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Some things I like

Some things I like

I like to eat. I’ve always liked eating. There’s something about food that really does it for me. I really like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, as well as chips, among others.

I also like walking. There’s a good time to be had one footing it in front of the other.

In addition, I like to time travel. I do it on the average of three times a week. Sometimes more. It’s exciting to get out of the drab this moment, arriving in the new one. Hang on, I’m going to do it now and I’ll be right back.

…..

James Garfield

I’m back. What a great time it was. I went to visit President James Garfield at the White House. It was July 2nd, 1881. I informed him I was from the future, and that he was going to be shot later that morning. If said if he stayed in, he was certain to be okay. President Garfield didn’t believe me, nor that I was a time traveler. I showed him a book called Brockner’s History of the American Presidents, 1789 to 2018. I opened to chapter twenty which was named after him. President Garfield read the chapter. He looked a little worried. But then said that any book can be written about the future. But that doesn’t make what it says true. I said the difference was this book was written in the future. He said that he didn’t have time for such outlandish silliness and left for the train station.

I followed President Garfield to the Baltimore and Potomac Railroad Passenger Terminal. I was steps behind him, reading out loud from Brockner’s, “President Garfield entered the train station at 9:28 am.” President Garfield looked up at the large clock hanging from the terminal’s ceiling which read 9:28. A worried look crossed his face, but Garfield continued walking toward the trains. I read loudly, “Assassin Charles Guiteau hid by the ladies waiting room near the Sixth Street Station where Garfield’s train was scheduled to depart.” Garfield looked back at me with great consternation, saying,
“Must you continue this audacity?”

There were screams. Garfield turned around and gasped as a man approached in his direction with a gun.  The man said to me, “Excuse me, but what are you reading from?” I held up the book for him to see. He read the passage with a raised eyebrow. He said, “That’s astounding. This mentions me. How is it possible Brockner’s could know?” By then police had arrived and took the man into custody. President Garfield sighed and said, “I am sorry to have disbelieved you. The country is in your debt.” I loved hearing those words. I often don’t feel I make a difference. Time travel filled that hole.

 

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Sniffed!

Sniffed!

sniff

I got in my time machine and traveled to 1850, Concord, Massachusetts, and the home of Nathaniel Hawthorne. I knocked at the door and when the author opened and answered, I leaned in, my nose in his jacket, and took a deep sniff. There’s something about truly smelling an author. Sure, you can read their book, and get into the inner workings of their vast minds. But there’s something raw, crunchy, carnal, and cosmic when you take a good whiff of the writer. Hawthorne understood. He stood still while I partook. He knew I needed more than his words could supply. When I got it, I stepped back and thanked him. He nodded and wished me the best.

Recently I time traveled to October 1863, San Raphael, California, and the publishing offices of the Overland Monthly. I walked into the office of writer Bret Harte. He asked how he could help me, I said, “Excuse me,” and leaned in and took a deep inhale. Bret waited patiently. When I was done, I thanked him and left. I’d never read Bret’s writings, but he was especially close with Mark Twain, and I wanted to get that Twain spoor through him. I had tried to get it from Twain, but he refused saying author sniffing was sure bunk.

And then there was that time I ventured to July 1816, Geneva, to the Maison Chapuis, the summer home of the writer Mary Shelley. Mary was out back, writing in a chaise lounge. I got excited because I’d never inhaled an author while they wrote. I didn’t want to be pushy like I’d been with the men, and asked her if it was okay if I took a snuffle while she scribed. She asked if instead she might sniff me while she wrote, incorporating my aroma into the character she was bringing to life. I acquiesced and she took me in. That book was Frankenstein.

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There’s nothing better

There’s nothing better

Rexy

I like to sit around and do nothing. There’s nothing better.

