Each moment bears within its fleeting form
The echoed traces of what came before;
Subjective aim transforms the uniform
Into creation's never-ending score.

We are not things but poems being writ,
A string of moments dancing into one;
The many and the one forever knit—
A billion suns comprising just one sun.

The void of time fills up with occasions bright,
Each grasping, feeling, yearning into form;
The universe—a symphony of light
Where past and future meet in endless storm.

So Whitehead taught: reality's not clay,
But living moments born and passed away.

The actual world—a tapestry unfurled
Of prehended moments, gathered whole;
Each subject weaves the threads of what has swirled
Into new patterns as the cosmos rolls.

No static substance underlying all,
But drops of experience, self-creating;
Each moment rises, answers to the call,
Then perishes, its being still vibrating.

The great philosopher's vision clear and bold:
Reality is not of things, but acts;
Each "now" contains what every "then" has told—
A living process, not just lifeless facts.

The past is not just gone, but flows within
Each nascent moment, ready to begin.

Beyond the veil of common sense's reach,
Lies truth more fluid than our words contain;
Each entity, like waves upon the beach,
Is but a ripple in experience's chain.

The Poet’s primordial vision guides
Each occasion toward its best becoming;
The lure of beauty where all truth resides—
Eternal objects, endlessly oncoming.

The universe is not a clockwork cold,
But living feeling, sentient at its core;
Each quantum flash of being, brave and bold,
Creates itself, then passes through death's door.

So Whitehead saw beyond the ancient rift—
As moments bloom and die, existence shifts.

Each moment blooms, a pulse in Time’s great sea,
Not things, but acts—events that come to be.
From drop to drop the cosmos takes its shape,
A dance of mind and matter, wild and free.

No static stone, no idle, lifeless clod—
But process moves beneath the soil and sod.
Each flash of being, brief as morning dew,
Is real as stars, is kissed by thought not odd.

These “occasions” rise with feeling at their core,
They prehend the past, yet seek a little more.
Each grasps the world, then yields itself in turn,
A spark that fades, but opens up the door.

They form a web, these nodes of sentient flare,
The past flows in, the future stirs the air.
Reality’s not built of blocks and beams,
But woven through with feeling, time, and care.

The world’s not made, but making ever still,
With every act a push against the will.
No fate is fixed, no god is locked above—
Creation wakes in each occasion’s thrill.

So sip this cup—each moment brims with wine,
Distilled from all that was, in grand design.
A drop contains the cosmos in its fold,
And flickers out, yet calls the next to shine.

The world becomes, it never merely is,
A flux of feeling, not a world of fizz.
No atom sits alone in timeless gloom—
It feels, it yearns, it tells us what it does.

Each moment’s born from many come before,
It draws their echo, adds a little more.
Then perishes, a whisper in the dark—
Yet leaves a trace no future can ignore.

Subject becomes object, tossed in the stream,
Each plays its part within the larger scheme.
No soul stands still, no world remains the same—
All shift and shape as in a woven dream.

From Poet’s lure to matter’s smallest twitch,
Each moment leans toward depths we cannot pitch.
Reality’s a poem never done—
Penned not in stone, but in becoming’s witch.

Not being, but becoming—this we are,
More like a flame than like a fallen star.
We flicker, burn, and pass our light along—
Each life a note in Time’s unending bar.

So here we dance, occasion upon flame,
Each flicker formed with joy, regret, or shame.
Yet in the forming lies the sacred spark—
A fleeting self that bears eternal name.

The stars themselves are thoughts that came to be,
Each nova sings in process, not decree.
A galaxy’s a rhythm, not a rock—
It hums with ancient acts of poetry.

Each quark, each pulse, each curve of stellar flare,
Responds to past and feels the future’s air.
The cosmos is a mind that builds itself—
A scaffold strung with intuition’s care.

No vast machine with cold and mindless gears—
But swirls of yearning shaped by hope and fears.
A thousand billion hearts in every sphere,
All whispering their stories through the years.

The past is real, but not a prison cell,
Its echoes guide, but do not bind or quell.
Each moment holds the power to re-form
The curve of time, the place where starlight fell.

From primal flux to now, the arc has bent—
Not by command, but lure and deep intent.
A One who woos, not rules, the world to grow—
Each choice a note in Love’s great instrument.

So let the comet blaze and atoms spin,
Each dance of dust a tale that dwells within.
No void is empty—everywhere there burns
A silent hymn of process born in din.

Creation is not done—it is the song,
Each verse a shift, each rhyme both right and wrong.
We are the singers, listeners, and score—
The universe becoming all along.

Rascal’s instructions read:

You will need to ride a bike rather soon along the dark country roads with many dips and hills, twists and turns, from your home to our facility. No lights are allowed. You should consider beforehand what you will do about any blinding headlights coming at you and how you will navigate the pitch dark areas of roads when you pass through dense forests. A cold diet coke with vitamins awaits you. Good luck. This is not a drill, for there are those who have just recently become aware of your many talents.

Six black sedans pulled swift before his gate
As Rascal worked on cosmos’ expanding state;
He fled so fast his image lingered still,
While agents breached his door—already late.

Rascal made his preparations and then finished some work on the expanding universe. Out the window he could see six FBI-looking black sedans pulling up very quickly. He grabbed a water bottle and raced out the back door so fast that a faint image of himself was left standing in the house. He hopped on his bicycle and was off and away while the Feds broke down the front door which was already unlocked.

Through moonless night he pedaled swift and strong,
In fifteenth gear down slopes he flew along;
Then crawling up in first gear’s lowest pace,
He paused to drink, both right and wrong.

The bike ride was going to be a lot worse than he had thought, for there was no moon. Rascal reached 15th gear on a down slope and only downshifted when it became harder to pedal, of course, finally just inching along in first gear upon a steep up-slope, where he stopped to survey the scene and have a sip of H2O.

