In the Beginning was the Word. (And the Word was Sexy.)


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There is only one word, split into infinity.

In the beginning was the word. And the word was all that is. The word was both the creator and the created. The blessed and the blessing. The Shakti and the Shiva. The I AM. The wholeness, oneness, universal mother, father, sons and daughters.

All writing, then, is sacred. Each word carries the DNA of the origins of the universe. All voices echo the sounds of the birth.

All words also contain their opposites, their duality, their polarities, their twin flames, the paradox of oneness and separation. Each contains the memory of both everything and nothing. Each has intrinsic meaning and the meaning only you give to it.

If we imagine the universe is a word, what word would that be?

A word is all-powerful. And a word is only a probability. Both possibilities exist at once. Most people are afraid of words. Why is unclear. Even if we must imagine ourselves to be invisible, words can still penetrate us, as we are made up entirely of their stardust. Holding the memory of every word ever born, ever whispered, ever shouted from any mountaintop, we cannot deny their essence.

After all, how do we know what words mean? Who has told us? How has it been decided? Did we invent them? Or did they invent us? Who is the dreamer? And who the dream?

Words are born knowing. That is the answer. And the question.

Why is it then that we cannot talk to each other? With all this history together, with our origins bound together in infinity, why is it we have such trouble? How can we fail to communicate so consistently? We create computers to connect us all, so we won’t have to talk to each other. And who can be surprised, when we cannot talk to ourselves?

What is so frightening about a word? When we have been together for eternity, why are we not comfortable with each other? When we share the same cosmic lineage, how can we forget our birthrights? If the genetics of the word are patterned into our own DNA, why isn’t language reflexive, like breathing?

Words are essential to life.

Why else would we invent false hierarchies for them and wage war over their meanings? We cannot kill a word, but we can bury it with ignorance.

When any one of us uses a word, its meaning is as unique as we are. Because the word was split into infinity, there are an infinite number of ways it can show up. In other words, in the beginning, the word contained the whole. And each split-apart word carries the holographic imprint of that whole.

For example, if we were to use the ancient phrase and say the word is God, it must be understood the word God is a metaphor for that which necessarily translates to any number of other metaphors, like Goddess, Buddha, Allah, Tao, Elohim, YHWH, Great Spirit, Jehovah, Shangdi, Khoda, Tengri, Hu, Bahá, or Om. And any of the 101 names for God in Zoroastrianism. And all of the Hindu deities.

The beauty of the word is not lost in any translation, but only shines its different facets. Each word contains all the others. Each word holds infinite possibilities of completion.

What then is completion?

A painter paints a painting, puts up his brushes, and covers the canvas. But the painting is not complete until the viewer sees it with understanding eyes. A sentence, a story, a poem, is not complete, though the writer stops editing and sends it to print. Completion is not possible until the reader is connected to the writer through the page. Not until there is a seamless connective coil between the two.

So, if I speak a word and you do not hear it, what is the point?  If I write a word and you do not understand it, have I said anything? If I say that sheet is white, and you think I said, bad cheetah, right, have the words served us in anyway? Other than to show the frailty of our efforts?

Wake up and speak. Wake up and listen.

Our DNA operates without our commands. But it is not unaffected by our thoughts and words. Sometimes we put our brains on autopilot and somehow do things like driving to the store. But this is not really a good thing. We do this with words countless more times a day.

Words deserve more. Words deserve our full attention, our admiration, our respect. Or, as I have said before:*

words are demanding lovers.

you must take your time.

turn down the lights,

gather the candles, put on music.

you must remember poetry

and forget expectations.

you must speak of their beauty

and swoon at their voices.

you must stand naked before them

and allow them their mystery.

you must ask them to talk

and then remain silent.

It is time to resurrect the word. And to complete the sentence.



*words: study 3, an excerpt from the novel Waking Up at Rembrandt’s,

© 2009, 2012, Thomas Lloyd Qualls.



Thomas Qualls

Thomas Qualls

Writer. Novelist. Essayist. Attorney. Artist.
Thomas Lloyd Qualls is a writer -- a condition that is apparently incurable. He manages his condition, in part, by regular contributions to Rebelle Society and to Reno Tahoe Tonight Magazine. He's also a novelist, an essayist, a videographer, a painter, a bike rider, and through his law practice -- a sometimes salvager of troubled lives. 'Waking Up at Rembrandt’s', his debut novel, has received local and national critical acclaim. The second edition of the novel is available in print (think of vinyl, only for books) and on multiple e-version platforms. There’s also a book of poetry, 'Love jaywalks', available everywhere e-books are sold. Still on the horizon: a collection of essays, some new paintings, and a second novel, 'Painted oxen', due out soon. In the meantime, you can visit his website whenever you like for more of his stuff.
Thomas Qualls
Thomas Qualls
Thomas Qualls

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