The following is an excerpt from a novel-in-progress called An American History (or, Field Notes on Time Travel).
For a brief period in 2010, I had a girlfriend. I did not tell her about the time machine. I know that, in a relationship, you are supposed to be open and honest about everything. Secrets, generally speaking, are not good for relationships. But how do you tell even your girlfriend that you have crossed the threshold of the fourth dimension?
I blame the time machine for our eventual break-up. When we argued, I tried to put things in perspective. Ever since I discovered the time machine, I was always trying to put things "in perspective," which usually meant placing our current conflict in the broad spectrum of the life of the universe, to show it's relative smallness. This tactic never worked.
Once, for example, we were arguing about the fact that I didn't own a car.
"I am always the one who drives!" she shouted angrily.
"I understand your frustration," I replied, "but in geologic time, the entirety of human existence is just a tiny fraction of the story."
"What the hell does that have to do with you not having a car!?"
"I'm just trying to put things in perspective."
And so on.
|Geologic Time Spiral|