“The price of knowing Everything,” he mused,
As yin and yang within his heart diffused;
Both elevated by their cosmic finds,
Yet hunted now by powers they’d refused.

I knew this would happen when we discovered the work-ings of Everything, feeling both elated and deflated in a sort of yin/yang balance.

When headlights blazed against his cycling path,
One eye he closed to save night vision’s wrath;
The other blinded, then quick-switched to see
The mailbox looming on destruction’s swath.

Rascal was soon off again and sailing along when a car with bright lights approached him from the opposite direction. Rascal closed his right eye just before his left was blinded by the lights, then quickly opened his right eye after the car had passed. Whew, that was close, he thought, after swiftly correcting out of the way of a mailbox.

Through forest dense where darkness absolute
Denied all sight to guide his desperate route,
He found the roadside’s white line far below—
A ghostly guide through night’s pursuit.

He next rode on a road through a densely forested area and could see virtually nothing at all, but he didn’t panic, and quickly gazed downward at the white line at the side of the lane for guidance, but it was really rather scary.

More fearsome than a theater’s dark surprise
(Where larger ladies might unseen arise),
He followed that pale thread through blackest night,
For DNA’s deep truth before him lies.

It was much worse than walking into a dark movie theater and sitting down on a fat lady. Anything for the DNA information, he thought.

Ahead the trees flashed warning’s dancing light
Of pursuers hidden from his sight;
He dove to shelter in a roadside ditch
As sedans thundered through the racing night.

He noted some flickering lights bouncing off the trees ahead, meaning that they were coming from way behind him, knowing this without even having to look back, for this is how it is riding at night, and so he pulled over into a ditch behind some bushes, and watched six black sedans pass by at about 90 miles an hour. Holy mother of all reality, he exclaimed softly.

In seventy-ninth gear he flew once more,
As truck lights loomed his swift retreat to score;
Like gluon bound, he threaded white line’s path,
Then drafted upward toward wind’s higher door.

Rascal checked his map and was off again, in 79th gear, going so fast that he didn’t care to stop for a large truck coming up behind him, and couldn’t anyway, so he hugged the side of the road and threaded the white lane marker, sticking to it like a gluon as the truck swept alongside, then quickly swerved towards the rear of the truck and drafted behind it uphill, defying gravity at its own game in losing it to the wind.

When truck turned off, brief rest he dared to take,
Till brain commanded rear to re-awake;
Through whistling air his pajamas did flap,
While bugs left testimony in their wake.

The truck turned off; Rascal rested. It was time to really get going again, said Rascal’s brain to his rear that was now resting back. He got up to speed again, exhilarated by the adventure of the escapade. The air was was rushing by and whistling in his ears and his pajamas were flapping in the breeze. Bugs splatted against him.

“Now this is living!” thought he with a grin,
Though death and life drew boundaries paper-thin;
His water drained, heart racing, legs grown numb—
Five miles remained through darkness thick as sin.

Now this is living, although there is a fine line between the here-before and the hereafter thereafter. Rascal was drenched in sweat, even on this cool night, and drank the last of the bottled water. Only five miles or so to go. His heart was racing at 150 bpm and his legs were getting numb, so he had to stop. He could hardly stand it, so he sat down. This simple ninja training exercise had turned into a life and death struggle. The enemy will do anything to gain my information about the Theory of Everything.

A barnyard circus crossed his path in haste:
A rooster chasing love, a possum placed
In death’s pretense, deer darting through the dark,
And squirrel beneath his wheels, life nearly erased.

He was off again. A rooster crossed the road because there was a chick on the other side, and Rascal missed hitting it by just a feather, then a possum played dead in the road, or was already, and a deer darted out… If these were not enough, a squirrel that was already in the clear tried to dive under his wheels.

Like juggler skilled with cosmic thoughts in air,
He threaded time’s eye with a nimble flair;
Through needle’s loop where camel fears to tread,
He wove between the here and over there.

His ability to juggle multiple ideas came in handy and so he threaded a needle that he found in a haystack and sewed a stitch in time and passed through the eye like a camel into the night’s heavens.

Twelve headlights swept their searching beams around
As FBI combed every inch of ground;
Behind the bush he paused for nature’s call
While agents searched each structure to be found.

Twelve headlights were returning, and the searchlights scanning, the Feds now realizing that Rascal had not been driving a car, or had turned off the road, and so Rascal again took to the bushes and peed while the FBI searched every farmhouse, hen house, and outhouse.

Like bat from hell he rode dimension’s edge—
Too fast for sixth, too slow for heaven’s ledge;
The training center raised its bridge in haste,
But Rascal leaped beyond its closing wedge.

Rascal now rode more like a bat out of hell, going just fast enough to enter the 6th dimension, but not so fast as to enter the 7th, for that was Heaven and he wasn’t ready yet. He cut through a trail in the woods as shown on his map and could see the ninja training center just ahead; it was raising its drawbridge to close for the night. Rascal raced up the ramp, sailed through the air, and came down on the other side, coasting into the safety of the center.

At last within the safety of those walls,
Where diet cola blessed his protocol’s,
He savored sweet escape from those who sought
The Everything his knowledge still recalls.

A diet coke never tasted so good.
A hologram of Nobody appeared:
“None forgets the bike,” his wisdom shared.
“A pleasant walk,” sighed Rascal, spent and sore;
“Car’s front tires man, car’s back exhausted aired.”

“Welcome, Rascal,” said a holographic interference pattern of Ultimate Master Nobody, “No one ever forgets how to ride bike.”
“I would have preferred a pleasant walk down the road.”
“Definition of golf is: a pleasant walk ruined.”

