Thursday, October 25, 2012
Time Lords and Space Masters
L. Edgar Otto 25 October, 2012
Sleep compared to death, what awakening or oblivion bids us to awareness of such a simile and metaphor? What makes us discover such a dream as universal yet as intimate and common as this world? What certainty seems the invention of our angels?
Talmadge lived at the time the lead mines were depleting before the prospect of civil war and the frontier skirmishes with the natives that scarred time with future heroes who in this world commanded the territory and the landscape.
Olney, the SphereDream, could not know if over his many lives in one he could find a greater wholeness in time that would unify the paradoxes within of his spirit and soul of himself and of the sand, water, and wind of his sunlit world.
How foolish both sides life seemed either side of his instincts and intuitions.
The blue rose and the blue star were one, a gathering of dreams by both the doubters and those of the cross. In the account of some in the rendered faith of neuroscience the journey there and coming back was recounted, put down in metal and wooden type as news, empty unto its past or future era this virtual travel in time, this precursor of myth that grounds the absurdity and truth of future science.
Bringer of messages and prophesy, that nothing in this world can condemn you from the cherishing of heaven that is as if the most general of earthen gods, Talmadge in his dream state empty, in his coma, in his brain death of quantum computation solved at his fall to sleep or upon awakening. He could not see in the truth and intensity remembered in his dream the questioning why then this world and its good and evil, why the struggle, why the unclear purpose and in the college of the living not point in the learning or the building of libraries made of fragile paper, made of sparks of set dreams.
If in wholeness and not damaged, returned again to the drab mundane and lack of plenty, Talmadge repents of enlightenment, ignores the horn or cone a clod held together from the shell of mimicked echoes amplified the voices of the dead from the bottomless pit, or he holds to hope beyond this world that his hidden heart may not so commit that seems to ground our soul.
He the observer of his own wake despairs of following the networks of reality when it mutates and creates itself in the moment, in leaps and steps and stumbles, in clinging to the ground gleaning what left of his life so in moving meaningless objects around a room accepts it as all there is, the alcoholic then teetotaler, the infidel a true believer neither far or close to God if he could see and the Creator could, or the world at some some great breast content in his suckling.
Olney bundled his pack to continue along the beach of his endless journey tired of arranging yet another picture so to name the constellations all again, yet all the same as he whispered into the dream of sleeping Talmadge telling him he cared without disturbing his soul or spirit from some other wavelength or packet of time as wont all voices perceived or imagined as voices, angels or demons or up from ones own spirit.
He tied firm his Cornucopia conch shell TV yet blew on it an entropic song good night to the rising setting sun as if in the cycles of day and night something in his unfolding spine repeating resassured him in the habit ritual salute to end time and time beginning, time before and time after, as if something greater than himself had the strength to solve all the broken shells of history, all the lost souls and dreams, each to sort out and return to its rightful place, yet to each fulfill the promise of transcendence.
For in the interpretation of dreams and the decoding of all possible fixed truths in the firmament, nothing was secret yet nothing was known in the stratosphere or bottoms beyond the unfolding of the cone its not repeatable rings of tones, save the physics of the phoenix of ashes and fire that all we imagine of this world to make apparent and known is the inside joke, the shared life that makes our lives and sharing special. Somewhere beyond the quasi reality of the real and the dream our ears are still awake as we swim dead to the world in the night.
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