Sure, laying down doing nothing can be a sweet and decent thing. But then it often spoils because I’ll fall asleep and dream-go to some other place and circumstance where I’m up, hectically having to do things. Yeah, it is a simpler form of time and space travel. Though you don’t get to pick your destination. But then if things go afoul and unfixable in the dream, I’ll soon wake up, back in my bed where all is well. Unless I fall back asleep. That’s why I prefer sitting and doing nothing.

This morning I was sitting in my big old leather lounge chair doing nothing. I looked forward to six to eight hours of this perfect loveliness, when my dog Rexy got up from her doggie bed and walked into the Time Machine. I languidly told her to get out of there. She looked at me, said, “Whatever,” slapped her pawn on the destination pad and was gone in an instant.

For the first time, sitting and doing nothing was ruined. I was frantic. I had no idea where Rexy had gone to in time. She had never done this on her own before. I got up and started pacing. Pacing is one of the most brilliant things invented. Franticness is an agitator, but pacing is a nullifier. Within two minutes I’d forgotten all about Rexy. Within a few more minutes I was getting my second wind and started questioning my sitting around assumption. Perhaps pacing was better. Sure, it starts with conniption, but that assuages to peacefulness. Plus I get exercise!

Suddenly Rexy returned in the Time Machine. She was soaked, covered with seaweed, and had a flopping grouper fish in her mouth. She shook off the water and the seaweed, getting much of it on me. I called her a bad girl, and she gave me the slight eye. She laid down in her doggie bed and began eating the fish.

I pulled off the seaweed, and put it outside in the compost bin. I came back in and changed into dry clothes. I sat back in my big old leather lounge chair and tried to continue with the nothing, but got irritated with Rexy’s loud chewing. It came to me that I was hungry. I got down on the ground with Rexy and took a bite out of other end of the fish she hadn’t gotten to yet. It was incredibly fresh tasting. I thought, “There’s nothing better than this.”

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Abraham Lincoln is my friend

Abraham Lincoln is my friend

Abraham Lincoln is my friend

I was feeling tired and overwhelmed and climbed into my time machine and punched in the keyboard:  4pm, December 21st, 1863, 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. I found President Lincoln at work in his office. He could tell I was tired. He put down his pen, got up, and invited me to the couch. Lincoln sat down and I curled up on his lap. He was a big man. About twice as big as most. He said, “Whatsoever’s wrong, it’s gonna be okay, Brooks.” I fell asleep in seconds.

When I woke up, it was dark. I was laying down on the couch, covered with two blankets. I called out to see if I was alone. No one answered. I got up and left the office and walked around the halls. There was a nightwatchman. He nodded as we passed. He knew me because I’m a frequent visitor. It was incredibly quiet. That’s why I love the night.

Out of all my time travel destinations, Lincoln is the person I visit the most. I feel good enough to say we are friends. Sometimes I’ll visit him when I know he’s feeling low. Like February 20, 1862, when his son Willie had died. I never know what to say in that kind of situation. So I figure it’s best not to say anything. Stand near by, and keep an open heart. Lincoln cried and leaned his head against my chest. I held it as he sobbed. I don’t think there’s anyway to feel closer to someone.

There was the time I visited Lincoln the afternoon of April 15th, 1865 and told him that someone would try and kill him that night if he went to the Ford’s Theater. Lincoln thought about it. Then said he would go to the theater anyway because it was wrong to mess with fate. I said that messing with fate would be fate. You can’t avoid fate since it’s the string puller. Lincoln thought that was a sharp observation and decided to stay home. I enjoyed a nice dinner with Lincoln and his wife, Mary Todd and his son, Tad. We ate turkey, yams, and apple pie.

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Interesting but unknown facts about time and time travel

Interesting but unknown facts about time and time travel

time

Sometimes I like to get in my time machine and skim the surface of time rather than land in any particular moment. I see mountains, storms, sunlight, night, people, animals, machines, trees, water, buildings, and more flit by. I hear a rapid and symphonic warbling intermixture of human, mechanical, and nature sounds. It’s like experiencing a psychedelic movie, consisting of a few frames of multitudes of scenes. I am able to do this by constantly and randomly typing numbers into the time machine’s destination keypad. This also allows me to experience the wind like sensation in time. We don’t notice this breeze when we are in the midst of a moment, with time slowly passing. But this current is the momentum that is responsible for the flow of time. Kind of like the child in a playground, running alongside a wheel, spinning it with the palm of her hand.