Before the car, a man may weary grow—
The tire’s grip shall lay his vigor low;
Behind it, fumes shall drain his essence sweet;
Pursued by sedans swift, to hist’ry flow.

Such wisdom did the Master share that night,
When danger stalked and safety took to flight;
Six black cars hunting through the darkness deep
Made clear which path would lead toward morning’s light.

The message sent bore warning’s subtle jest:
Three fates for those who put the road to test;
Two paths to weariness, and one to death—
Choose well which way shall serve your journey best.

We knew the peril when we sent you forth,
As sedans prowled from south to east to north;
For some must tire, and some must lose their breath,
While others race through time for all they’re worth.

“No could have worked,” replied Nobody, in broken English, “Man who walk in front of car get tired; man who walk behind car get exhausted; man in car chased by six high speed sedans become history. We know danger when send message.”

“I walked a round of golf the other day,” added Rascal.

Through dreams of motorcycles Rascal slept,
Till morning when the Grand Master adept
Appeared, dissolved, emerged again to say:
“Welcome, Puff, whose mind must now be prepped.”
Rascal had a good sleep, dreaming of riding a motorcycle, and awoke the next day to begin further training.
A ninth degree Grand Master appeared and disappeared and reappeared. “Welcome to training center, Mr. Puff Rascal.”

“The drawbridge closure—was it meant to fright?”
“Just cheap thrill,” Master smiled into the night.
“Then take my peace of mind!” Rascal declared,
“And lose your own!” The Master: “Not quite right.”

“I am lucky to be here, Grand Master,” Rascal replied, “and the drawbridge; do you close at 4 AM?”
“We give you cheap thrill.”
“I’ll give you a piece of my mind and you will not have any peace in yours!”

“Close eyes and listen,” Master softly spoke,
“What hear you now?” as silence gently broke.
“The world pursues!” laughed Rascal. “Hear your heart?”
“It pounds like thunder!” came the swift rejoinder’s stroke.
“Tut-tut. Close eyes. What you hear?”
“I hear that the whole world is after me and the others.”
“Ha-ha, good joke. Now, seriously, hear you your own heartbeat?”
“Are you kidding? It’s still beating out of my chest!”

“What else?” “A grasshopper beside your feet.”
“And thermal dance?” “Thank god we cannot meet
Those vibrations with mortal human ears—
We’d surely go quite mad upon that beat!”

“Very good. What else you hear?”
“I hear the grasshopper at your feet.”
“Excellent. Can you hear thermal vibration?”
“Those are, luckily, just below the threshold of human hearing; we would go crazy if we heard those things.”

“Hear Toes a-questing?” “No.” “Then hear you void?”
“The cleaning lady’s gone,” Rascal employed
His wit. “And hearing aids?” “No STDs—
I never heed where a-holes are deployed!”
“We will teach you thermal method. Hear grass growing?”
“No, but I hear the lawnmower mowing.”
“Oh sorry, I stop them. Done. Now, hearest you sound of toes questing?”
“No.”
“Good, they run on, and no post readable. Hear vacuum?”
“No, the cleaning lady went home.”
“Ah, you catch on, you Rascal. Have you hearing aids?”
“No, I have no sexual transmittable diseases, for I never listen to a-holes.”

“One hand’s applause?” “A finger’s snap will do.”
“And Puff the dragon?” “Didn’t inhale through!”
“Of goats?” “No, but some seagulls Austin gave
In this verse here!” Their laughter echoed true.

“Fine, fine; you good candidate. Assume you not have visual aids for same reason. Can you hear the sound of one hand clapping?”
“Yes, if I snap my fingers.”
“Very good, sir Puff. Puff the magic dragon?”
“Yes, but I didn’t inhale.”
“Ha-ha and more ha, Ninja Puff. You superb. Have you heard of goats?”
“No, but I have a flock of seagulls that Austin just gave me in this paragraph.”

“Sun shining?” “All ears!” “Earth’s turning?” “Space
Turns too—they dance as partners, set to trace
Their mutual path.” “Why speak I thus compact?”
“Unnecessary words take needless place!”

“Fine answering, Puff-man. Hear the sun shining?”
“I’m all ears.”
“We teach you. But many places the sun not shine. Moon shine?”
“Alcohol dulls my senses.”
“Ah, good. Hear Earth turning?”
“Yes, and space, too.”
“Oh?”
“The Earth turns as much as space turns around it.”
“You wise man.”
“But hear you missing words?” the Master tried.
“Ah yes!” as understanding did provide
The lesson’s heart. Then Master winked and said:
“Deaf me, blind wife—we’re perfect side by side!”

“Why do you often leave out articles and other little words in your speech?”
“Unnecessary.”
“Maybe. Try adding a word or two.”
“You wise old man.”
“Never mind.”
“But you still hear the missing words, do you not, Grasshopper Puff?”
“Ah, yes; I see; that is part of the hearing test!”
“You no see. This hearing test. You are a good listener and of course I can speak perfect English, except in the UK.”
“Yes, once a lady in a hotel asked me for a lift and it didn’t go over very well when I lifted her up.
“Thank you, first degree ninja puffing rascal. Me, I am deaf and wife is blind; therefore we make perfect couple!”

At L.A., you will be whisked to a special charter jet that will take you to your final destination. After you land, a Hari-Krishna will give you a map at the airport. Look for the one with no hair; no, never mind; s/he will recognize you. Do not attend the feast that they will offer you, since it is just but a few sprigs of parsley. Although I cannot tell you where we are meeting, you will all have to rent motorcycles and endure an uphill climb up a mountain in first gear. Wear old shoes, a colorful tropical shirt, and some weird shorts, and try to act normal: to thy own selves please do not be true.

