The waves roll in, as do those of time, whose wake the physicists model, and there a surfer rides on one, as do we on the crest of the now, but, really, not apart from it, while, on shore, the birds flutter down to eat the crumbs from our loaf of bread. (Oh, my djinni, you’ve got me using the present tense in my narration now.)
I sweep my eyes across the scene, in a manner of speaking, in this purest part of the isle, spotting no rubbish, but there is a skeleton sculpture, the title on the pedestal reading, ‘Bora Bora Bored’. Beyond that are only the waving palms.
“I get it now, my fair creature twixt human and angel, about the informational monads: The only possible Fundamental is what has no parts, as a simple, continuous function, which necessitates a monad, for there isn’t anything simpler; thus its assemblies of the ‘it’ can only be of the more and more composite and complex, in the informational patterns that the bits make as the nows ever go on.”
“And the monads have to be, we should jot, because Nothing cannot, which is the truth we’ve found that thus no longer needs any proof, which demonstrates the power of philosophy.”
“So, my jasmine-bloomed and fairy-born, upon whose glowing breasts I rest my head this morn, we cast not to the wind but flow as time’s bourn; thus there are two times about which we needn’t ask, the one that hasn’t come and the one that’s past, for we are of the now, and, at that, ever only ‘seeing’ the inside of the ‘brain’ from the inside.”
“Yes, traveler through time. While life flows like water and blows like wind, our idyllic ‘now’ prevails, unsurpassed.”
“So then, in the great silence amid the great absence of the so-called vacuum is the now-here of time as the no-where of space—and to think it was said that our being blocks the view of the Ultimate, nor to gaze at it could we our selves acquit, that even the wise couldn’t step beyond their nature, leaving all mothers’ sons standing helpless before it.”
“Indeed, ‘now-here’ is ‘no-where’, a slight rearrangement that’s still of the same letter sequence, representing a truth so simple that even a child could understand it, though we must relinquish all future and past—a necessary melancholy.”
“If I indulge the yearning and reflect it back, then from birth we can look forward to being host to woe, and then to giving up the ghost.”
“Ah yes, sad, but ‘happy’ are they who quickly burn to toast, and blessed are they who ne’er came to the roast! Ha-ha.”
“Live; life’s doom is to e’er sleep in the tomb, without wine, friends, or love—an empty whom.”
“Come close, I will lift the dark secret’s veil… Never again can withered flowers bloom.”
‘E’en the smoke from an ember’s ash fades away, the warp with the woof and weave burned to clay. How many beautiful hearts have melted here? Where in heaven’s cosmic vault wefts their sway?”
“There are no “where’s”, my island man. They believe, from fear of Hell’s misery, lured onward by Heaven’s reward to be, yet he who lives real, and thus knows what ‘IS’, never fires his heart from chaff’s smoke tree.”
“Oh, meddling thoughts that harp on faith’s plea, my cheeks glow red from djinni’s grape tree, so to your face I throw my other hand, and drop you into sleep, oh fantasy.”
“Lay waste to the rites of prayer and fasting; shatter faith’s pious claims never lasting; slam fast the gate on myth-spells and myth-takes arriving. Live, and be kind to all of life’s casting.”
“There’s more cheer in a single ‘now’ full than in the Vault of Heaven hollow as a skull.”
“Yes, tropic man, why fret o’er spilling drops of sin from life’s temptation glass filled to the brim? Play with the imaginary friend: Him; what is mercy for but to save thy skin!”
“Why would the All Knowing, Loving Expert compose with Power His designed concert, then decompose His grand Magnificat?”
“Because there’s none Such beyond the turret.”
“The best of all that is below the moon and above the fish is beauty’s commune, in this life poured and sipped, all else forgone, from your Mah to Mahi, raptured noon to noon!”
“Rent, the mask of sorrows shrouding doom’s face; sheared, the cloth of grief’s idling chase. Feast on my lips, body, and verse; drain life’s bank, ere Earth enfold thee in a last embrace.”
“Thin as the air, the ‘now’ is time’s gift rare, an ethereal sprite whose flow is swift.”
"Morning springs us over the wasteland’s brink, and on time’s sand we the oasis drink. Life’s strange caravan through the desert winds back toward Nothing; drink—afore the stars sink.”
“We have solved the Mystery, and have found that Beginnings and spaces cannot be, so what goes round is near all things generating, for there’s no point to impart a design; so drink—to naught more we’re bound!”
“Nought is left. We butterflies, on the edge of forever’s flight, spread fast our wings on the ocean of light—that is the wake of the time-grav wave, of no breadth, mass, or space that is seemingly made.”
“All is of a holographic light dream, as products time and time again by time’s means, as bubbled baubles blown and burst, through the frames of time that quench our thirst.”
“Time future, time present, and time past are not all at once, but only as ‘nows’, with not a bit of them to last.”
“The glorious light flashes us into being shone, as the dilated broadcast of time’s nows becoming the known.”
“Here the friends, lovers, and flowers that be—parentheses within eternity!”
‘What the meaning to this play we’re befit, from dirt to dust within the script as it’s being writ?”
“The wise in search have thrown themselves to waste; experience alone is the benefit. Don’t worry; be happy.”
“Worries seldom come true, but, if they do, thus they had to, so in them one must stew.”
“Past imperfect points to a future tense, yet ever only nows does the Wheel brew.”
“Ere Fate fells us dried up like an old leaf, let the wine course through our veins of life so brief.”
“Ne’er for treasured gold will you be dug up, nor even sought by an impoverished thief.”
“Drain thy goblet’s nectar of the moon’s shine, while the light sparkles in this ‘now’ of thine.”
“Reign with Night’s Queen and drink deep the King’s wine, for the morrow may not find you in time.”
“Oh, to our friends and successors: When you with such lively tread make your way through the garden of the dead and reach the flowered bed where we made one and now lie, turn down an empty glass and break some bread.”
“Then, unto love’s moonlight tryst, arm in arm, aft taking delight in each others charm, raise thy glasses once more in blessing, and cheer the ones who lived and died without alarm.”