To whom it may concern that are interested,
I don’t know if I’ve just had a psychedelic experience or a psychotic episode.
I don’t know what’s up or what’s down or my elbow from my ass making my face look fat.
Did I just scream in anguish in the same breath that hollered in exuberance?
Tears of joy or tears for fears? If I’m not jumping, am I jumping?
When your scarf’s in your mouth and your head is your heart and your heart is in your throat and it’s all out of your hands, everything and nothing is possible.
Sand dunes shaped by wind which is formed by fluctuations of pressure over time are just a lower dimensional narrative of the history that shaped them. The curve of a crest and slope of a dip pushed by moments from the past and pulled by the neediness of the future.
Ethnobotanist Terrence McKenna, soaring through the inner cosmos of a DMT trip, was told by a logos that each day is composed of four other days. This absurd thought led the Psychonaut and his mathematician brother down a path of discovery to an ancient Eastern manuscript used to divine the future, the I-Ching.
Here their minds were blown with the correlation between the manuscripts 64 hexagrams and the 64 DNA codons possible in the genetic code. 64 hexagrams of moments and feeling that can be rearranged to predict any moment that could possibly happen. 64 sequences possible in DNA’s genetic code to predict anything that could ever be created.
Thousands of years ago, Mystics were looking deep into the very meaning of time, as quantum physicists now look deep into the very meaning of space and matter. But what’s pulling us forward. What’s pushing us?
The McKenna’s came up with Timewave Zero. Basically that the end is the goal and also the start. History doesn’t repeat itself so much as compress and concentrate. That the human experience of empires rising and falling over resources is coalesced in the rise and fall of the latest trend. Experience is a building tide of novelty. That life is just a lower dimensional narrative of the history of everything. The crest of our dune being the epochs of space and time.
If the ball is round and the game is 90 minutes and the rest is just theory, then time is just a path of attraction pulling our experiences toward a beautiful singularity.
34 games (the emotions, the stats, the realities, the situations) expressed in 90 minutes. Microcosm doesn’t do it justice. It couldn’t end there. It should. That’s the rules. But on the Timewave we squeeze time and experience and in 30 minutes extra time we experienced the 3,150 minutes before. But that is still not what pulled us forward. Put the experience of the 3,180 minutes that pushed us there into 22 individual penalties, to the razor’s edge of football experience.
Rome rose and fell when Valeri was denied.
Religions were born as Jorge cried.
The 80’s happened in the blink of Dom Dwyer.
The great Salt Lake on the back of our Salty Dog.
A post denied the day the music died.
A double post miracle on the eve of our graves.
The boundaries erased. The keeper looking in the mirror on the other side of a razor’s edge There’s no clock. Time on the point of a pin on a hat. The crest of those moments that will decide the future of human experience. It’s that profound and utterly that simple.
Jesus died when Adam saved.
Everything this season was stretched to the limit of temporal experience. The resonance of expectation and the resolve of belief pushing us and pulling us to our singularity.
Our Timewave Hero.
I’m still adrift in what it all meant or if it meant anything.
Did that just happen? Can that even fucking happen?
“Are you kidding me?” or “ARE YOU COMPLETELY FUCKING KIDDING ME?!” is what I still whisper in the crisp brightness of dawn.
I think I smashed the dishes this morning instead of washing them because I wanted to just see if Kwarasey would save them.
Happy and sad are words that moments like this bury in shallow graves. Did that happen? Such a trite inquiry. The tale we tell ourselves to convince us it really happened will be a much harder yarn than the lore we spin our children.
It’ll never happen again like that. The novelty of time’s incessant march towards now is ours and ours alone.
I’m lost and found.
I’ve got PTSDFC.
Have I died? Am I born again?
It doesn’t matter.
I know I am, I’m sure I am, Rose City ‘Til I Die