Tell you what?
I really want to know."
Rod Argent, 1967
The past is quite often a scripted and well rehearsed fiction. Though we may not be aware of that in the moment, veracity is only exchanged for illusion as we alter our system of belief and its place in time.
Outdated modes of recording information deteriorate into something somehow less correct but still, altogether accurate. The random object. The yellowing paper: provenance traced out along the storyline.
Information glazes me in a patina / forgetting is a carapace left on a pine: memory a time traveling cicada periodically emerging up out of the dark. It is Time. 8:19. 7/8.
Five million tons of meteoritic dust filters down from the heavens each year. Every particle testament to a type of time that remains beyond our comprehension. And still we dig and prod and settle and grid and expand - mapping out our yearning with abandon.
This land is my land. This land is your land. From our demarcations, to our prized possessions. From the things we’d die for, to the things we’d kill for. This land was made for You. And Me.
Next: Maybe The Mechanics of Crepe Myrtle. We'll see. One never knows.