Spaced Out

I took the day off and sat on the Moon. I looked out at the Earth for a little while, but got restless because it reminded me of all the things I that I needed to get away from.

So I walked to the other side of the Moon, sat on the edge or a crater, and looked out at Space. Space has no depth or definition, but there’s an is-ness about it that shook my coil and sent me into a trance. My dog Rexy was sitting next to me, and started barking to bring me back.

I snapped out of it and patted her head. She tried to lick my hand, but her tongue ended up licking the inside of the glass of her space helmet.

Life’s embarrassments never end

Time-traveling is a lot like eating. I get a hankering to visit a particular person/event, like I need a pastrami sandwich right away. Today I felt compelled to go back in time to Sharpsburg, Maryland, September 17th, 1862 – the Civil War battle of Antietam. This was an embarrassing attempt to confront one of my greatest crushes –  the famous nurse, Clara Barton.

I had to wander around in great peril on the battlefield in search for Clara. It was as bad as you can imagine. I’d rather not go into detail because I’m still rattled. Eventually I found my way to the Union hospital tent. There she was, glowing like the Sun on its first day of work.

I was overcome and almost backed out, but when time-traveling, you need to be bold, like you’re supposed to be where you are in time, otherwise time will spot an anomaly, and crush you like a Dixie-cup under a bull’s hoof.

I went up to her and said, “Nurse Clara?” She looked up from assisting a surgery and said, “Yes?” I hesitated for a moment as I noticed:  her white dress was blood-spattered, and smelled like rotting meat; the patient on the table was screaming, while blood spurted up between Clara and I like a fountain in a park; a mortar exploded next to the tent, tearing away half the canvas, obliterating a handful of convalescing soldiers. In my distraction, I felt the walls of time pushing in, threatening to smite me.

I gained back my courage, leaned forward, and kissed Clara Barton. I felt nothing. How could this be? I’d been imagining “sky rockets in flight.”

I apologized to Clara, saying I misjudged our distance, and that I was there to help assist with the wounded. I sensed that she knew otherwise, and that I hadn’t been the first to be so blatantly impudent.

She put me to work picking up amputated legs and arms from the floor. And so it goes.

Going back to visit Haystack

This time around I got in my time-travel machine and ventured back to the White House, September 1862.

I went wandering around the halls. I noticed president Lincoln — he nodded at me, and I nodded back. I often visit with him on my time travels, but I didn’t feel like it today.

I walked until I saw another friend, John Milton Hay, as I like to call him, “Haystack.” Haystack was/is  Lincoln’s secretary. (I never know what tense to use in time travel situations. When you go back and forth in time as often as a Netflix addict watches shows, you kind of forget what past and future is anyway.)

I try to visit Haystack once a month, because he’s funny. I mean, Lincoln will pull out a good joke every so often, and I’ll chuckle. But Haystack’s job is to go through all of Lincoln’s correspondence and write back to people, so he often has to deal with the dregs of society. People who think of things in terms of demons and possessions — that kind of thing. So he has to be funny or he’d go nuts.

When I saw him, he was sitting at his desk, held up a letter and said, “Get a load of this Hullabaloo. From Tuscaloosa. Freston K. Pierce. He writes the President saying, ‘Whad en taurnation r yah biffoons doin?’ How am I supposed to answer this? You tell me! In the future, do the people get any smarter?”

All I imagined was laying down on the floor of the White House. That’s because time travel tiredness overcame me, as it often does after the first few minutes of going down the backstairs of time. So I decided to lie down. My face was on the wood floor, and I could hear creaking sounds as the White House staff walked. It was like listening to waves on the ocean. I mumbled something really dumb, like “Creakin’s good.”

(The above picture of Lincoln in the middle, Haystack on the right, and me on the left was taken by White House photographer Mathew Brady. All it cost me was a duck’s foot, and a pinch of chaw!)

 

Time spent with St. Francis

I walked around the church of St. Mary of the Angels. It was a church in the town of Assisi. It was the year 1221. I had arrived a few minutes earlier by way of my time-travel machine, which I had parked behind some cranberry bushes. I always hide my time vehicle when traveling, ever since I saw Marty McFly hide his in the Back to the Future movies.

I came upon a ram-shackled hut next the church and knocked. Out came a delicate man in rags. I said, “St. Francis?” I think he sensed I didn’t speak Italian and he nodded. I nodded back.

I handed him a honey crisp apple that I’d brought with me. They are the most delicious apples. I motioned for him to take a bite. He took a bite, but didn’t smile in delight. Smiling was not a thing back in those days. Through natural evolution, humans finally acquired the smiling muscles in the year 1923. St. Francis eyes glimmered though so I knew I’d hit the gift jackpot. He finished the apple down to the pit.

We went for a walk around the countryside. We didn’t talk but held hands. Back then men could hold hands. It was actually common. Not holding hands with a man you were walking with was considered a great insult, and often resulted in time spent in the stockades.

 

Traveling in time to visit Chopin for inspiration

I took my time-travel machine to summer 1831 in Paris and the home of Frédéric Chopin. Chopin was in the midst of unpacking from his move. I offered to help, and he accepted. I’ve always liked helping people move. I used to do it as a job. I couldn’t believe I got to help others move and get paid for it!

I asked where he had moved from and Chopin said Warsaw in Poland. He asked me where I was from, and I said California, 2018. He said that I was the fourth visit from a time-traveler that year. Two of those times were from conductors who had questions about one of his pieces that they were preparing for a performance. Another had shown up from a Google time-travel “I’m feeling lucky” random visit.

I said I was visiting because my sound system was down and I wanted to listen to some soothing classical music. It helps me write. I showed Chopin my notebook and three pens. Chopin said that he hadn’t unpacked his piano. I said I could help. Chopin said that he was feeling tired and needed to rest.

We went out to his back porch and he laid down on a cot. He was asleep in seconds. He looked like a corpse, frail and pale. I watched him breathe. On his exhale, there was often a five second gap before his inhale. No matter how many times it happened, I kept thinking that he had died. This made me nervous. I often think the worst of things.

Chopin woke about an hour or so later. I asked how he was feeling. He said better. He said that he didn’t feel he had the stamina to unpack and play his piano that day, and would it be okay if he were to hum me some melodies. I said that would be nice.

I opened my notebook, pen in hand ready to write. Chopin began to hum in a craggy voice. It was upsetting to me, but I kept that private, hoping that he was only warming up and would soon sound mellifluous. But the jagged urks continued. I sensed that their underlying melodies were sublime. Yet I was in turmoil. I wrote things like, “How do I regularly find myself in these kind of shitty situations?” and, “I want to jam my pen in his eye.”

Finally I excused myself to use the restroom. From the toilet I could slightly hear Chopin’s harsh hums, but they was mixed with sounds from the city: horses hoofs, street hawkers, children at play, bird chirps and whistles, chatter and shouts from various people, clanks from a blacksmith. I sat on the toilet, opened my notebook, and began to write.