Thursday, May 8, 2014

Who Knows Where The Time Goes?

In the post intended to be a tribute to Ambrose Bierce  which was entitled "The Extraterrestrial Crucifixion of 1866", I postulated that an extraterrestrial encounter would more than likely, not end well.
As per the usual these days,  by way of coincidence or synchronicity, an academician weighed in on the same issue and came to the same conclusion.

Of course all this issue as many revolves around "What if?"
Isnt that the question of our question ?
As paranormalists, surrealists or fantasists imagine a sentient creature from a distant world encountering us to ask a question. It may not be about our technology, our historical events, our religions, our beliefs.
What is it like to be human?

This post is about time and whatever meaning we derive from time. To make matters worse, time is now considered an inaccurate term in of itself. Now we have space time. How we use our time seems to be a theme of mine lately as per the post containing a link to an insightful BBC essay;, "The Death of Purposeless Walking" .
The point buried in that essay was that time itself as it is counted by the rotation of our planet as posed against our star has not changed and yet for a significant majority of our fellow human beings, time appears to be accelerating, leaving little time to consider much of anything or to observe much of anything except the expedient. What makes this topic fascinating for me, this acceleration of time is a human invention. One thinks of Marshal McLuhan's prophetic book, "The Medium Is The Message" wherein he postulates our evolution is an extension of our tool making. Shoot first and ask questions later might apply to tool making itself 9 as he suggested ) as well as a more literal interpretation as contained in "The Extraterrestrial Crucifixion of 1866"
Perhaps is there were more rather than less purposeless walking which requires an appreciation of time as an evaluation of how one spends it, or owes a debt to it, perhaps this would lead to regarding the profound mystery of our place in time.

“Since the first human eye saw a leaf in Devonian sandstone and a puzzled finger reached to touch it, sadness has lain over the heart of man. 
By this tenuous thread of living protoplasm, stretching backward into time, we are linked forever to lost beaches whose sands have long since hardened into stone. The stars that caught our blind amphibian stare have shifted far or vanished in their courses, but still that naked, glistening thread winds onward. 
No one knows the secret of its beginning or its end. Its forms are phantoms. The thread alone is real; the thread is life.” 
― Loren EiseleyThe Firmament of Time

A photograph in many ways can be called an apparition, a representation that is open to associations stored or perhaps even sought. These associations sometimes appear to be a confluence. One could say this confluence of associations represent information as an energy that organizes itself through the minds eye. Or not. It depends on who is looking. A photograph could also be thought of as a ghost, either rooted in memory or prone to the superimpositions of what they cannot relate much like a story untold, the who, what and why of an image.

One could say that the anomalous images captured through the lens of a camera have several layers that could be said to bridge both our inner and outer environments always subject to subjectivity itself, leaving in it’s wake a surfeit of answers to whatever question we have in mind. Such is the nature of our own nature and relationships. What we have at best are clues, hints, inferences that are self steering according to the relationship we have with our surroundings. Images of time.

Whether you call this a personal center of gravity or a quantum entanglement is simply a play on words. Yesterday, I was searching for more information regarding a long since vanished family business and the individual associated with it. Henry C Duensing and his soda factory once situated in Chicago Heights. A correspondent of my other blog was kind enough to alert me to his finding a glass bottle inscribed with his name that dates to the 1900’s which is now in my possession. Why I wanted to obtain this hundred year old glass bottle leaves me clueless as if my desire to obtain it was more of an instinct than that of a family curator. During this internet search I knew that the simpler the search key, the more results I would gather, although that meant a great deal of culling through “worthless” information. Then I came upon the unexpected. A Facebook page begun by my son just prior to his death from an enlarged heart.

The red headed kid with the cool sunglasses was once Matthew. He was a very social gadfly, unlike yours truly. Since his death, I have a heightened sense of empathy for all living creatures, knowing they could vanish in a blink of an eye and they do. Sooner rather than later, we need no proof of this.
It's been nearly six years since I found him lifeless on the living room couch.

Simultaneously in my mind with the reception of this photograph, this apparition if you will, I thought to myself  Who knows where the time goes? The another association, immediately came to mind , the late and nearly forgotten Sandy Denny who wrote my question long before I had asked this of myself. Another footnote to an indecipherable notebook. A young lady clasped by an apparition of her voice now silenced yet not at rest, posing a question far beyond her own age. Call this presentiment, a question asked in advance of the passage of time written while in transit.

Within this same mindset I wondered what happened to the young musical lights of my teenage years? Some are in their seventies or more. Grace Slick was recently interviewed on the nature of spirituality and one of her observations stuck with me. Religion requires repetition.It also requires ( according to Grace) not going outside of the box it is contained within as a packaged reality so as not to stray from it's outline or to go off topic. She further said that many of us from that generation intentionally went off topic, strayed from the outlines we were tattooed with the inherent hope that our being impressed upon was indelible.

All of this was yesterday's confluence and as a consequence of the predictable, yesterday remains enfolding into today as I type this as a correspondent for the unseen.

Sufism has at it's heart as a religion a requirement for belief in a invisible world. That also comes to mind as "who knows where the time goes?" becomes a literal positioning of a kind of indecipherable transference of where does this go unseen?

I do not believe in zero. There is no zero anywhere I can venture. It represents to me that everything has to be something to be nothing and it is a strange sort of intuitive duty to go off topic in the manner that we did with more questions than answers in hand after and before the passage of what we call time. That in of itself is remarkable to me as a situation set up perhaps as a result our shared universe is asking itself. I am but what am I? What am I like by comparison. A incommensurable God to some full of questions, the universe as a mirror as if to compare what is in between the mirror and what is reflected.

Who knows where this began or perhaps leads in a transformation that reels beneath our feet while we revolve on this ball suspended in space, unaware of it's turning?

Perhaps this is a erstwhile confession of a amnesiac with a question of time on his hands who lingers in a shadow wondering as I wander or it's time to get back to work, work meaning that perhaps my observation of time and my involvement with it needs some fine tuning that requires effort.


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