The idea of time not being enough: when a minute comes, I feel the desire to explore more of it, all of it that is really more than the minute itself but not outside of it. How can a minute be more than it is? Well a car is not just a car. Chew on that. While you’re chewing, I will tell you that I feel that it’s a crime that the minute is allowed to pass before I am done with it. Seems like such a waste. What’s the thought in my head, and can I fully work it through please, because it might lead to something if sorted within the familiarity, the safety of this present minute. It will lead to something. There is something. There could have been something. The minute came and went.
There is so much magic, mystery sprouting in the quiet of time; numinosity, but there are rules for this, to stay in it. Talking out loud breaks the spell unless you’re talking with a poet–who maybe doesn’t know it–someone rooted-in somehow. The conversation might be an audio sample of God working through an issue, an idea via you and the poet; the connection energized like a sacred, flashing arc set in along with the cosmos as it is. Poets, by their nature, seed variations on mortality throughout the furrows of their words, implied if not spelled out. All poets deal in the movement, the feeling in and around time, and mortality, in the hands of a poet, can be as subtle as a speed bump instead of a bracing crash. A poet’s handling of time has the blessing to be immovable, an unleashed fictional consideration, and everything in between.
Mention war here.
I want to know more. I read, I listen–something drawing me along as if I might be able to know the thing—just enough to settle down. My legs are crossed as I sit in this chair and I notice the foot on the end of the on-top leg moving slightly with my heart beat. Is this a reminder? Or a clue? Is dark matter full of the echoes of heartbeats? Just because my apartment is not CERN does not dismiss the possibility that I could figure this out–this elusive thing that science can’t peg. Pizza dough is not a non-Newtonian fluid, unless it might be. I know enough to wonder about it. Whatever it is–this compulsion, not the dough–I heed it, trust it. Trust…is a future thing, like a flavour of hope. In the exact moment, is the exact moment. The trust had to be set up just inside the future so it is there when the present moment arrives. There is nothing in the present moment except what you have set up in your future. Even the moment, the minute, has lead and lagging ends like a musical note. It’s all of that lead and lag that I want. The centre too in all that it isn’t and therefore is. Anything defined exists.
Did you mention war?
Both trust and hope need the foundation of the heartbeat and acknowledgement of its meaning, that is, that could be the excruciating vulnerability–that sublime opening to all that is outside of time. Everything outside of time runs through time but doesn’t recognize the restrictions we impose on it. At some point, in or out of a moment, I know. Once I know, I can’t not know. Here, this entelechy comes with responsibility to proceed, or perhaps there is a leaping up, an “AHA!” The puzzle solved. You’d explode if you didn’t tell it.
There's this war...
Dissolve into the sunlight coming in the window. This light never ends, is never used up. It reaches in here, and it’s in the forest when the tree falls. There, it was, and continues to be God, a god, part of the myth, the archetype of the story of humankind. There is the good, but this same light shines on the time spent blowing up cities, killing. Darkness too, which isn’t nothing; there is never nothing. Darkness, like light, has no edges. There is something here. I can feel it. It rules even the cosmos and is bigger than all time.
I think I know.
I know.