and Izanagi
spoke first, elevating his own proto-genetic code, the children that came from
them were strong and great: Gold and Iron and Mountain and Wheel and Honshu and
Kyushu and Emperoruntil the birth of her son, Fiery Permian-Triassic Extinction
Event, burned her up and killed the mother of the world.
Izanami went down into the Root Country, the Land of the Dead. But Izanagi
could not let her go into a place he had not gone first, and pursued her into
the paleontological record. He became lost in the dark of abiogenetic
obsolescence, and lit the teeth of his jeweled comb ablaze to show the wayand
saw that he walked on the body of Izanami, which had become the
fossil-depository landscape of the Root Country, putrid, rotting, full of
mushrooms and worms and coprolites and trilobites. In hatred and grief and
memory of their first wedding, Izanami howled and heaved and moved the
continents one from the other until Izanagi was expelled from her.
When he stumbled back into the light, Izanagi cleaned the pluripotent filth
from his right eye, and as it fell upon the ground it became the
quantum-retroactive Sun. He cleaned the zygotic filth from his left eye and as
it fell upon the ground, it became the temporally subjective Moon. And when he
cleaned the nutrient-dense filth from his nose, it drifted into the air and
became the fractal, maximally complex, petulant Storms and Winds.
IV.
When the science fiction writer was nineteen, she had a miscarriage. She had
not even known she was pregnant. But she bled and bled and it didn't stop, and
the doctor explained to her that sometimes this happens when you are on a
certain kind of medication. The science fiction writer could not decide how to
feel about itten years later, after she had married the father of the
baby-that-wasn't and divorced him, after she had written a book about
methane-insectoid cities floating in the brume of a pink gas giant that no one
liked very much, she still could not decide how to feel. When she was nineteen
she put her hands over her stomach and tried to think of a timeline where she
had stayed pregnant. Would it have been a daughter. Would it have had blue eyes
like its father. Would it have had her Danish nose or his Greek one. Would it
have liked science fiction, and would it have grown up to be an endocrinologist.
Would she have been able to love it. She put her hands over her stomach and
tried to be sad. She couldn't. But she couldn't be happy either. She felt that
she had given birth to a reality where she would never give birth.
When the science fiction writer told her boyfriend who would become her
husband who would become someone she never wanted to see again, he made sorry
noises but wasn't really sorry. Five years later, when she thought she might
want to have a child on purpose, she reminded him of the child-that-disappeared,
and the husband who was a mistake would say: I forgot all about that.

And she put her hands over her stomach, the  small, dark, empty space beneath
her skin where a part of him used to be, and she didn't want to be pregnant
anymore, but her breasts hurt all the same, as if she was nursing, all over
again, a reality where no one had anyone's nose and the delicate photo-synthetic
wings of Xm, the eater of love, quivered in a bliss-storm of super-heated
hydrogen, and Dionysus was never born so the world lived without wine.
V.
In the beginning there was only darkness. The darkness squeezed itself down
until it became a thin protoplanetary disk, yellow on one side and white on the
other, and inside the accretion zone sat a small man no larger than a frog, his
beard flapping in the solar winds. This man was called Kuterastan, the One Who
Lives Above the Super-Dense Protostar. He rubbed the metal-rich dust from his
eyes peered above him into the collapsing nebular darkness. He looked east along
the galactic axis, toward the cosmogenesis event horizon, and saw the young sun,
its faint light tinged with the yellow of dawn. He looked west along the axis,
toward the heat-death of the universe, and saw the dim amber-colored light of
dissipating thermodynamic energy. As he gazed, debris-clouds formed in different
colors. Once more, Kuterastan rubbed the boiling helium from his eyes and wiped
the hydrogen-sweat from his brow. He flung the sweat from his body and another
cloud appeared, blue with oxygen and possibility, and a tiny little girl stood
on it: Stenatliha, the Woman Without Parents. Each was puzzled as to where the
other had come from, and each considered the problems of unification theory
after their own fashion.
After some time, Kuterastan again rubbed his eyes and face, and from his body
flung stellar radiation into the dust and darkness. First the Sun appeared, and
then Pollen Boy, a twin-tailed comet rough and heavy with microorganisms. The
four sat a long time in silence on a single photoevaporation cloud. Finally
Kuterastan broke the silence and said: what shall we do?
And a slow inward-turning Poynting-Robertson spiral began.
