Apparently, in the beginning there was the Word.
Which is essentially a sound.
And a sound, as it happens, doesn’t actually exist.
The world itself is completely silent.
There are no birds singing. No trees rustling. No waves crashing against the shore.
There are simply vibrations moving through the air, disturbing tiny hairs inside our ears and sending electrical signals to our brains, which then confidently announce: “Ah yes, that’s a blackbird.”
Reality, it turns out, is mostly interpretation.
In fact, all of our senses are. Light arrives and we see colour. Molecules arrive and we smell coffee. Pressure waves arrive and we hear sound. The Earth hurtles through space at extraordinary speed and we collectively decide it’s Tuesday.
The universe itself is simply moving. Waving. Wiggling. And we provide the commentary.
On top of this, there are as many versions of reality as there are things witnessing it. Every observer creating their own interpretation of the same events.
Then quantum physics comes along and, rather unhelpfully, suggests that observation itself may influence reality; that a wave somehow collapses into a particle, producing something that appears solid and real.
Which raises the possibility that existence is far stranger than any of us are equipped to understand.
Perhaps reality is fundamental.
Perhaps consciousness is — vibration and frequency.
Perhaps it is a collective dream fuelled by imagination.
Who knows.
But my point is this: there is no sound.
And there certainly wasn’t any at the start of the second over.
Now, nearly halfway around the sun, on a sunny Sunday afternoon just off the A4, a group of humans gathered around some exceptionally well-managed grass (but slightly too long) to create their own versions of reality.
Half claimed to be Beavers. The other half Sloths. All wore white, apart from Ric.
The man with one of the most impressive release points in the village got the Sloths off to a splendid start with the bat, creaming ten off the first over.
The game was on.
Then the seventh ball happened.
And suddenly, our earlier discussion becomes relevant.
Interpretations of sound and light waves were made by many.
Many observers concluded that the ball touched the bat, hit the pad, rebounded onto the bat again and was then expertly caught by a Sloth/Beaver hybrid named Vib.
One observer, who happened to be holding the bat at the time, had absolutely not a scooby doo as to what had just occurred.
The umpire—who also happened to be the bowler’s dad, which in itself is an interesting variable— was absolutely convinced that no contact had been made at all. Nevertheless, he raised a finger, only to immediately announce, “Only joking.”
Several realities briefly coexisted.
Those persuaded by their senses who concluded that it was out…..
YCAFOAW.
From then on, the game was even more on.
The determined and steely batter, now at the centre of this minor philosophical incident, could not hear himself think through the mix of self-doubt and encouragement being shouted from his team mates on the boundary.
He also felt it slightly harsh that the crowd appeared to be booing the young whippersnapper of a bowler named Monty every time the batter played another shot of immaculate timing.
Eventually, in the interests of fairness, he decided to let the ball hit the stumps to allow someone else a go.
Remember: no actual sound exists, but many an “ooooo” and an “ahhhhh” were nevertheless interpreted during the rest of the game.
- Irons returned to please the crowd with both bat and ball. DD contributed a fine catch and some runs. Fresh bowled like Laurie. Ric was, as ever, casual as you like but effective. Nick “high catch and release point” Lewis, probably needs an extra letter in his nickname. And Porridge looked cool AF.
The Beavers simply couldn’t handle it, and the Sloths emerged victorious.
A collection of numbers were written into two red books, allowing future generations to reconstruct their own interpretation of events.
“You can be in my dream if I can be in yours.” B. Dylan