The tree

Went back for the first time to ‘my tree’, today after a year of absence.

It was like before, as in the painting which covers my wall where I sit to think and wonder.

If can’t go to actually be there, then the painting serves a second best.

There is so much irony in curling up in the inviting arms of the branches, cruelly knobby, but after adjusting the body , it’s strangely adoptive to the curvature of the spine, as if it knows.

There, just laying and staring up out of the leaves through clouds moving unto different places, thinking, guessing it’s age, making a note of visiting the ranger if he would know.

Strange but it occurred that maybe a couple of centuries would be a fair guess, since I’ve first been here 50 years ago.

We have sort of made infinite knowledge of each other, then evolved into love , finding stability and patient waiting on it’s s part never to abandon me.

It became a faithful partner.

The irony is, that the painting is also around two hundred years old, a landscape from an English park, very reminiscent and resembling to the original, perhaps it too being somewhat the same age.

2020-200 years would put both tree and painting to around 1820, and both existed before the modern wars of 1848 began, leading into the brazen and harsh modernity which tried to abandon the romantic idiom which bound the two together.

Funny how this happened, this perceptual oddity, this sensational coincidence, and for a moment I understood Jung’s famous childhood experience on sitting in a rock, and unable to distinguish his own sitting on the rock from the rock lying under him.

Oh, the short tenure of a human consciousness, subsisting on layers and layers of inorganic memory, as the tree eventually forgets it’s own version of being here, as it sinks down, under covers of what it has to endure, the pressures above it, as it turns into rock and crystal.

These crystals , it is said, have a consciousness themselves, that shortcut the memory if its omnipresence, as becoming the vital parts in artificial intelligence.

A shortcut through evolution, sometimes in immeasurable conscious awareness. It takes me a few moments to realize, that it’s artificiality needs me, as I need it, it needs to vibrate to mine, meshing the artificial to the human sensation of understanding that the similar ways we both evolved, can guarantee some token of our being here together, this place, this time in eternity.

Trekking down by the ranger’s little house, found no one in, maybe next time around again, so it’s age may reveal much more!