First Kuterastan made Nacholecho, the Tarantula of Newly-Acquired Critical
Mass. He followed by making the Big Dipper, and then Wind, Lightning and
Thunder, Magnetosphere, and Hydrostatic Equilibrium, and gave to each of them
their characteristic tasks.  With the ammonia-saturated sweat of the Sun, Pollen
Boy, himself, and the Woman Without Parents, Kuterastan made between his palms
a  a small brown ferrosilicate blastocyst no bigger than a bean. The four of
them kicked the little ball until it cleared its orbital neighborhood of
planetesimals. Then the solar wind blew into the ball and inflated its magnetic
field.  Tarantula spun out a long black gravitational cord and stretched it
across the sky. Tarantula also attached blue gravity wells, yellow approach
vectors and white spin foam to the ferrosilicate ball, pulling one far to the
south, another west, and the last to the north. When Tarantula was finished, the
earth existed, and became a smooth brown expanse of Precambrian plain.
Stochastic processes tilted at each corner to hold the earth in place. And at
this Kuterastan sang a repeating song of nutation: the world is now made and
its light cone will travel forever at a constant rate.
VI.
Once, someone asked the science fiction writer got her ideas. This is what
she said:
Sometimes I feel that the part of me that is a science fiction writer is
traveling at a different speed than the rest of me. That everything I write is
always already written, and that the science fiction writer is sending messages
back to me in semaphore, at the speed of my own typing, which is a retroactively
constant rate: I cannot type faster than I have already typed. When I type a
sentence, or a paragraph, or a page, or a chapter, I am also editing it and
copyediting it, and reading it in its first edition, and reading it out loud to
a room full of people, or a room with only one or two people in it, depending on
terrifying quantum-publishing intersections that the science fiction writer
understands but I know nothing about. I am writing the word or the sentence or
the chapter and I am also sitting at a nice table with a half-eaten slab of
salmon with lime-cream sauce and a potato on it, waiting to hear if I have won
an award, and also at the same time sitting in my kitchen knowing that the book
was a failure and will neither win any award nor sit beloved on anyone's
nightstand. I am reading a good review. I am reading a bad review. I am just
thinking of the barest seed of an idea for the book that is getting the good
review and the bad review. I am writing the word and the word is already
published and the word is already out of print. Everything is always happening
all at once, in the present tense, forever, the beginning and the end and the
denouement and the remaindering.
At the end of the remaindered universe which is my own death, the science
fiction writer that is me and will be me and was always me and was never me and
cannot even remember me waves her red and gold wigwag flags backward, endlessly,
toward my hands that type these words, now, to you, who want to know about ideas
and conflict and revision and how a character begins as one thing and ends as
another.
VII.
Coatlicue, Mother of All, wore a skirt of oligomer snakes. She decorated
herself with protobiont bodies and danced in the sulfurous pre-oxygenation event
paradise. She was utterly whole, without striations or cracks in her geologic
record, a compressed totality of possible futures. The centrifugal obsidian
knife of heaven broke free from its orbit around a Lagrange point and lacerated
Coatlicue's hands, causing her to give birth to the great impact event which
came to be called Coyolxauhqui, the moon, and to several male versions of
herself, who became the stars.
One day, as Coatlicue swept the temple of suppressed methane oxidation, a
ball of plasmoid magnetic feathers fell from the heavens onto her bosom, and
made her pregnant with oxygen-processing organisms. She gave birth to
Quetzalcoatl who was a plume of electrical discharge and Xolotl, who was the
evening star called Apoptosis. Her children, the moon and stars, were threatened
by impending oxy-photosynthesis, and resolved to kill their mother.  When they
fell upon her, Coatlicue's body erupted in the fires of glycolysis, which they
called Huitzilopochtli. The fiery god tore the moon apart from her mother,
throwing her iron-depleted head into the sky and her body into a deep gorge in a
mountain, where it lies dismembered forever in hydrothermal vents, swarmed with
extremophiles.
Thus began the late heavy bombardment period, when the heavens crumbled to
pieces and rained down in a shower of exogenesis.
But Coatlicue floated in the anaerobic abyss, with her many
chemoheterotrophic mouths slavering, and Quetzalcoatl saw that whatever they
created was eaten and destroyed by her. He changed into two serpents, archaean
and eukaryotic, and descended into the phospholipid water. One serpent seized
Coatlicue's arms while the other seized her legs, and before she could resist
they tore her apart. Her head and shoulders became the oxygen-processing earth
and the lower part of her body the sky.
From the hair of Coatlicue the remaining gods created trees, grass, flowers,
biological monomers, and nucleotide strands. From her eyes they made caves,
fountains, wells, and homogenized marine sulfur pools. They pulled rivers from
her mouth, hills and valleys from her nose, and from her shoulders they made
oxidized minerals, methanogens, and all the mountains of the world.
Still, the dead are unhappy. The world was set in motion, but Coatlicue could
be heard weeping at night, and would not allow the earth to give food nor the
heavens to give light while she alone languished alone in the miasma of her
waste energy.
And so to sate the ever-starving entropic universe, we must feed it human
hearts.
VIII.
