I woke up this morning with time travel on my mind ~ and must quickly disengage and step away from what is understood in the mind as time, under measurements, through rhyme, numbers, letters, blocks of controlled and predictable spaces for security; a calendar, as it no longer applies, the seasons so organic and moving and changing with our changing climate ~

we adapt, heal, and return outside of these restrictions, not within them.

And time is experienced in a physical realm: the dimension of age, of decomposition ~ in past memory, in future imaginings. These shape time.

I remember traveling across time in a meditative state, hypnotized by the steady pulse of a drum, like a heart beat, steady and trancing – and I found someone, or something, and they found me – and we sent messages in / through / the ether of the psyche: we retrieved what was lost: I looked from above the cabin where I lived to survey the street and watch ~ just as I recall dreaming of some/ones before I met them, and I do observe that this is a uniquely distinct occurrence for many others too ~

and these are indescribable experiences that do not exist in the constrictions of language that I was / many of us were raised in. The kind that nullified and split up the mind over the literal bindings, or tried to gentrify the concepts in some sort of topical bypassing.
Time, too, entangled in these spellings.
But I always chased an answer anyway –
flew across time, skipped stones over cellular codes, the inherent message encrypted in being, sought sanctuary and revelations in dreams, across and within the gene(rations)

Even now in this world of words, a spilling entry, it is puzzle to solve in this translation and analysis. Time does not exist here either. But this is the foundation of delivery. Here we are. Our eyes meet on this page. Now, as I write, and whenever it is now for you to be reading it: together, we gather.

So onward.

Time is not a clock. It is not the hours in a day, the quantity of years.

It exists in a whisper of premonition: the sense of something coming, so subtle the signal, received in the body, and translated further to something tangible – becoming a word, a phrase, a sentence, a prediction of sorts as it forms –

a message carried on the wind, through the tree that receives from the mycelial network, from the vast network that has us all tuned in to the resonance of where we stand and beholden in the forces that shape this and all the information stored at the roots, in the soils, digested, transferred, cyclical –

and all is wild and there is no real way of knowing what precisely is coming
and all that can be done now shapes and influences and ripples across that length of ‘time’ to reach that point –

could be the rush of spring. another sigh on the shoulders of our powerful earth.
could be the arrival of something more powerful and real within us who orchestrate in the key of the pulsing frequency. We see it. We feel it. Collectively, we run with it. We hear it. We shape it. We cast ripples too.

when I listen to certain albums, I am transported to a time and place through a feeling ~ a physical memory, the way music hums in tones within us and all surrounding things, an infinite multitude of vibrations and sensations pulling and influencing – that web network, the oneness of it all, as language struggles explicitly to explain but often glazes over the real quivering essence of that thing – what has become conceptual, but very much the experience.

(that musical tune is imprinted on my being
my muscles hold it, my nose knows it
as I recall the smell of the room I was in when I first touched that song)

Ripples on a pond, or skipped across the river. It’s all interwoven and folding over like the scales of music.

Keys repeat themselves through octaves along the layering of scales ~ over and over and over and within and around again ~ but our ears are only equipped to receive as much as we can measure.

it goes on and on and on and infinite and within ranges above and below our perceptions.

With infinite re-arrangements

Infinite ways to communicate

to collaborate in song:
as is within our making

song carries memory, memory is song
the songs we sing bring us back to beginnings

Anatomy of our Anthropocene /
what revolving life cycles in the wake of glacial thaw; what microcosms long ago lain to seed in nests of ice / emergence out of infinite impermanence / what gives up in this loss;
what lifts loose in us too /
what once was old becomes new

b l o o m s

we find fluidity with this change / like rivers again ~ our emotions woven with the land, our epitomized epochs / there is anger and this is our heat too / grief immeasurable, comes in ebbs, in waves / and yet

our love is coming

on lost coastlines

here we are; this all is true

as we heal with this, how do we create with this / how are we shaping, shifting / how can we trace the way back, touch it, feel it move.