Time is the substance of every story and the medium through which it passes. Time tells all things. The closest substance to that of Time were the flesh and blood of Man, of earth and water, air and fire.
See Axiom 1087 - Celestial Biology - O Satan O Sun
Our conception were like the ripples of a philosopher's stone through the whole prima materia ocean of our whole mind or mother and father.
All knowledge is a story within a story of our relationship to all that is Mother and all that is Father, to our whole celestial biology, to our whole cosmic and atomic environment.
Our ancestors understood the symbiotic and isomorphic relationship between the communication of one's flesh and blood and that of all faculties of communication, of life. Fertility rites and the Word.
"For it will not be you speaking, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you. Brother will betray brother to death, and a father his child; children will rise against their parents and have them put to death. You will be hated by everyone on account of My name, but the one who perseveres to the end will be saved.…
"Do not assume that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to turn ‘A man against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. A man’s enemies will be the members of his own household.’…"
Matthew 15 About the Jewish "Masters" of Xianity
A Rabbinical Ante-Cult
21 Leaving that place, Jesus withdrew to the region of Tyre and Sidon. 22 A Canaanite woman from that vicinity came to him, crying out, “Lord, Son of David, have mercy on me! My daughter is demon-possessed and suffering terribly.”
23 Jesus did not answer a word. So his disciples came to him and urged him, “Send her away, for she keeps crying out after us.”
24 He answered, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel.”
25 The woman came and knelt before him. “Lord, help me!” she said.
26 He replied, “It is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.”
27 “Yes it is, Lord,” she said. “Even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”
28 Then Jesus said to her, “Woman, you have great faith! Your request is granted.” And her daughter was healed at that moment.
“Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary? Where is the foundling’s father hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there learn it.”
― Herman Melville, Moby Dick
Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre,
Oh, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis nought
That ages, empires, and religions, there
Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought;
For such as he can lend, - they borrow not
Glory from those who made the world their prey;
And he is gathered to the kings of thought
Who waged contention with their time's decay,
And of the past are all that cannot pass away.
XLVIII, “Adonais”, Percy Bysshe Shelley, spring 1821
(An elegy on the death of John Keats)
“My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.”
― Alfred Tennyson
Concealment stumbles over revelation day and night
As shards of glass in boughs of darkness drift by winds which we
Can understand our voices set like stars into the bright
Horizon of the birth of love and of eternity
With human action and repose nirvana, church and state
The free articulation every organ, note and word
Coordinated transformation of that substance sailed
Children, seasons all the stars of heaven and the earth
Converging storms volcanic forms attraction and desire
Spelled under the somnolent and living rites of seas
The amniotic blood and wonder passing through the spire
Of the nature of the mind best tempered by the dreams
Were summoned the communion sleep and waking day and night
The alternating currents men and women, hot and cold
Successive generations the conception of the light
Of morning joyful voices born extracted from the sadness of the soul
Exhumed from sediment of years hath cured the blood that finds
The scintillating living sex and music of the here
And the hereafter out beyond the stars like ships which climb
O'er the horizon shores that speak each season's atmosphere
The intervening space of years and wastes of air and earth and thought
Suspended the dimension and the temple of a child
Speaks the holy scripts of winds and cliffs of tree and rock
Admit like clouds the life and death and life of body, voice and mind
Involved with all the truth and beauty flowers, stars and moons
Upheld by the conduction of the substance of our mouths
Admit the muddy floral spring and autumn of the womb's
Celestial concussions marry families and clouds
Like sounds of children and their eastern gods of mom and dad
Careening every heaving breath of dawn into its western baths.
"And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man, a motion and a spirit, that impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought, and rolls through all things..."
William Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey, July 13, 1798
Time is rolling through my mind. I remember going to Cultus lake with my family, still feel the sun upon my face as we drove into the shade of a lakeside forest of pine and the camping grounds they surrounded like teepees, the smell of wood smoke perfuming the air even now as I deliberate upon this memory made of words that had Once been made of all that most beautifully and naturally augured my birth and life and death and again with so pleasant an effect upon my young mind as to deliver through sheer ignorance what I could never learn from all the books in the world and nor the world without the language, the memory and the synesthesia of its birth and life and death by every rhyme and measure with whom or with which we, as a family, drifted in and out of a chapter of each of our lives that would fade like life itself even as we suckled from its ineffable breast, sucked of its air and pine, of its smoke in time, and granted, if only for a moment, our tenuous suspension between this world and the next some celestial biology worthy of a deepest wish that would disappear, too, from each our most desperate grasp as it faded like the far horizon into an involuntary intake of air, even now, deprived of any memory of its own, keeping time with something of a nature as easily well as ill disposed to us or ours, we who had once upon a time and long ago, even then, lay suspended in the very waters of the world, absolved of our death by the utter futility of our lives and commended thus to the fate like a lake of oblivion that would only ever be disturbed by our words and only then take their impressions of these our whole celestial flesh blood from Once they first disturbed and interred the waters of the heavens and the earth, of every word of man and nature back through every generation of our mothers and fathers, of the perfect wreck that lay siege, flesh on flesh, to the stillness of that virgin night.
