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Sunday, April 8, 2018

I Was the Perturbation in the Reality Field (A Remembrance of Time Irreal)

It was 1971, four years before I would be born, and I was being pursued by the forces of darkness. They were big men in bad ties and cheap shoes, low men from high places with badges and budgets and guns.  They were, some of them, government agents – from various governments. They were FBI, and CIA, and KGB, and Mossad – operating outside and beyond the laws of their respective nations. They were also agents of the Washington Post and the L.A. Times, and, strangely, the Ancient Order of Oddfellows (Lodge # 237).  They were men with shotguns and dogs, and they were prepared to shotgun the dogs as soon as they’d shotgun me if things didn’t go their way. These were seriously bad men.

And they pursued me, all of them, for the same reason: they’d been led to believe that I had developed the ability to make time run backwards, that I’d progressed a step or two on the evolutionary track (even though that’s not how evolution works), that I’d been raised a little higher than the angels (even though the psalmist says clearly that even though I may be crowned with glory and honor, I’m still a little lower than the angels).

It was bunk, of course. A lie. Fake news. Unsubstantiated rumor. Baseless and useless speculation. I can’t make time run backwards. That’s science-fiction. Nevertheless, it was 1971, four years before I would be born, and I was being pursued by a grim, demonic chorus of shouting, dangerous men. It was 1971 and I had just burgled the house of science-fiction author, Philip K. Dick. I’d stepped through the pink light of a time slip, leaving behind Iowa in the year 2017 and found myself in California 1971. And there I’d stolen his files and used a homemade explosive device to destroy his safe.

But don’t call it time travel; that’s science-fiction and this is a true story of time irreal. Or maybe it’s not a true story, but only a remembrance of time irreal. I’d slipped through time and space (which are, in fact, two parts of the same thing) using a technique taught to me by Horselover Fat. I was the Tachyon Bombardment. I was the perturbation in the reality field. But this is not of myself; I have no cause to boast.

I ran. I ran through darkened alleys and ducked down narrow passages. I scaled buildings and dodged traffic. I ran and I ran and I ran until I was caught. An arm out of nowhere clotheslined me. I fell and hit my head. Blackness. Darkness. Void.

When I awoke I was shackled, feet and wrist, to a board. A heavy cloth lay over my face. A voice spoke to me. “You’re awake. So now there will be questions. And then there will be water.”

“Who are you?” I asked, my words dampened by the cloth that covered my mouth.

“Yes. That is a question. I am Thomas. That is all you need to know. But there is much I would know from you. Answer me. Why do you reject the powers of this world?”

And before I could answer, water was poured over the cloth over my face. I could not breathe; I could only gag. I could not scream; I could only die. And then the water stopped.

“Why do you resist? Why do you call our power injustice?” And the water came again. Breathless, I drowned, and drowning I died until the water stopped again.

“Who is the King of Tears?” 

“I don’t kno-” I shouted before the water could wash over me again, but I was cut off. I was cut down.

“Who is Diakanos?”

“I know…” I gasped. “I know who you are.” I waited for the water, but it was held back for a time. “I know who you are, Thomas, called Didymus, the evil twin. You are a murderer, part of a hellish crew, son of lust and pride. You are Pigspurt. You are pig iron, and I am being held in the Black Iron Prison, right? You are the suppressor of information, and the disseminator of disinformation. You are a thought control device.You lie.”

There was only silence. I spoke again, my voice stronger now. “Christ is risen! Get you gone!” My voice echoed in the silence of the void. Then, a clang and clatter as my shackles fell loose, I was free. I sat up and removed the wet cloth from my face. I had only moments to register the dungeon where I’d been tortured before the room filled with an intense pink light.

And I was home again, Iowa 2017.

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Muted Hosannas Muted Hosannas
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