In a pendant past, still waiting
to become, my dreams were ever
wandering in a lifeless land:
the high night of suburbia,
where the homes were anthracite
compressed from smoke,
and the streets all ran with bitumen,
flowing over aeons to Nocturnia.
All around us, chorused words
are twittering to hide the truth.
They reverberate, we revere,
and the distant tumults merge,
become a motor humming,
its axle turning, chaos cycling.
In my youth, the past was unavoidable:
a static dream, never to be erased,
loops and curls of the moving pen.
A motor spins inside my head.
Back then, its purpose was unknowable,
its axle was invisible,
and the meaning of its turning
was a mystery.
But I know better now.
I hear the echoes of the great machine,
the one that turns the universe,
the precession of a gyroscope
that carries us through realities.
All the world and all its history drifts,
our memories follow suit,
and the past that truly was
No electric lighthouse on the shore,
no pebbled path to follow
beside time’s flow,
and no bridge
that eternal river.
The wonderful Time Machine of HG Wells, with its crystal lever, is a different device, designed for personal time travel.
Savk Everstone: a song about time, and other things
The Bridge (don’t know why I called it that) has a before/after slider. The original image is a composite with a little of Mars from the NASA Rover. The slider shows the work of the visual evolution engine, my software that seeks unimagined realms. I don’t let it go out of the house unless it’s accompanied by a responsible adult. Obviously.
The figures, evolved separately, were created with ALISA, adaptive layered image automation.