ars Tempus

I have been made aware of a theory of sorts coming from the quantum world about time. Those who are in that business say that time is static, it does not move, it is we who move and hence it follows then that time is adverse to us. I have heard and read about the fabric of time. This is the first time I hear about it being static. Time does not move. This means it is just another matter/fabric in space. If and it ought to be called matter since apparently, the so called photon we use to measure such distances behaves as matterless, such a nack of humanity to use a word that denies or negates to articulate a phenomena. So who is Chronos in this “new” space? Is Chronos just a R. Daneel Olivaw from Isac Asimov’s imagination? Somebody just watching us by the sidelines disintegrate over and over with a corrupted narrative about us left to the whims of a new generation that can’t cure its own flaws whilst it remains unchanged?

It is we who are passing through this static fabric it is argued. It is we spiraling through it. Alas! We are not photon yet apparently we emit them and absorb them. Are we prisoners of our own memories and history to our own detriment? This would mean that every new consciousness is born entrapped like a fly in a cobweb struggling to avoid being eaten by its host. This begs the question if consciousness can exist outside the cobweb of time. What beside the pont of measuring is time then for in the great cosmos?

Which reminds me really. This is a digressive point.

I often jest (so I say to myself) to my Scandinavian students right about the 12th of October about how they are much older than I would be though they be but 14 and I 59. I like to consider myself a new addendum to humanity since my kind is but a tad over a mere half a millennia old. Mestizo people, something people are bound to forget about since we abound, we are the new kids in the block in the cesspool of humanity’s gene pool.

As I spiral around the cobweb in pursuit of liberation I often end up in a conflict about what partition of the genes I ought to partake with. So I get caught in their lousy game of history. Nothing is certain and the odds of hitting the right tune in the search is but all doomed since I either choose the old Spain or the so-called new world by old Spain or the shock and awe ripping across space and time that Spain and the so-called world produced by that encounter. I swap times of recent. Either am the old Europe I am told is in my DNA or am the Old New World. New old at the same time yet new since neither kind came together before or so we are told to believe. In between am I the photon?