13 Sep 2005

Chronometer

Time is more like a dream
the more and more
one thinks about it —
almost illusory, having
some kind of logic
that escapes one’s own reason,
hazier and hazier
the more one tries to focus
on what it might
actually be, and what
it might be not. The greatest
image is that of a
grand river, but Einstein
spoiled that overarching
vision, when he declared
we each have our
own specific flows.
He sat in a chair
and thought about
this mystery, time:
discovering that nothing
happens like we believe,
how strange the world
actually is when
pushed to its limits:
and this merely by following
logic that seemed to
escape all reason,
but if followed, led
into a dream where
in a strange, strange land,
everything was real.

posted by John H. Doe @ 9:07 am

12 Sep 2005

There have been tireless days where time seemed not to exist, only the action of the will, that which we chose to set in motion, and which we struggled to enact or construct or excavate. As if the whole day was dawn, and night came like a thief, completely unexpected that any day like that should end…. Then in these impossible nights, the dreams I dream when all the world is in between breaths, suddenly hushed: even being such wisps of smoke, how they ignite such a fire in my gut, such drive of passion somehow set in inexorable motion by the faintest of notions. Though I have felt, as most of the general rule, that I become less immortal as I climb through the years, there are moments when I am two eyes peering out of Nirvana, and forever has touched down frequently in those my dreamings. And I change of substance from being made of nothing, to being now a child of the universe, whose atoms were forged from the thunderous supernovae, and intricately, exquisitely articulated into a being who begins to recognize his uniqueness.

Somewhere, I think, there is the steady hum of a city’s engine in incessant turning. But even though I am in tune with the metropolitan harmonics, have veins that open into city streets, I am strangely human: my heart breaks without warning, aches without knowing why. It is all part of the process, I tell myself. All within the limits of the machine. I start and stop on a dime, sudden in inspiration, and equally as sudden void of all thought, and I dance upon the world like a mad pagan — without the ceremony, I imagine. And in the quiet, where hope is hushed into small breezes that taste of spring, I stare up into our best approximation of both nothing and everything, up in to the starlit sky, wondering if looking into the eyes of Jesus would be to gaze into the infinite. Through all of it, I say that I stay me, even though the me changes, right along with everything around it — but who ever said being human had to make sense? I wander around a point that says nothing. I smile at death before he smiles at me, wondering if I made him wonder.

And then there is the sorry if I’ve led you this far and didn’t say why I brought you. You must understand that all of us who seem to know something (if I ever seemed like that) merely are better at putting the questions into words. And sometimes, the questions themselves are unintelligible — and out comes poetry. So, I will end this little episode suddenly and on purpose with such a cliché: it’s all about love, baby. You know, that nothing which is everything? You gotta get some of that. Puts air in your lungs.

posted by John H. Doe @ 8:30 am

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