The Lectures: Intricate Recitals

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I was waiting for the lecture to begin. The small auditorium was full to capacity. The doors closed behind us, the lights dimmed. A few rays of light were pushing their way underneath the closed doors trying to find their way in.
The lecturer approached the podium: the well renowned writer. It was to be the first lecture in a series about writing. He looked at us sitting in the darkness. I could hardly wait for him to begin. I had my notebook with me. I wanted to register every word he said.
He began:
“There are strands of DNA floating freely in space.”
He paused and said nothing more for a long while. I thought: that’s it? Am I in the wrong lecture? No, I was not. He was introduced as the prominent writer.
He continued:
“We can hear the sounds of the beginning, the original sound waves reaching us billions of years old. All the elements of the universe are present in our body: we are star dust, the relics of that long ago forgotten explosion. Elements floating freely in space: carbon, hydrogen, amino acids, peptides, nitrogen, and complex gasses: dancing in a vast unending space. Human life, all of life, at what precise point does the anima comes to exist? Bacteria, viruses, we consider them alive, but they have no anima. A star is alive? A star has a will? A rock has a will? The ground has a will? Are we alive? And our creations, all of them, physical and imaginary are they alive?”
When he was finished, they opened the doors, the rays of light rushed in recapturing the space that once was theirs.
After we all left, the doors were closed, the light switch turned off and darkness settled in the room.
I walked home alone it was a moonless night.

The subject was supposed to be the art of writing: it was the second in the series of the lectures.
I was listening attentively: he spoke and said one word: Randomness.
He paused for a long time before proceeding: “Very long periods of time will create a pattern.”
I was listening attentively: “Dissociate yourselves, and look far back in time, current complexity is the result of pervasive Randomness.”
The light was battling, as in the past, a losing battle against darkness, all that it could master were a few rays pushing their way underneath the closed doors; a reminder that change will occur, nothing is forever.
He spoke of no grandiose plan. Randomness as the leading force of nature. A small variation in an event will lead to a completely different outcome if enough time is allowed to elapse.
He was talking about chance as one of the most powerful forces.
I was thinking about the evolution of the thought process, the evolution of a story. The details, the emotions gathering momentum. The atmosphere of the scene evolving. Small variations, different outcome: different story.
I looked at the podium and there was I, with the lecturer standing near me. I looked at the audience and there was I, with the lecturer sitting by me.
Then the lecture ended.
I walked home alone it was a moonless night.

The auditorium like a separate Universe suspended in space bathed by the pounding invisible waves of time.
It was the third lecture.
On the stage I saw a long empty table. There were a series of lights hanging above the table, a light above each chair. There were many chairs, all empty. The auditorium was completely silent, the silence so complete that it was hard for me to believe that there was someone else there beside me. I was sitting by the table. A door opened to my right, invisible to me up to that point
The lecturer came through the door. He was holding a book. He sat down beside me. He placed his book in front of him. He turned towards me and asked: “Should we begin?”
I nodded.
I asked: “What the lecture is going to be about?” He seemed genuinely surprised by my question, and said, “About the nature of writing, of course.”
He spoke about evolution, he spoke about science. He spoke about patterns.
Never once did he look at his book.
Randomness prevailed in his speech: the smallest change, the slightest diversion: completely different results.
I was waiting for him to start talking about writing techniques: the framework of the story, the full development of thoughts and of characters.
I was thinking that this must be only the introduction.
He continued talking: “Evolution throughout, in the macro and in the micro, over billions of years, and in a splits of seconds of thinking processes.”
He spoke about universal rules: “Think about it,” he said, “The laws of physics that apply in our planet apply elsewhere in the universe; you could be billions of light years away and yet the same rules apply”
Slowly but surely I was realizing that this was no introduction, this was it, this was the subject matter.
He spoke of quantum physics. He coined a new term: quantum reality: in the macro as much as the micro.
I wanted him to talk about the joy of writing. The beauty of the emerging words. I wanted him to talk about inner revelations as the writing progresses, and how the writer should have complete control of the events.
Instead evolution throughout, only an illusion of control. A self deception.
I knew that the lecture would end abruptly, no theatrical crescendo towards the conclusion, no magnificent elegant solution at the end. I wanted for him to keep going. I did not want the lights turned on. I did not want the doors opened.
As I expected, it ended, without a warning, no premonitory signs.
He closed his book and walked out.
The lecture was over
I walked home alone it was a moonlit night.

About the Author: 
Dr. Ehud Sela is a veterinarian; he owns an Animal Hospital in Margate, Florida. Dr. Sela writes both verse and prose. His writings can be found online and in print. Dr. Sela writes prose under the pen name Rudy La Rocca.