Time is the last place

As Werner Herzog noted in an interview about inhuman or rarely explored place, the language surrounding it can be dangerous. Embracing the rarely inhabitable place as a condiment in the spice rack brings new sensations - johnny cash had a song of caution around this

I will play one chord of the altermodern "Time is the last place [to explore]"

A chanson of Bergson, separating Space and Time - in global science this lost out to Kant and ultimately Einstein nailed Time as a separate region with in a funerary Tardis.

Yes the elasticity of experienced time - duree. It is the sense of duration of time. What is time without duration except another space? It is the fabric. As space has so many ascriptions to it. first of affect, then surface, solidities and it mutates into an eternal production line. Spacetime.

I picked up snippets of Bergson's duree from text and long conversations with friends that seemed like hours then, and was approximately so, and now I remember them vividly as approximately so. The joke here is that yes a poetic sliderule can be used. Poetry for poetry's sake though, is obsessive. Try something different for a change of habit.

Bourriaud then is like all good frenchmen, duelling dullly with Germans. Timespace. To accord respect to altermodernity then. Bergson smiling shadow is given light.

How do we, can we sense the space of Time? That is another article. Changing the order of semipermeable taxonomic terms yields different results and different investigations. Quo - temporalising space yields different results. In subjectivity, and human production. The temporalizing of the human.

An old wives tale says that rosemary is good for memory. So as the experimenter, I walked and smelled the rosemary bushes as the aromas travelled to me, with an immediacy that endured rains, storms, worms and summer. I took a small bag of rosemary home and smelt it, took it in, intoxicated by smell, a drunkenness of days - for a about 5 minutes in the morning for a week. Did I remember anything?

I walked to work and past a greenhouse. I looked and the sun glinted off the windows into my eyes. I suddenly smelt rosemary. For a split second, - the recollection of  that stayed with me for days - my vision went black and everything of me was transported back home with my face in the small bag of rosemary. A second later, I regained presence, and kept walking. One of the most amazing experiences of my life. I remember it now, this happened in 2009 and the memory came to me today. Memory in this experience, if memory is a metaphor, became literal. It was time travel not of memory as senses but as total body to place of presence. Time travel to a past space in chronology. This opens the experience to non-linear travels.

The life of time are different curves and waves and colours, a map of various, intermittent landscapes, hills reappearing but changed as hills change in seasons, weathers and plantations. Really, Julie Andrews as Sister Maria in The Sound of Music? Belief matters not. But there are bears, raccoons, antelope, and other Austrian beasties, like Moose in them hills. The hills are alive with music, but let's not get too belle epoque convent-girlies, well, there are rabbits and kittens and foxes tied up in thick string too. Crickets, and wind in trees and aeroplanes in friendly skies - that is all music.

Earth Art was of a time and the music from it. I heard stories of earth art musicians digging holes and connecting tensioned wires to sturdy trees and creating sound frequencies, akin to plucking harp strings with the hole dug as the resonance board. Cannot find references yet. People visualise memory, Proust made memory tactile and olfactory. (Tripping on the break in the footpath jogged memories and of course, the aroma of perfumes and rosemary.) Hearing your memories, not just recollecting conversations, but hearing time - that is a semipermeable taxonomy that is diagnosed as inappropriate affect in Medicine.

If Proust x Bergson then A la Recherche du Temps Perdu could have been 20 pages. Proust prayed to the patron saint of lost objects, to not accumulate, but recuperate or revisit the Times he found. The Lost Times, well, they probably in the back of his writing chez-lounge.

Timespace. The afterlife is a time and not a place and it exists in the vocabulary of timespace, so do imagined histories like CS Lewis and Tolkein Middle Earths, and Tardises. People inhabit space, spacetime, time, timespace. The afterlife is a literary device, no-one on earth lives there, some people want to get there, by leap or natural causes.  If people do live there, they either are in a jail in life, or keeping very very quiet. The previous lives! Please shut up now. It's like hearing your great dream, it is vanity and no-one cares except your girlfriends or so they say.

But pay attention when someone tells you their history, that is at least real, without the frippery of technologies, successes or limits of understanding.