C, a poet turned prose-ist, talked to me about time slowing down. For children, time is ever-expanding, always free, always accessible and at the same time irrelevant. Adults, however, note that time moves quickly because we’re constantly categorizing and therefore not taking the time to experience wonder and enthusiasm for the things that surround us—this we all know, this we all lament. Then I told him about my summer and fall last year, when music had helped to slow down time for me. Rather, it was an intense (and new) attention to sound in general. C grew even more animated hearing that, and posed a theory he’d been long nurturing: time exists as an actual fabric, and the geniuses of sound—Beethoven, Mozart, Coltrane—have the inherent ability to rip through it. I added: Those who are not geniuses and yet are sensitive to genius can respond to this fabric-rip easily, because biologically our own genius—which is too latent for us to access by ourselves—becomes triggered, unlocked, unraveled, though briefly, lightningly.
C and I went through the gamut of conversation about fabric-rips and multidimensional worlds. We believe. His theories are based on science and biology, while mine are based on dreams, fantasy, and a not-quite-developed intuition.
He has seen the eye of a whale up close; I have nearly fainted upon seeing a whale skeleton.