Friday, August 26, 2011

Then It Hit Me

When I was a kid (and even now, though it’s largely suppressed) I experienced déjà vu so much and so concretely I began calling the episodes “time slips”. I recall telling Ma several times during these confusing moments, “I’ve been here before.”

As I got older the slips never seemed to broadcast pleasure, no winning lotteries, brilliant decisions, just lingering dread and unease, so like intelligence, curiousity and joi de vivre I’ve trained myself to “peg it down a notch” in order to prevent every waking morning finding me screaming into the wind. If “Gilligan’s Island” were an accurate fable the Professor would have killed those other idiots and used their hides for sails, which wouldn’t have been cool, you see? So it’s been “down periscope” for a while, which might make me sound like an insufferable pig but keep in mind that I'm not that smart to begin with.

Till a science program on the brain woke me up.

Time’s a funny thing. If you’re physically here right now, how do you get to 10 minutes from now? Is there an unseen animator sketching out moment to moment? Continuity in that time/space continuum thing. And if you’re there 10 minutes from now then you’re already here and there simultaneously, which means there’s likely a way to communicate with yourself. Time slips. Which means future selves are pricks for not sharing vital information. The universal consciousness might reach a state of Nirvana if minds all over the globe communicated best options. If time, space and thought are not the separated things we think them to be then isn’t it time for some fundamental shifts in daily realities? Prayer is all about one reality shooting its crap into another. Alternate universes are definitely real, just ask Jesus, Allah, Buddha or Vishnu. Countless alternate Clarences don’t have the same hang ups as this one has. (Granted that there are also countless alternate Clarences dating Courtney Love, being chased by dragons – by the by, the premise for my upcoming niece-inspired young adult novel titled “RealitY”—so I hereby acknowledge balance.) But are the ones that are waking up next to Rosario Dawson, who’s learned to cook marvelous French toast by the way, simply that much better at dumping their toxic waste into other realities' back yards, and hence are waking up next to Rosario Dawson? If we got the entire world to pray a single thought, could we flush our ills to Earth 7742?

Bloody hell, are we Earth 7742? Damn.

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