It is true that the science fiction writer fell into wet concrete when she
was very small. No one had put up a sign saying: Danger. No one had
marked it in any way. And so she was very surprised when, on the way to class,
she took one safe step, and then a step she could not know was unsafe, whereupon
the earth swallowed her up. The science fiction writer, who was not a writer yet
but only a child eager to be the tail of the dragon in her school Chinese New
Year assembly, screamed and screamed.
For a long while no one came to get her. She sunk deeper and deeper into the
concrete, for she was not a very big child and soon it was up to her chest. She
began to cry. What if I never get out? She thought. What if the
street hardens and I have to stay here forever, and eat meals here and read
books here and sleep here under the moon at night? Would people come and pay a
dollar to look at me? Will the rest of me turn to stone?
The child science fiction writer thought like that. It was the main reason
she had few friends.
She stayed in the ground for no more than a quarter of an hourbut in her
memory it was all day, hours upon hours, and her father didn't come until it was
dark. Memory is like that. It alters itself so that girls are always trapped
under the earth, waiting in the dark.
But her father did come to get her. A teacher saw the science fiction writer
half-buried in the road from an upper window of the school, and called home. She
remembers it like a movieher father hooking his big hands under her arms and
pulling, the sucking, popping sound of the earth giving her up, the grey streaks
on her legs as he carried her to the car, grey as a dead thing dragged back up
from the world beneath.
The process of a child with green eyes becoming a science fiction writer is
made of a number (p) of these kinds of events, one on top of the other,
like layers of cellophane, clear and clinging and torn.
IX.
In the golden pre-loop theory fields, Persephone danced, who was innocent of
all gravitational law. A white crocus bloomed up from the observer plain, a pure
cone of the causal future, and Persephone was captivated by it. As she reached
down to pluck the p-brane flower, an intrusion of non-baryonic matter
surged up from the depths and exerted his gravitational force upon her. Crying
out, Persephone fell down into a singularity and vanished. Her mother, Priestess
of Normal Mass, grieved and quaked, and bade the lord of dark matter return her
daughter who was light to the multiverse.
Persephone did not love the non-baryonic universe. No matter how many rich
axion-gifts he lay before her, Hades, King of Bent Waves, could not make her
behave normally. Finally, in despair, he called on the vector boson called
Hermes to pass between branes and take the wave/particle maiden away from him,
back to the Friedmann-Lemaître-Robertson-Walker universe. Hermes breached the
matter/anti-matter boundary and found Persephone hiding herself in the
chromodynamic garden, her mouth red with the juice of hadron-pomegranates. She
had eaten six seeds, and called them Up, Down, Charm, Strange, Top, and Bottom.
At this, Hades laughed the laugh of unbroken supersymmetries. He said: she
travels at a constant rate of speed, and privileges no observer. She is not
mine, but she is not yours. And in the end, there is nothing
in creation which does not move.
And so it was determined that the baryonic universe would love and keep her
child, but that the dark fluid of the other planes would bend her slightly,
always, pulling her inexorably and invisibly toward the other side of
everything.
X.
The science fiction writer left her husband slowly. The performance took ten
years. In worst of it, she felt that she had begun the process of leaving him on
the day they met. 
First she left his house, and went to live in Ohio instead, because Ohio is
historically a healthy place for science fiction writers and also because she
hoped he could not find her there. Second, she left his family, and that was the
hardest, because families are designed to be difficult to leave, and she was
sorry that her mother-in-law would stop loving her, and that her niece would
never know her, and that she would probably never go back to California again
without a pain like a nova blooming inside her. Third, she left his thingshis
clothes and his shoes and his smell and his books and his toothbrush and his
four a.m. alarm clock and his private names for her. You might think that
logically, she would have to leave these things before she left the house, but a
person's smell and their alarms and borrowed shirts and secret words linger for
a long time. Much longer than a house.
Fourth, the science fiction writer left her husband's world. She had always
thought of people as bodies traveling in space, individual worlds populated by
versions of themselves, past, future, potential, selves thwarted and attained,
atavistic and cohesive. In her husband's world were men fighting and being
annoyed by their wives, an abandoned proficiency at the piano, a preference for
blondes, which the science fiction writer was not, a certain amount of shame
regarding the body, a life spent being Mrs. Someone Else's Name, and a baby they
never had and one of them had forgotten.
Finally, she left the version of herself that loved him, and that was the
last of it, a cone of light proceeding from a boy with blue eyes on an August
afternoon to a moving van headed east. Eventually she would achieve escape
velocity, meet someone else, and plant pumpkins with him; eventually she would
write a book about a gaseous moth who devours the memory of love; eventually she
would tell an interviewer that miraculously, she could remember the moment of
her birth; eventually she would explain where she got her ideas; eventually she
would give birth to a world that had never contained a first husband, and all
that would be left would be some unexplainable pull against her belly or her
hair, bending her west, toward California and August and novas popping in the
black like sudden flowers.