…..

Things seem solid when we are experiencing a moment. For instance, right now I feel the soundness of the keys beneath my fingers as I type. But when I time travel back to when I started this paragraph, and hit the slow motion button, it becomes clear to me that microscopic tubes of molecule-based paint squeeze out the densely structured colors of the keys, which are forthwith removed by the unimaginably tiniest of erasers, and again the paint is reapplied to depict the depression caused by fingers on the keyboards. The painting and removal and painting of every thing occur over and over. The actual rapidity of these mechanisms in time create a force that feels solid. In some crazy way its similar to a flip book. I haven’t been able to see who or what chooses, squeezes out, erases, and re-squeezes the paint. The usual given answer is God. But I like to imagine it’s the Universal Infant I like to call Francine.

…..

When I first started time traveling, I kept hearing what sounded like a hum in the background as I went from the present moment to backwards or forwards in time. Eventually I figured it was some kind of malfunction in the Casio Deluxe Timer, and brought it into the shop. Reginald, the mechanic said nothing was wrong with my Timer. He explained that the hum I had been hearing was from Time itself. Time really likes its job and hums when it’s working, just like we do when we are having fun doing a task.

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I’m impatient

I’m impatient

I have over-animated insides. I’m hyper and impatient. Just writing this line, I’m thinking, “Why aren’t I at the end of the sequel to this book?” I like writing, but it doesn’t happen fast enough for my measurement scale of what’s tolerable. I learned to meditate a ways back as a way to try and relax. I do it regularly twice a day. It hasn’t slowed down the inner revving though. It has given me an acceptance of my naturally accelerated ways.

Time travel is perfect for me because it allows instant getting to the place and time I want to be. Of course there is the packing of snacks (some time and space destinations have abysmal food choices), then the walking to the machine, and finally typing in the destination, and sometimes all that seems to take forever (about ten minutes at the most), but I grin and bear it.

Today I took a time travel trip to just outside Caldwell, Idaho, June 10th, 1903. I waited alongside a dusty and dirty barely a road. The waiting wasn’t difficult because I brought a ping pong paddle and ball and began hitting the ball repeatedly up in the air. Sure it’s repetitious if you have to watch me do it, but doing it is illustrious for my mind.

I once waited six and a half hours for Columbus to arrive at the Bahamas in 1492 and the entire time I bounced that ball. I only had to restart four times. When he landed, Columbus was entranced with my ping-ponging and asked if he could try. I said no. He got upset and asked me again. I said he could have it for keeps if he left and went back to Spain. He wanted it so badly he agreed. I gave it to him and traveled back to my present day. When I got home, I got on Wikipedia to see if I changed history. I saw that not only had Columbus lied, venturing down to Central and South America, but he was considered the founder of ping-pong, which was now called Columbusing.)

Bud the dog

Suddenly on the Idaho dirt road I smelled the distinct odor of gas and oil. Then I heard the approach of a loud put-put-puttering from an old-timey automobile. And then there it was, the Winton Motor Carriage, with two human passengers and a dog, coming my way. They stopped, got out the car, and introduced themselves. It was Horatio Nelson Jackson, Sewall Crocker, and their dog, Bud, all wearing goggles. They were in the midst of attempting the first car cross-country drive.

I bent down and pet Bud’s head. It was a nice thick head. That morning I’d seen a Ken Burns documentary about their famous drive, and was enamored of Bud from old silent film newsreel footage that was shown. That was the reason I took this trip. I once time-traveled to 1786, Mount Vernon, Virginia just to meet George Washington’s dog, Madame Moose.