For ninja training must prepare us all,
Before the governments should heed our call;
The TOE we’ve found must stay secure and safe,
Till we convene behind our mountain wall.

Unsigned, this missive bears Nobody’s hand,
Questions post on ToeQuest’s distant strand;
The truth of cosmos waits within our grasp—
If only we can meet as we have planned.

Now, the inevitable is that all governments of the world will accidentally wise up and realize that we have the TOE and so I am sending you all to your local ninja training school for a week of instruction before your ‘vacation’.
unsigned,
nobody

P.S. Post any questions about the expedition on ToeQuest…

“Should Lincoln to his time now homeward go?”
Kirk asked, but Nobody was quick to show:
“He’s honest politics’ last standing man—
Let’s pit him ‘gainst fair Hillary’s campaign flow!”

“Shouldn’t we return Abraham Lincoln to his own time?” posted Mkirkpatrick.
“Not so fast; we’re thinking of running him against Hillary Clinton, for he’s now the only honest politician on Earth.”

“My Theory shirt proclaims that Thing is One:
Just Energy!” Kirk spoke, his words to run.
“My nothing’s no-thing,” Nobody replied,
While Austin claimed that food was all he’d done.
“Can I wear my new T-shirt about ‘The Theory of Thing’ that says ‘Forget Everything; There is Only One Thing: Energy’?” added Mkirkpatrick.
“That’s fine, but my none thing is no-thing.”
“Mine is food,” said Austin to Mkirkpatrick.

“Two parallel lines make my one thing true,”
Said MJA, as questions further grew;
Kirk asked of chairs made pure of energy,
“I sought a bigger part!” he then broke through.

“My one thing is two parallel lines,” said MJA.
“Can I bring my lounge chair that is made of energy?” asked Mkirkpatrick.
“Yes, but why do you have so many questions?”
“I asked Austin for a bigger part,” Michael answered.

“That energy you seek,” Profpat declared,
“I sit upon!” while Graybeard’s wisdom shared:
“Don’t let it slip away!” Nobody spoke:
“Our synergy will power all we’ve dared.”
“Michael Kirkpatrick,” said Profpat, “I’ve been looking all over for that energy and here I am sitting on it!”
“Well, try not to let any escape,” said Graybeard.
“OK guys,” said Nobody, “Our synergy will produce all the energy we need.”

“Where lies the punch line?” Michael dared to ask;
“Reality’s protection is our task—
No funeral of fun,” Nobody said,
Though ChickenMan’s egg jokes broke through the mask.

“Where’s the punch line?” asked Mkirkpatrick.
“The protection of the secret of reality is a serious undertaking, not a fun-eral,” answered Nobody. “Remember, the jokes are over.”
“What about egg jokes?” asked ChickenMan.
“The yolk is on you!”

“Of voids,” asked Fredrick, “where might they reside?”
“Nature abhors them,” Nobody replied,
“Save Profpat’s checks, which void themselves with time—
That much remains completely justified.”

“Is there a void anywhere?” asked Fredrick.
“I would avoid a void like the plague since Nature abhors a vacuum and since no void has coughed up or voided anything but a whole lot of goose eggs.”
“What about the void that Profpat wrote on a check?” continued Fredrick.
“That was unavoidable.”

“How shall I ride,” asked Rascal, “without fall?”
“Gyroscopic wheels shall guard you through it all.”
“But I’m Australian!” Graybeard did exclaim;
“My sympathies,” came Nobody’s dry call.

“How do I ride a motorcycle without falling over?” asked Rascal.
“I will give you one with gyroscopes front and back that look like wheels“
“But I live in Australia!” exclaimed Graybeard.
“My condolences.”

“Is Austin’s mountain hideaway our place?”
Asked Rascal, probing secrets face to face;
“No,” came reply, then: “Is that truth unveiled?”
“I ain’t not lying,” Nobody showed grace.

“Is this secret meeting place anything to do with Austin’s mountain top hideaway?” questioned Rascal.
“No.”
“Is your answer an untruth,” added Rascal, “for security purposes?”
“I ain’t not lying about nothing no way, no how, or nothing exists,” unanswered Nobody.

“Meanwhile,” he added, “lunch flows freely here,
For Profpat’s wisdom-trading scheme is clear:
A penny for their thoughts he gladly pays,
Then keeps the change when two cents’ worth appears!”

“Meanwhile,” added Nobody, “we’re serving free lunches for everyone and giving away a lot of other stuff, for Profpat has been giving people a penny for their thoughts and then keeping the change when they put in their two cents worth.”

The Eternal knows no point where it begins,
No gateway through which any design slips in;
Thus must it be the All-in-All that flows
As line by line or where all lines are twins.

What has no start must stretch through every way,
Through linear paths where moments mark their sway,
Or simultaneous in timeless dance—
For how else could the Boundless choose to play?

When entry points are nowhere to be found,
All possibilities must there abound:
As flowing stream, the instant’s flash of light,
The sequence, or the circle’s endless round.

Without a threshold where its being starts,
The Eternal must embrace all cosmic parts—
As time’s long river flowing ever on,
Or instant’s unity where difference parts.

Imagine Form as boundless ocean deep,
Where all potential does its secrets keep;
Our measured world, a single droplet drawn
From depths where countless possibilities sleep.

This scrutinized reality we know
Is but one pattern that the Forms bestow—
A crystal lifted from infinite seas
Of what could be, what might yet come to flow.

The abyss of Forms holds every dream untold,
Each possible shape that matter might unfold;
While we perceive one manifestation clear,
The endless pool holds mysteries yet to mold.

From vastness of the possible sublime,
We dredge one moment’s substance out of time;
Yet still beneath our certainties there swirls
The infinite from which all forms may climb.

