Dream d193-s: Where Time Becomes Visible

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where I touched something and felt the past inside it.

Not metaphorically. The object had actual texture, actual weight, and at each of its intersections there was a density that was different from the rest - a thickness in the air, a palpable presence, as if time had chosen these specific points to become solid. I had picked it up before I understood what I was holding.

The forest clearing was the most ordinary it had ever been. Firelight on bark. The smell of woodsmoke and pine and cold earth. Stars overhead in their correct positions, doing their correct thing. The figure sat on a log at the edge of the fire and I could see his face tonight, or almost see it - the quality of the light was finally adequate to the task, and what I could make out was the face of someone who has spent a very long time solving problems that do not have obvious solutions, and has arrived at a kind of peace with that.

Lano was asleep against his boot. Not dozing - deeply asleep, the way a dog sleeps when it is certain nothing requires its attention.

The object was in my hands before I could account for how it had arrived there. A grid of some kind - not large, perhaps the size of a book held flat. Lines crossing lines in two directions, forming intersections at regular intervals. The lines themselves were nearly invisible, more felt than seen, like the edge of a thought. But the intersections were different. Each one held something.

I pressed my thumb to the first intersection and felt a moment. Not a memory - a moment. A specific quality of present tense, crystallized at that point, preserved the way a specimen is preserved: intact, unchanged, still carrying the complete atmosphere of its original instant.

I moved to the next intersection. Another moment, different in quality, equally complete.

The grid was a library of nows.

Lano opened one eye, confirmed I was engaged with something important, and went back to sleep.

The white crane bird stood beyond the firelight, watching with the particular stillness she brought to moments she had decided were significant. Her long neck was curved slightly, as if she were listening to something below the frequency I could hear.

I sat with the grid for a long time, moving from intersection to intersection, each one a complete and unhurried present tense. The fire settled. The stars held their positions.

I wrote before the fire went out: