The Critical Point, The Critical Moment

I pulled out the fourth dusty box. Dust puffed out from under the bed as I moved the box into the ray of sunlight sneaking through my room’s window. I’d been sorting through old stuff for hours, so I was no longer all that excited. I pulled some old clothes out of the box and set them on the floor to my right, laying the foundation for a pile that would soon grow quite tall with sweaters and shirts that had been eaten away at by moths over the past year or so. On my left, I slowly built a much smaller pile of clothes that were actually salvageable, even if they were a little bit out of fashion nowadays. I didn’t care, I found pride in the eccentricity often found in my style.

When I reached the bottom of the box, I found an old purchase that I made due to this love for the mildly unusual. I decided to pull it out and take a look at it. It was a record. It was old and worn. As I pulled it out of its sleeve, I admired its golden surface. The sunlight from the window streamed across its surface, lighting it up. The light bounced off the reflective gold and across my face, warming up my cheeks.

I remembered that I had bought the record at a junkyard last year. It was pretty well crafted, and it did feel like real gold, although I doubt it really was. I had been intrigued by the drawings on the front. On the right, there were intricate patterns of angles, lines, and circles. Under those patterns, the art depicted two boxes, one above the other. Inscribed in one was a circle, and in the other, small angular lines. On the left, there was a large circle surrounded by short, even strokes. Under the circle was a diagram of intersecting lines, which each started quite far apart from each other, but eventually came together into one critical point, one critical moment, where they met - where they had contact. But the lines continued on, unfazed across the record’s golden surface, until they were quite far apart again. It formed a pretty picture overall, although it was very abstract.

I was getting bored of sorting through old boxes, so I stood up and walked over to my kitchen with the record in hand. I set the record down on the kitchen counter’s marble surface, and turned to the kettle. I pulled a mug out of the cupboard, and flipped the kettle’s switch on. As the water started warming up, I took the record into the living room. I placed it into the record player and it clicked softly into place. I hit play, and there was silence. Suddenly, the kettle beeped in the kitchen. I jogged across the room into my small kitchen, and flipped the kettle’s switch off. The water was boiling violently, the kettle was shaking and the water was bubbling loudly. I poured the hot water into my mug, and put the kettle back. I heard nothing from the record player. As I walked into the living room to investigate, I dipped a tea bag in my hot water nonchalantly. After about three seconds of troubleshooting, I realized I hadn’t plugged the record player in. The power switch was still flipped on, so when I picked up the plug and fit its prongs into the wall, the record started spinning.

It was an odd recording. At the beginning, it was producing odd clicking and knocking sounds. Then the crackling and static almost made it impossible to hear the sounds of machines and animals that were playing underneath. A bang of thunder burst out of the speakers. I flinched and dropped my mug. My tea drenched the ground as my mug smashed onto the floor, which made me flinch again. There were people speaking in tongues, and music unlike anything I had ever heard. I had no idea what any of it was supposed to mean.

I took the record out, and looked at it closer. On the front, around the center of the record, I noticed something that I hadn’t at first: a small inscription. It read: “The Sounds of Earth”. Below that, it said “United States of America” and “Planet Earth”. There was a faint drawing of a planet’s surface, like a blue marble, covered in water and clouds. I suddenly realized what the record was. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it sooner. I felt stupid.

For some reason people love the idea that there are other intelligent life forms in our universe. I guess it’s good to let people dream of other life, even if there is no evidence to support it. Reasonable people know that aliens aren’t real, and that even if they were, it’s almost impossible that they would develop so similarly to us; they would probably be nothing more than little microbes. It frustrates me when people forge things like this record to try to convince less-critical thinkers to believe in their wild ideas. I picked up the record and threw it in the trash. Disappointed, I scratched my head with my six fingers, rubbed my four eyes, and sighed. I guess I’ll have to get back to sorting boxes, it’s almost moving day.