Unsigned, this missive bears Nobody’s hand,
Questions post on ToeQuest’s distant strand;
The truth of cosmos waits within our grasp—
If only we can meet as we have planned.

Now, the inevitable is that all governments of the world will accidentally wise up and realize that we have the TOE and so I am sending you all to your local ninja training school for a week of instruction before your ‘vacation’.
unsigned,
nobody

P.S. Post any questions about the expedition on ToeQuest…

“Should Lincoln to his time now homeward go?”
Kirk asked, but Nobody was quick to show:
“He’s honest politics’ last standing man—
Let’s pit him ‘gainst fair Hillary’s campaign flow!”

“Shouldn’t we return Abraham Lincoln to his own time?” posted Mkirkpatrick.
“Not so fast; we’re thinking of running him against Hillary Clinton, for he’s now the only honest politician on Earth.”

“My Theory shirt proclaims that Thing is One:
Just Energy!” Kirk spoke, his words to run.
“My nothing’s no-thing,” Nobody replied,
While Austin claimed that food was all he’d done.
“Can I wear my new T-shirt about ‘The Theory of Thing’ that says ‘Forget Everything; There is Only One Thing: Energy’?” added Mkirkpatrick.
“That’s fine, but my none thing is no-thing.”
“Mine is food,” said Austin to Mkirkpatrick.

“Two parallel lines make my one thing true,”
Said MJA, as questions further grew;
Kirk asked of chairs made pure of energy,
“I sought a bigger part!” he then broke through.

“My one thing is two parallel lines,” said MJA.
“Can I bring my lounge chair that is made of energy?” asked Mkirkpatrick.
“Yes, but why do you have so many questions?”
“I asked Austin for a bigger part,” Michael answered.

“That energy you seek,” Profpat declared,
“I sit upon!” while Graybeard’s wisdom shared:
“Don’t let it slip away!” Nobody spoke:
“Our synergy will power all we’ve dared.”
“Michael Kirkpatrick,” said Profpat, “I’ve been looking all over for that energy and here I am sitting on it!”
“Well, try not to let any escape,” said Graybeard.
“OK guys,” said Nobody, “Our synergy will produce all the energy we need.”

“Where lies the punch line?” Michael dared to ask;
“Reality’s protection is our task—
No funeral of fun,” Nobody said,
Though ChickenMan’s egg jokes broke through the mask.

“Where’s the punch line?” asked Mkirkpatrick.
“The protection of the secret of reality is a serious undertaking, not a fun-eral,” answered Nobody. “Remember, the jokes are over.”
“What about egg jokes?” asked ChickenMan.
“The yolk is on you!”

“Of voids,” asked Fredrick, “where might they reside?”
“Nature abhors them,” Nobody replied,
“Save Profpat’s checks, which void themselves with time—
That much remains completely justified.”

“Is there a void anywhere?” asked Fredrick.
“I would avoid a void like the plague since Nature abhors a vacuum and since no void has coughed up or voided anything but a whole lot of goose eggs.”
“What about the void that Profpat wrote on a check?” continued Fredrick.
“That was unavoidable.”

“How shall I ride,” asked Rascal, “without fall?”
“Gyroscopic wheels shall guard you through it all.”
“But I’m Australian!” Graybeard did exclaim;
“My sympathies,” came Nobody’s dry call.

“How do I ride a motorcycle without falling over?” asked Rascal.
“I will give you one with gyroscopes front and back that look like wheels“
“But I live in Australia!” exclaimed Graybeard.
“My condolences.”

“Is Austin’s mountain hideaway our place?”
Asked Rascal, probing secrets face to face;
“No,” came reply, then: “Is that truth unveiled?”
“I ain’t not lying,” Nobody showed grace.

“Is this secret meeting place anything to do with Austin’s mountain top hideaway?” questioned Rascal.
“No.”
“Is your answer an untruth,” added Rascal, “for security purposes?”
“I ain’t not lying about nothing no way, no how, or nothing exists,” unanswered Nobody.

“Meanwhile,” he added, “lunch flows freely here,
For Profpat’s wisdom-trading scheme is clear:
A penny for their thoughts he gladly pays,
Then keeps the change when two cents’ worth appears!”

“Meanwhile,” added Nobody, “we’re serving free lunches for everyone and giving away a lot of other stuff, for Profpat has been giving people a penny for their thoughts and then keeping the change when they put in their two cents worth.”

The Eternal knows no point where it begins,
No gateway through which any design slips in;
Thus must it be the All-in-All that flows
As line by line or where all lines are twins.

What has no start must stretch through every way,
Through linear paths where moments mark their sway,
Or simultaneous in timeless dance—
For how else could the Boundless choose to play?

When entry points are nowhere to be found,
All possibilities must there abound:
As flowing stream, the instant’s flash of light,
The sequence, or the circle’s endless round.

Without a threshold where its being starts,
The Eternal must embrace all cosmic parts—
As time’s long river flowing ever on,
Or instant’s unity where difference parts.

Imagine Form as boundless ocean deep,
Where all potential does its secrets keep;
Our measured world, a single droplet drawn
From depths where countless possibilities sleep.

This scrutinized reality we know
Is but one pattern that the Forms bestow—
A crystal lifted from infinite seas
Of what could be, what might yet come to flow.

The abyss of Forms holds every dream untold,
Each possible shape that matter might unfold;
While we perceive one manifestation clear,
The endless pool holds mysteries yet to mold.

From vastness of the possible sublime,
We dredge one moment’s substance out of time;
Yet still beneath our certainties there swirls
The infinite from which all forms may climb.

Perhaps God does not need a cause, they say; but then why think that the universe/stuff needs one? So, it adds nothing.

