God Is In The Machine

“Long distance information, give me Memphis Tennessee…”

As I drive the arrow-straight road that pierces the heart of the desert, I listen to the classic songs of Old Amerika. Each tune is an evocation of a world. Their lyrics form a magic spell that resurrects the dead. Revives and replays an ancient human tragedy.

In an Age of True Magic, an ill-considered word can bind daemons, summon angels and incur the wrath of gods. But the gods are not what they were. They used to embody the primal forces of Nature and stand as shining avatars of humanity’s purest traits. Until they learned to think in the abstract and the nouveau Gods of Law decreed that magic has to obey the principles of Science.

Nothing can be created. Nothing destroyed. Magic is mere poetry: a symbolic language to describe the world but not to shape it.

At the edge of the desert, a city rises out of the sand, as the temples of the original Memphis rise in imagination where the Nile once flowed.

It is a century too late for Elvis. Now, there was a god. Seduced by the temptations of mortality, vilified by the hordes of anarchy and deposed from a throne of ordure.

His words still echo, as the Big Bang still reverberates throughout the universe.

I park my car and switch off the radio. Though I cannot hear it, music permeates the air in invisible waves.

God is in the machine and gives voice to creation.