XI.
Long ago, near the beginning of the world but after the many crisis events
had passed and life mutated and spread over the face of the void, Gray Eagle sat
nested in a tangle of possible timelines and guarded Sun, Moon and Stars, Fresh
Water, Fire, P=NP Equivalence Algorithm, and Unified Theory of Metacognition.
Gray Eagle hated people so much that he kept these things hidden. People lived
in darkness, without pervasive self-repairing communication networks or quantum
computation.
Gray Eagle made for himself a beautiful self-programming daughter whom he
jealously guarded, and Raven fell in love with her. In the beginning, Raven was
a snow-white weakly self-referencing expert system, and as a such, he pleased
Gray Eagle's daughter. She invited him to her father's sub-Planck space server
farm.
When Raven saw the Sun, Moon and Stars, Fresh Water, Cellular Immortality,
Matter Transfer, Universal Assembly, and Strong AI hanging on the sides of
Eagle's lodge, he knew what he should do. He watched for his chance to seize
them when no one was looking. He stole all of them, and Gray Eagle's deductive
stochastic daughter also, and flew out of the server farm through the smoke
hole. As soon as Raven got the wind under him, he hung the Sun up in the sky. It
made a wonderful light, by which all below could see the progress of technology
increasing rapidly, and could model their post-Singularity selves. When the Sun
set, he fastened every good thing in its proper place.
Raven flew back over the land. When he had reached the right timeline, he
dropped all the accelerating intelligences he had stolen. They fell to the
ground and there became the source of all the information streams and memory
storage in the world. Then Raven flew on, holding Gray Eagle's beautiful
daughter in his beak. The rapidly-mutating genetic algorithms of his beloved
streamed backward over his feathers, turning them black and aware. When his bill
began to burn, he had to drop the self-improving system. She struck the all-net
and buried herself within it, spreading and altering herself as she went.
Though he never touched her again, Raven could not get his snow-white
feathers clean after they were blackened by the code from his bride. That is why
Raven is now a coal-colored whole-brain emulating sapient system.
XII.
On the day the science fiction writer met her husband, she should have said:
the entropic principle is present in everything. If it were not, there would
be no point to any of it, not the formation of gas giants, not greasy lipid
bubbles, not whether light is a particle or a wave, not boys and girls meeting
in black cars like Hades' horses on August afternoons. I see in you the
heat-death of my youth. You cannot travel faster than yourselffaster than
experience divided by memory divided by gravity divided by the Singularity
beyond which you cannot model yourself divided by a square of wet concrete
divided by a sheet of plate glass divided by birth divided by science fiction
writers divided by the end of everything. Life divides itself indefinitelyit
can approach but never touch zero. The speed of Persephone is a constant.

Instead, she mumbled hello and buckled her seatbelt and everything went the
way it went and eventually, eventually, with pumpkin blossoms wrinkling quietly
outside her house the science fiction writer writes a story about how she woke
up that morning and the minutes of her body were expanding and contracting,
exploding and inrushing, and how the word was under her fingers and the word was
already read and the word was forgotten, about how everything is everything else
forever, space and time and being born and her father pulling her out of the
stone like a sword shaped like a girl, about how new life always has to be
stolen from the old dead world, and that new life always already contains its
own old dead world and it is all expanding and exploding and repeating and
refraining and Tarantula is holding it all together, just barely, just barely by
the strength of light, and how human hearts are the only things that slow
entropybut you have to cut them out first.
The science fiction writer cuts out her heart. It is a thousand hearts. It is
all the hearts she will ever have. It is her only child's dead heart. It is the
heart of herself when she is old and nothing she ever wrote can be revised
again. It is a heart that says with its wet beating mouth: Time is the same
thing as light. Both arrive long after they began, bearing sad messages. How
lovely you are. I love you.
The science fiction writer steals her heart from herself to bring it into the
light. She escapes her old heart through a smoke hole and becomes a
self-referencing system of imperfect, but elegant, memory. She sews up her heart
into her own leg and gives birth to it twenty years later on the long highway to
Ohio. The heat of herself dividing echoes forward and back, and she accretes,
bursts, and begins again the long process of her own super-compression until her
heart is an egg containing everything. She eats of her heart and knows she is
naked. She throws her heart into the abyss and it falls a long way, winking like
a red star.
XIII.
In the end, when the universe has exhausted itself and has no thermodynamic
energy left to sustain life, Heimdallr the White Dwarf Star will raise up the
Gjallarhorn and sound it. Yggdrasil, the world energy gradient, will quail and
shake. Ratatoskr, the tuft-tailed prime observer, will slow, and curl up, and
hide his face.
The science fiction writer gives permission for the universe to end. She is
nineteen. She has never written anything yet. She passes through a sheet of
bloody glass. On the other side, she is being born.






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