Evolution is an immensely slow, wasteful, pitiless, and cruel process, hardly the most elegant process of creation open to a goal-oriented, omnipotent, intelligent, and benevolent God. If humanity is the final goal of creation, whence the 3,500,000,000! years since the origin of life, or the 13.7 billion years since the Big Bang? What is the point of this immense amount of time if human beings and their world are the pinnacle of the Almighty’s creation?

Does God cause mutations to direct evolution? Well, they sure seem all over the place, plus a lot are bad and many are neutral.

The vast majority of mutations are selectively neutral or negative with regard to the evolution and survival of homo sapiens, and, thus, their evolution is wasteful if measured against the goal of producing human beings. Such a wasteful process is hardly consonant with a goal-oriented, omnipotent, and omniscient God.

The case against theistic evolution continues…

The honorable Graybeard presiding, Austin P. Torney continuing as lawyer for the prosecution (since his name contains the letters “attorney”)…

I call the recent family tree to the witness stand; but, wait, oh my God, there are some others, too, many of them extinct!

The testimony: There is no progressive trend in evolution toward the development of human beings; evolution can be seen as a huge tree with many branching points, not a direct line to humans; we are just a not-yet-extinct part of one of the very many branches of the enormous tree of life.

I now call upon the extinct.

Testimony: What was the point of all these extinct animals, if the goal of creation is man and his surrounding nature? To what purpose were the dinosaurs? What was the point of the trilobites? These groups of animals did not even contribute to the origin of humans.

The development of life has been interrupted by innumerable extinctions, some with so many different plant and animal species dying out in the same time period that they have been called mass extinctions.

Judge Graybeard, having worked for ten minutes straight now, calls a recess for a long lunch…

The trial resumes.

We see evolution differently then, Austin, as the process of evolution seems most intent on the continuation of ‘life forms’, though I will agree that it does not seem to have a vested interest in which forms are successful in relation to which others.

True, no vested interest, those who were in a position to ‘adapt’ and survive, were not necessarily ‘nice’ (could even be ‘mean’).

Still, I tend to wonder why all species of my experience offer a great struggle to survive, when the alternative of doing nothing is by far the easier choice?

Survival is the brain’s objective, thus often even thinking its way into the afterlife.

Break time. …

The theistic evolution trial resumes…

Judge Graybeard looks half-asleep, but seems to be listening with one ear.

God is outside of time and takes a long time to fiddle with evolution.

The prosecution answers and continues: It has been suggested that God’s mindset is very slow compared to the ‘speedy’ time of the operation of the universe, and thus I submit that slow God would not have been alert or responsive enough to direct evolution through mutation.

The defense objected, stating that they would have to check with their client on this, the judge asking how long would this would take, noting that it took over 200 years for a response to Haiti’s pact with the Devil.

Oh, about a million years. OK, we’ll reconvene…

Wait! We can’t wait that long… So I’ll allow the claim that God says that he directs mutations. Let the record show both opinions.

Thank you, judge, for our theory can adapt to any and all turns of events.

The trial droned on…

Testimony: Why would God create complete ecosystems only to have them virtually annihilated, so that entirely different ecosystems would temporarily emerge in their place, only to meet the same fate, over and over again? Had the asteroid which wiped out the dinosaurs 65 million years ago missed the Earth, it’s likely that our little branch on the tree of life would never have developed, since it was the end of dinosaur dominance made it possible for our small mammal ancestors to flourish; how are such chance contingencies in the history of life compatible with the alleged providence of a Creator?

Graybeard, the judge, was fully awake now and was carving something out of a large block of wood.

Worse still, consider the vast amount of suffering needed to secure our existence through natural selection; the environment “selects” those organisms best adapted to it not the most even-tempered ones.

Consequently, numerous predatory creatures have evolved which regularly inflict suffering on prey and host animals. The screw-worm fly (Cochliomyia hominivorax), for instance, lays its eggs in the wounds or eyes of mammals (including humans), causing any wounds to widen when the eggs hatch and the larva eat the surrounding tissue. This attracts more congeners, further widening the wounds. Untreated, such parasitism often leads to a gruesome death. Or consider the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) which causes autoimmune deficiency syndrome (AIDS); is a great evolutionary success one which creates immense suffering among human beings?

It was now getting near 3 PM, the judge announcing, “That’s it for today; let’s meet again sometime after my vacation. …

The mind is like a man in a rowboat.

A few days ago there were 50-foot waves on the north shore of Oahu. Some ants looking like people surfed on them or at least the wave remnants, enjoying the ecstasy, and then were ground up into the sand—the agony; a guy in a rowboat fished them out.

I can see a tree with my physical eye because that tree is embodied in matter, but, to conceptualize that tree my mind goes into universal concepts of meaning which have never taken embodiment in matter, for they do not require physical presence before my eye. So, you see, concepts are not acts of a bodily organ such as the brain or they would exist in matter; conceptual thought is an immaterial power which we use to form concepts of meaning. Utilizing that power does not require any physical sense or organs.

Judge: immaterial, since the brain is an organ.
…

The theistic evolution case resumes:

Attorney: I’d like to address the tree.

Judge: Proceed.

Attorney: Hello tree.

Judge: Ha-ha.

Attorney: The tree, as out there, is a bunch of waves, the photons carrying the ‘visuals’, the air-vibrations passing on the ‘sounds’, the molecules transmitting ‘odour’ by their shapes, etc. I use quotes to show that these transformations are fully made later on by the brain; if there is no brain around, then there are just the waves emanating.

While our senses are absolutely in direct contact with the waves/particles that are out there, we don’t have awareness at that level, plus, the direct jumble of waves all interfering with each other might not reveal anything much right off the bat. So, the brain proceeds to process the information with its many modules and subsystems through higher and higher levels, finding edges, intensity, color, and distance for vision, detecting molecules shapes for smell, interpreting air waves as sound, etc., as often much more detailed elsewhere, until the tree is seen, smelled, heard, and so forth as the final perception of the tree with its qualities within the head.

