This is not a story, not yet.
#writerslife
#nostradamus
#quantum mechanics
#aut
As you read these posts, the true nature of time is revealed. It is such a strange way to have this information come out. One might expect it in some article, some newspaper announcement, but this predates all of that.
It should, perhaps come with a warning and this post will touch on that warning.
There is the way we look at time and history and the way we should look at time and history. The result is that these posts also covers, in a convoluted and perverse way, how someone can look into the future. This is not a first draft of a book, instead it is a piece on how a book is written, and not a particularly good piece.
What should you do when you start a book? Start with the characters, start with the monster, build the story, but in this case, its about the science too. Perhaps that is the monster, but those of you who are in this book know the monsters are in the mirrors.
If you think this is biographical; I'd say maybe or somewhat. For much of what is written must be accurate, but much may not be.
You are all in it, those of you who could book me and don't play the role of the skeptical professors and grant reviewers. Are you the monsters? Is it perhaps the greek muse? or the protagonist? The science? Could it be nostradamus? I don't know.
Don't let your feelings be hurt, you are, relatively speaking, savages. I would not hold any contempt for a lesser animal and if i occasionally kick the dog, so to speak, its not because the dog is bad in the world at large, just the dog is not conforming to my sense of propriety. You kick me in the real world, in my imaginary one, I play the role of the dog.
Chapter 12
“Are you sure you want to continue. This could be dangerous.” She sounded concerned. I sat on the bed with the Muse. I could not touch her, but to be in this intimate scene with her, it was unreal. Could something happen? Her black hair hung long on either side of her face. In the baggy workout clothes she looked almost human, perhaps a little chubby. I wondered what she looked like underneath. I had seen her in tight clothes, and she looked very lean, but it had been some time.
“You’re worried about me?” I sounded more surprised than I intended. When she’d ordered this combination of olives and peppers she hadn’t seemed too worried about what I’d think of it. The “is that ok?” after the order had been placed did not suggest that if I’d said, ‘how about half pereroni?’ she’d have passed it on to the order taker on the other side of the line. She’d have laughed at me as if it was intended to be a joke.
“Of course. The study of time is dangerous.”
“I don’t see how studying something on paper can be dangerous.”
“Do you know the story of the cyclops?”
“A monster with one eye?”
“No, the story of how it came to have one eye.”
“Uhhh, I guess not.”
“The cyclops started with two eyes,” she said after considering whether to tell me for some time. I was afraid the pizza would get here while we were waiting but I could just look at her an be satisfied, the incense smell of her bedroom was intoxicating, the fantasy that I might stay here, as I steeled myself to jump at the opoortunity if it presented itself. But then she started on the story, cold to me except my conversation, as always. “It asked the god Zeus or perhaps the three fates to accept a trade. It would give up one of his eyes to see the future.
“The bargain was made, and the cyclops saw his own death and was driven to dispair, hiding away the rest of its life in misery.”
“Is that the true story?”
“It is very greek, if it is not the true story, it should be. And isn’t that good enough for the truth. There are many things I believe that may not be true, but it hurts nothing for me to believe them.”
I laughed at first, but as she continued, I sobered. “But you don’t really want me to stop.”
The pizza came and we ate. It was a good combination. We talked in circles and came back. “Do you want me to stop?”
“I worry.”
“But not about me. You don’t care about anyone, you just pretend to. Pretending to care about others protects you. Maybe it is your self image. You are selfish, you care because caring makes you happy because you know you can afford to pretend to care, to give yourself something to do.” I don’t know what made me say this, perhaps I believed it. “I’m sorry, I was just kidding.”
“No, You are right,” she said, crushing my hopes otherwise. It was too honest for me to question her, the door was slammed in my face because I would not go along with the fantasy. “I was fantasising. I was thinking maybe you should stay here tonight and keep me company, but it is time for me to go to bed, and you should go.”
“But…”
“You are cute, there is no appeal, however. I told my lover I would come over there tonight and it is almost too late, but not quite.”
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