As Louis L'Amour once wrote, there is much that is invisible to what is essential to the world. Place and time are plastic; time itself can change what even a volcanic eruption could. Time is like that. Time is the answer to the riddle, "What does everything think about without thinking about it?" So ineffable and yet essential were the horizon of the substance and story of the whole communication of all forces and effects, of our whole flesh and blood.
But I should stop there. How can one fight that which is most alive when it is gone, that which is best remembered when it is most forgotten, or that which is most essential when it is least understood?
Such are the stars at night. Among their king, the sun or even the moon, they are as embellishments upon a machine of far greater utility than they, graced though they may be with a beauty that would elude the poets of the world and so a story that can never be told as long as child grows old and words, like people, fade, interred the living impulse of their every word and of their every charge and current of flesh and blood across all space, across all time by an accounting though a swelling wave of everything that ever gave birth to anything, like the night the seeds of our deepest past or future, distance or dimension, story or myth, legend or celestial god, hope or faith, inspiration or sorrow, a wave of time that saw the past, the present and the future take on a brilliance of sheer significance with which every motion of sun and moon and star took its light or its impenetrable ambivalence to the trials of man or child.
Still waters may run deep. But raging currents run deeper.
People wanted to know, but often they did not want to hear, to listen, to see. They do not really want to know what oblivion envisions for itself, for that way lay madness and sadness that would engulf the world in no greater purpose than its own most furious dissolution, a child had never prayed for anything more noble than his or her own untimely demise, so faint were our recollection of almost every single person who ever came before us, so faint the stars take up their pleas and their screams and their dreams, yes, that survived like seeds the coldest winter or the nightmare voices and stories of most fitful sleep, only to be forgotten, still, by the living waters with which they might have been baptized by a Catholic priest before being commended to the wards and wars that rack the body of the world with their singular claim upon the brain of man and nature alike, so virgin were the very first ripples, like from a stone, of the world of our most infant flesh - and never more deeply accurate our impressions, in turn, of the whole story of the world of our whole flesh and blood, of the celestial biology of our Mother as she commuted our death whence the waters of Time and Time again, Once upon a time.
"The Indian had always known he was not alone. He knew there were others, things that observed. When a man looked quickly up, was it a movement he saw or only his imagination?
"The terms we use for what is considered supernatural [I write, "supra-physical"] are woefully inadequate. Beyond such terms as ghost, specter, poltergeist, angel, devil, or spirit, might there not be something more our purposeful blindness has prevented us from understanding?
"We accept the fact that there may be other worlds out in space, but might there not be other worlds here? Other worlds, in other dimensions, coexistent with this?"
Haunted Mesa, Louis L'amour, Chapter III
Also See the first chapters of
The Way of the Scout [Apache Heritage], by Tome Brown, Jr.
How we read and our read, by every fact and feeling, by the whole environment.
"The alternating viewpoint with which one is permitted to look at epic - the trompe-l'œil patterning - trains the mind and eye for the reintegration of the apparent opposites of action and contemplation. It works like a perspective picture of the interchanging patterns of figure and ground. We can neither stay with the story nor rest in the pattern; the story is not only an account of progress toward a goal, nor is the pattern a static rendering of experience. The story undercuts the value of action; the pattern is made up of unceasing motion. The ideal life of man, in which action and thought, body and soul, are integral with one another, is being restored, or achieved, by the demand that the poem makes upon the reader. As with immortality, by giving up the false contemplation represented by the Bower of Bliss, man learns true contemplation by immersing himself in the active pattern of life."
Milton and His Epic Tradition, Joan Malory Webber, University of Washington Press, 1979, Part II, "The Tradition," Page 93 - 94
Time is rolling through my Mind just like the Ocean that would drown