There is no dividing line where the brain says “I can do no more” and hands it off to some nonphysical realm, for it has already done it all. This includes the brain’s memory coming along and knowing what a tree is as a whole and its parts, associations arising, such as the old tree house or that leaves have chlorophyll and fall in the autumn, etc., and then more associations upon those associations.

The brain is the lifeboat navigating and re-cognizing the waves of reality, painting a useful face upon the waters. All is ever in the brain as a representation, the tree never being directly known as matter, not even in the first place.

Judge: OK, back to evolution.

Testimony: Immense suffering, like wasteful “trial and error,” is not incidental, but is inherent to the process of evolution. And it does not sit well with the notion that evolution has been set up or directed by a loving God. The theistic retort that “God moves in mysterious ways” goes well beyond the evidence from evolutionary biology, not to mention that it is a kind of excuse for very poor, sometimes seemingly near insane, ways of accomplishing things.

There is a far simpler and elegant explanation for that evidence: there is no divine will to grope at in the dark, just the indifferent, pitiless, and naturalistic forces of evolution. Since evolution is a slow, wasteful, and brutal process, prima facie it is not the way in which a goal-oriented, omnipotent, omniscient, and loving God would choose to create the world. Thus a naturalistic explanation for the origin of all species, including homo sapiens, is more plausible than a theistic one.

Judge: nap time.

Gray counted spots upon the ceiling high,
As Austin drifted into dreamland’s sigh;
Kirk fled to Turkey, Rascal slipped away
To Heaven’s realm, the seventh slice of sky.

Graybeard counted the spots on the ceiling and connected the dots into a pleasing image. Austin fell asleep. Mkirk–Patrick went to Turkey before it could be devoured by Hungary. Rascal slipped off into the 7th dimension for a while (the Heavenly realm). MJA said that boredom is not really equal to excitement after all.

“The present age,” said Nobody with pride,
“Holds wonders that no past could provide;
Our DNA we’ll shape to speed our growth,
As evolution’s gates swing open wide.

“The trip wasn’t all that interesting at first,” said Nobody, “as we now live in the most amazing of all time. Soon, we may be able to alter our own DNA and further speed evolution on its way.”

The Bang still echoes in our listening ears,
As human race springs forth through coming years;
Just one percent along perfection’s path,
While science daily new horizons clears.

“We have just heard the Big Bang and have sprung off of the starting line… The human race is on. We are perhaps 1% of the way along to perfection. The possibilities for the finish line are endless, for scientific revelations are entering the fast lane almost daily.”

This royal crown of moments precious-bright
Shines through us all with possibilities’ light;
The universe spreads forth its free repast
(How will you count that, Profpat, in your night?)

“Life now is really a royal diadem of momentous gems shining through us all. We live in the best of times, as the universe is truly ours to experience. It is the ultimate free lunch (how do you account for that, Profpat?).”

To ToeQuest give, where Everything unfolds,
All denominations welcome in our holds—
Though fifties, hundreds bring the sweetest joy!”
Then back through time the final scene unrolls:

“Please contribute to ToeQuest, for that’s where Everything is happening. We accept all denominations, but we prefer fifties and hundreds.”

Through stars dispersing into cosmic dust,
Through matter’s dance and gravity’s sweet thrust,
Till all resolved to words both bright and clear:
The ‘Beginning’ showed where all endings must.

Nobody sped up the video of the past and soon everything went back into the stars and then the stars dispersed into dust which went back to form the words “The Beginning“, as the film ended.

When hoopla died and watchdogs lost their chase,
(Those crack-pot theorists proved too wild to trace),
Fed-Up delivered parcels to the few—
A note, some pictures, tickets wrapped in lace.

The hoopla over the CMBR trip had died down and the watchdogs had quickly and luckily lost interest, feeling that the ToeQuesters were a bunch of crackpots (crack and pot at the same time?).

ToeQuesters in the know soon received a certified package from Fed-Up (Fed-Ex and UPS had merged), containing a note, some pictures, an airline ticket to Los Angeles, and a DVD. The note read:

“Dear friends,” the vanishing ink seemed to say,
“Read quickly ere these words should fade away;
The jokes were meant to fool the CIA,
Those acronyms that snoop both night and day.

Dear Everyone Involved With My CMBR Trip,

This note is written in disappearing ink (an old check writing trick used by Profpat), so please read immediately.
First of all, the topic of our TOE discovery is very serious, so there are no jokes herein; those were just to throw off the CIA and all the other acronyms. I couldn’t reveal everything at our last meeting since there were too many government snoops about.

Your mix of silly questions served us well,
Though which were which, I truly cannot tell;
The movies that you watched with patient eyes
Were false—a shield ‘gainst those who’d make us sell.

I thank you all for mixing in some silly questions with the serious ones, although I’m not sure which were which, and for sitting through the home movies, which I must now tell you were fake.

Dark matter hunters dig through endless night,
Six Empire States below Dakota’s height,
To find one WIMP within their golden mine—
While we hold secrets of far greater might.

Just look at the cutthroat competition over discovering and explaining dark matter, even among reputable scientists. Many are spending millions and using deep mine shafts to avoid cosmic rays in order to try and detect one little measly weakly interacting massive particle (WIMP), the most promising efforts of which are occurring in the defunct Homestake gold mine in South Dakota, which is deeper than six Empire State Buildings, in which they have built a haystack and are looking for a needle in it.

