Dispatch #11: A Rumination on Time and Story

Photo by L. Fernandez

by Lupe Fernandez

Who's to say what happens next? In an instant. A moment. Now.

If I flow down a river with mossy rocks underneath, who's to say I won't get up and feel the snow melt water, cold to my skin, sending a chill to the core of my bones?

The black inner tube is hot to the touch under the mountain sun. I turn it around and wet it in the river water. The tube hits the river with a loud slap and a splash. There is a fish, a tiny fish swimming against the current. Dragon flies flutter and buzz above the river, hunting for flies that glow gold in the sunset.

Photo by L. Fernandez

I don a mask and snorkel and plunge into the river, some parts swallow enough to stand up, some parts deep enough to swallow me. I do the crawl against the current, like the tiny fish below me. The fish swims for life, while I swim for pleasure.

I push along underwater rocks until I make it to a pile of stones in the middle of the river that form a rough platform in the sun. I pull myself up, out of the cold water and lay upon the gray rock, embracing its rough warmth. Water drips off me, the stain darkens the granite, revealing streaks of green feldspar and glittering flecks of quartz.

Photo by L. Fernandez

Who's the say this hidden mixture of minerals hasn't seen Pleistocene mammals live, breath and die? A thousand sunrises and sunsets?

A wash of water in the river, the same gurgle of white for centuries until I climbed upon this spot and thousands others like me, tourists in nature with our dusty cars, fabric tents, plastic coolers, propane tanks and bare feet.

What stories has this collection of rocks seen, sitting in the middle of the river, at low and high rises, of summer melts and winter frosts, of squirrels and deer tramping by, looking for the next meal?

Photo by L. Fernandez

If granite, feldspar and quartz could talk, what would they say? Would they talk of heat, pressure and time? Are we of flesh and blood mere wisps like the dragonfly to these round sentinels? Geological Time is Deep Time, compared to our lives as our lives are compared to that of a fly. Long vs. short.

Our stories in books, whether they be of paper or digital, how long will they last? How short of time? How long of memory?

I'd wish to see a shelve of spines with my name on it, but I'll settle for a list of bytes with the alphabet online.

Photo by L. Fernandez

In the future, will I hold a book in my hand, smell the pages and feel the breeze of spinning pages, or will I scan and click and save on a screen?

Perhaps I see another kind of story delivery system. Sounds rather dry. Story delivery system. Did the tired fingers of the parchment scribe resent the inky black stamp of the metal letter type? Did the printing press stamp out the feathered quill?

Who's to say it can't happen to you and to me?
Who says?
Who?