As frame of reference I need to say time is the most frequently used noun in the English language.
Time seems to flow—clocks work—we schedule our lives—we measure duration, rate of change and so forth, but face it—past, present and future are myths. They’re mythical lands you can’t travel to because they don’t exist.
Or, so we’ve been told.
I went someplace last night where I should never have gone
Déjà vu.
The grass looked like cellophane—nothing was real.
I felt detached like I lost my bookmark in reality and could’t find the page.
I heard air raid sirens—I hadn’t hear those in years.
Someone was standing on the street, leaning on a rake burning leaves. You used to be able to do that once upon a time, but you can’t do that now.
Everything looked different in subtle ways. A lot of of the houses still had television antennas on the roofs.
I didn’t see any SUV’s.
I’m in a t-shirt and as I look at my body, I get a shock. My bare arms look different—they look contoured and my stomach flatter—my whole body leaner.
I’m walking down a residential street in the older section of Toronto somewhere around the Bloor West Village. I spot the bright lights of Bloor St and walk faster looking for a mirror or plate glass window where I can see my reflection.
I spot a restaurant and quickly walk toward it.
I go into the washroom and look into the hazy bathroom mirror. My twenty-year old reflection is staring back at me.
The hair on my arms stand up. Everything seems brighter and frightening.
I once read that Graham Greene stared at his hands until he felt himself going mad.
Something similar has happened to me and I'm no longer the man I once was.
Why now—and why me?
Raff stares at me critically, seemingly taking inventory of every pore in my body.
"Well, I have to say, Pal, that this is the same slightly out of shape forty year old body that has to stop for a breather every other mile on our Saturday morning jogs."
I roll my eyes in exasperation. "What kind of answer is that? You're a psychologist for god's sake."
"What would you rather I do—form you and have you committed?"
"So, you think I'm nuts?"
"I think you're over-wrought—I mean, look at you—your hands are trembling and your pupils are dilated. Say, you haven't been using belladonna leaves in your salads have you?"
"Very funny, " I parry, "I'm confiding a disturbing experience to you and you're blowing me off as if I'm some kind of addict coming down from a high."
"Well, I've warned you to cut down on the booze. Maybe you haven't been imbibing the wine of Mandrake but you have to admit you do like exotic drinks and I've got to warn you Absinthe plays with your mind."
"Okay, for the last time, I wasn't drinking. Truth is, I've been trying to follow your advice about pursuing a more healthy lifestyle. I haven't had a drink in weeks and yes, I've been eating a lot more salad, but not from my garden—I buy them ready made at Whole Foods, so, sorry to burst your bubble, Pal, but you're seeing this all wrong."
Raff grows sober—his teasing smile replaced by a concerned frown.
"Okay, Paul— I believe you. You obviously have had some kind of anomalous experience, but now we've got to try to get to the bottom of it—figure out what this is all about."
I'm glad and a bit relieved that Raff is finally taking me seriously, but I'm also deeply concerned. What if I'm experiencing some form of dissociation—could this be a precursor to some form of pathological state?
I'm almost afraid of what he may find out.
