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.

Flitched the Horse goes for it!

I rode my horse, Flitched, through the desert until we reached the edge of the cliff. There was a beautiful sunset splayed out in front of us.

Flitched said, “I want to snort it.”

I encouraged Flitched who stuck his head out towards the sunset and snorted deeply over and over. After a few minutes, bright reds, oranges, and yellows broke away from the sunset and their thin colorful rivers traveled across the expanse and into Flitched’s big nostrils.

After fully ingesting the sunset, Flitched let out a tremendous belch, warbling the air with a mini and misty rainbow.

Time-travel visit in attempt to learn from Gustave Flaubert

I took my time-travel machine to Paris 1855 and the home of writer Gustave Flaubert. He was in the midst of working on his first novel, Madame Bovary. He briefly looked up at me and the time-machine and went back to writing. That’s what I was hoping for. I’d heard that Gustave was a writer of amazing discipline, and I wanted to learn that skill from him.

See, I’m a lazy writer. Sure, I have a notebook and pens. But I’m more drawn to sitting under a tree in my backyard, or digging a hole in my yard until I strike an underground river. It’s only when I’m tired of being outside in these ways that I come inside and write.

I sat in a chair across from Gustave and watched him write with fury. He wrote as if the paper was certain to tear. He dabbed his pen in the ink well as if he were a diver coming to the surface of the water for a quick gasp of air before diving back under. I was inches from him, but for him I was not there. This was his pattern page after page.

Eventually Gustave passed out on his desk from exhaustion. I found a blanket and covered him. I mopped the sweat off his brow. I waited. A few hours later he awoke and attacked the paper, striking it with words at a rate faster than one could read them. I watched with equal intensity.

Hours later I got back in my time-machine and rode back to the present day with a new determination. But when I arrived, I went out to my backyard, got out the shovel, and began to dig.

Time-traveling to Spring 1960 in Wisconsin

I got in my time-travel machine and traveled to a back road in Wisconsin in the spring of 1960. There was no traffic, but soon there was a car approaching. I stuck out my thumb. The car pulled over and the driver asked where I was heading. I said to Kenosha. The driver said so were they and I got in.

Inside was Massachusetts senator John F. Kennedy and his driver. Kennedy said he was on his way to speak as a candidate at a rally for the Democratic Primary.

I told them that I was a time-traveler. I’m always honest about this because even though most of the time people think I’m just being poetic, they feel comfortable and open up to me.

Kennedy joked, “Okay, Mister Time-Traveler, what does the future hold for me?” I said that he would win the primary, and go on to win the Presidency. Kennedy laughed and said, “Well, I like the sounds of that!”

Kennedy asked if I would like a campaign button. I said yes and while he pinned it on me, he looked me in the eye and said, “You’re not from around here.”

I said that I was from California. Kennedy said, “What brings you here?”

I said that I like to travel. Kennedy said, “A kindred spirit. I’m most at home while away from home. I feel like I’m meant to move, like the wind.”

I suddenly got very sleepy, a common occurrence that first hour of going back in time. I asked if it would be okay if I took a nap. Kennedy said, “I’m mighty tired myself. Let’s say we both take a sleeper.” I closed my eyes and was gone.

When I awoke, Kennedy and I were nestled together, like two puppies, post litter. He smelled like Brut by Faberge, a cologne my dad wore often when I was a kid.

Milksop

I stuck my head out the window of my home and looked up at the cloudy sky. I cleared my throat and began to address the clouds, when the clouds said, “Yes, what is it?!”

I said, “Um, would you…”

The clouds said, “Would we what?!”

I said, “Ah, nothing” and went back into my house.

My dog Rexy looked up at me with disapproval.

My dog Rexy let herself out. I heard her bark. I heard the clouds respond. Rexy cut them off with a ferocious volley of barks. The clouds were silent. The sunshine came through the window.

Rexy let herself back in and said, “Okay, now can we go for a walk?”