… and then I land here at my desk, my messy desk piled with books and music gear and cables and pencils, remote controls… what a mess. I never really noticed before, but now, it’s like seeing it for the first time.
Then that sense begins to fade. This is just my desk. That’s my computer, those are my books, that’s my WX5…
The house is silent. Where have my wife and son gone to? I pull my chair up to my desk, and… that’s when I realize what feels strange. I can remember what happened to me, all that slipping out of time, and landing in other moments in my life, but it’s fuzzy now. Already it’s starting to blur into other memories like new charcoal lines smudged into old lines, the coherence fading.
I’m going to forget this, I realize, and a last word comes to mind that I don’t quite dare acknowledge, that leaves me shocked.
I sit at my computer, and quickly write:
Time is a process, a wave displacing now into
I’ve traveled through it, backward and forward, hung just outside it and watched. Glimpsed my father a few times; saw myself little, innocent.
Lost my father. Lost that innocence. Gained a life, lost it and gained another, again and again.
I am a process, a wave displacing…
No. A process, living each moment -into- through myself, burning it into eternity. They’re still there… but distant,
inaccessible,haunting. The blessing or curse isn’t int he moment; it’s in me as I look back into it.
Forget the slippages, fine—but not
I pause, certain that this last word, the word I will soon write here, will send me off again. I can feel the strange, nervous energy inside me, coiled up and ready to fling me back out of time once more.
But I stand up, whispering the word softly to myself so I don’t forget it, and go to see why the house is so quiet.
I find my wife and son sleeping, a nap in the afternoon. I lie down with them, feeling time acutely now, a process, displacing this—this now—into the past, slowly and steadily converting whatever possibility lies ahead of us into those eternally-burning, vivid moments. I lie down behind them, hold them, and let myself sleep.
I’ll wake, sure, and go back to the computer, certain this is one of those rare dreams I actually remember. But for now, I am content riding in the crest of this wave, away from the shore of the past and toward who-knows-what.
The rhythm of her snores, and his breathing, lull me to quiet, contented sleep.