A small potatoe (blame Dan Quayle’s pen
For extra ‘e’ that graced his ink back then)
Is nothing to the cosmic truth we found—
The TOE itself, stripped bare of prefix when

The cosmic background whispered secrets deep,
Far greater than these small fries we might keep;
For in the CMBR’s ancient glow
Lie truths that make mere spelling errors sleep.

Let politicians fumble with their words
While we decode the song of cosmic birds;
Our discovery makes spelling quarrels fade
Like morning mist when deeper truth occurs.

The universe cares not for how we spell,
When radiation has such tales to tell;
These small potatoes (spelled however bright)
Pale before the cosmic TOE’s great swell.

This is a small potatoe (and small fries) to what we have discovered about the CMBR, the toe itself without the prefix pota-. You can thank Dan Quail for the spelling, not my trip.

The government has searched my history,
But found that I am Nobody, you see;
No past, no present, future all unknown—
A ghost whose very absence sets me free.

So, anyway, the attention is off of us for now, and we have a clear channel; however, the government did a routine background check on me and discovered that I don’t exist, for I am Nobody. My past has no history and my future is a mystery. Nor do I have a presence in the present. They are as hot on my case as they would be for illegal aliens and so they have given me a past imperfect and so have made my future tense.

Upon a mountain summit, far from sight,
Where tents and microwaves make welcome light,
We’ll gather soon to share the truth at last,
The real film of our cosmic oversight.

Therefore, I have taken refuge in a certain uncharted mountain top retreat, where we will gather in a month or so to discuss the contents of the true CMBR home movie tape that I’ve sent you all with your plane tickets.

Use real names as you journey toward our goal,
For ToeQuest handles might reveal our role;
Remember ‘Nowhere Man’ upon the screen—
Their surveillance could take its fearsome toll.

Do not use your ToeQuest nickname while traveling, but employ your real name, if you can remember it, so that the spies will not catch on. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched the TV series, ‘Nowhere Man’, the greatest show ever made, but there are organizations out there, government and otherwise, that have super surveillance equipment, hence our remote and unknown meeting spot, which by the way, is still intact (it was a TOE research center back in the 70’s), with the addition of a few more tents and a CMBR-powered microwave oven.

Our funding flows from Profpat’s clever scheme:
Each government account provides a stream
Of pennies, day by day, to fund our needs—
Accounting’s thrill exceeds his wildest dream!

All incidental, intentional, and exceptional expenses will be reimbursed, because Profpat happened to take note of many government account numbers and passwords. He will be taking a penny (and any fractions thereof) out of each government account on a daily basis to fund our endeavors. This should not arouse any bankers unless a pretty woman is nearby. Who would have ever thought that accounting could be so useful and exciting!

His vanishing ink tricks deserve their tale:
When clients brought their pens, they’d surely fail;
For VOID appeared in time upon their checks,
Like Ocean’s team, our craft shall yet prevail.

That reminds me of a Profpat story: Upon receiving a useless check made with his vanishing ink, a big client insisted that Profpat write a new check with their own pen that they had brought along to outwit the Prof’s trickery; however, Prof saw them arriving and quickly wrote VOID on on blank with latent ink, an ink which would materialize on the check within a short while. Our team is starting to rival the one in the ‘Ocean’s 13’ movie and Brad Pitt has joined us to get away from his marriages.

What echoes linger in the chambers deep,
Where yesterday’s sweet songs still softly sleep?
What present bells ring clear in morning air?
What future chimes does hope in waiting keep?

The now flows swift between what was and might,
Like rivers fed by streams of past delight,
While dreams cast forward like the morning sun
To paint tomorrow’s canvas burning bright.

Three sisters weave the tapestry of mind:
One reads the patterns time has left behind,
One threads the needle of the present hour,
One spins the gold of what we hope to find.

In wisdom’s garden, three flowers grow:
The pressed rose of the past we used to know,
The blooming lily of the present day,
The budding promise of tomorrow's show.

Without the past to give the present weight,
Without the now to make tomorrow great,
Without the dream of what is yet to be—
Each faculty alone stands incomplete.

So let them dance, these powers of the soul,
Let memory and sense make fancy whole,
For in their triple-braided harmony
Lives wisdom that transcends each single role.

The sweetest music needs all strings to play,
The brightest rainbow needs each colored ray,
And consciousness requires its triple light
To illuminate our brief and wondrous way.

My Thread-bare Penitence a-pieces tore…

Now Summer’s heat burns fierce upon the plain,
And wisdoms lost return to me again;
The Cup that once I vowed to cast aside
Beckons with ruby depths of sweet disdain.

The Autumn winds may whisper of regret,
And Winter’s frost may cause the eyes to wet,
But when the Vine blooms fresh in Spring once more,
What sage remembers promises to forget?

The Tavern calls with sweeter voice than Prayer,
The Wine-cup glimmers like a jewel rare;
What use are all these vows of yesterday
When today’s sun reveals the world so fair?

The Sages warn of morning’s bitter rue,
But evening’s pleasures paint the sky anew;
Let those who will count beads and mumble psalms—
Tonight the stars are dancing, and the dew.

The rose’s sweet scent a thorn-prick’s worth…

For pleasure’s price in pain we gladly pay,
As night must follow even brightest day;
The sweetest fruit grows highest on the branch—
What worth the feast that costs us no dismay?

The desert sun burns fierce, yet pilgrims still
Press on to Mecca with unshaken will;
So too the lover bears love’s burning drought,
For one cool draught his thirsting heart to fill.

Each precious thing exacts its proper toll—
The pearl its dive, the flame its blinded moth;
What treasure gained without some pain to pay?
What wisdom earned that did not pierce the soul?

The nightingale who sings of love’s sweet pain
Would scorn a garden free of thorny vine;
For in this world of mingled joy and grief,
The price we pay makes sweet our hard-won gain.