Audio testimony of the Rysdales III & IV regarding the events of TD+16
“I can see it now, time as illusionist, as psychologist. How all that wasn’t and that seemed possible and that never came to pass are of a piece. That voice as symbol is meaningless, its just another instrument of the decibel; that you flowed from me and collapsed backwards into my form just as heat rose and swam through my frame. Time is a chalkboard containing all possible lines, the birds stock-still in their elegant cursives, the blur of the drowning and the vibrations of myself when I have the heart of a mouse, when I have the cry and tremble of a mouse.
“Cadmus Sr. taught my father that time was the smear of color across space and, tones set down upon an immobile page. Ours is a double bass a smear of ink twice as luminous…”
“But father, I have known you and given you meaning and felt you in the gait of my walk and the passiveness and struggle of my arms. I have searched my words and found you in my timbre and enumerations, you are the skeleton of my view on things which gains the muscle and flesh of my experience but even so, now as I tell you this, I know you will retain no knowledge of it and that makes me certain that I’ll have no knowledge of it and I don’t know what that means unless it means that we are at something’s whim and less aware than I ever dreamed. You told me once that great-grandfather would say, ‘God is in the small things.’ You said it so often your self. I think now only thought is in the small things, God is the whole; so large, so all of a piece we can’t even see the simplicity.”
“I have felt you walk right through me and heard myself waking in other rooms, I mean people I never was but became irregardless in the breadth of time. I think now that all of this, all of us are a single slide that contains our essence and has no use for coins like ‘soul’ or ‘spirit’ or ‘ghost’ which are just concepts which are only words and totally meaningless and completely true all at once.”
“Father your face subsumes my face, swallows it up in time’s progression ‘til I no longer distinguish yours apart from mine. We’re different versions of the same system, neither one better or worse, just more or less adaptable in the face of progression, or change which is itself a constant. Maybe this has no meaning; after the wildness comes a calm, after the verbose the reserved… each generation looks around and says to themselves, we need a change, but can’t see that change as a step backwards. I mean the present moment passes and it is all we have so our future doesn’t exist or we don’t notice it because pushing so hard we seem to ourselves stuck here in the now, in the moment. Its as if we grope for the horizon with the belief that it is finite and we can attain it, as if our search will end with a wall, just nothing… but horizons are sprawl and infinite and ambitions are the dream of a horizon within men… ask Alexander or Banks where ambition ends and they would be silent or very vague. Our ambitions, every horizon is merely caged by our imaginations, they are living serpents that poison us with the venom of time lost. Father… I feel glad to see you, please hold my hand.”
“You have your mother’s eyes, Junior you preserve us.”