That Space Trip

I tried to make it work.

How hard can it be when you don’t believe that time exists? Think of it. Here I am a (for lack of a better word) librarian responsible for late earth culture and whatnot, trying to process what exactly?

That time does not exist.

We are not far removed from the idea that existence is not real—except, of course, it is. Most people give up at this point, but not me. I have a job to do.

I guess it is time for minutia. He is right before me while my mind is in the clouds. A simple question?

“Mister, I heard that people visited us, and they didn’t stay. Spacemen?”

“Space people?” I say helpfully. (How kids get so…cute with me, the engaging interloper that I am!)

His eyes widen. “Yeah, that’s it! Got something on that?”

I’m so used to more significant questions that it doesn’t occur to me to dumb anything down!

Circa 5790-5791, oddities and quirks of nature catalog, bipeds, and organics, under rejected for publication…

I’m losing him. Off he goes.

#

I’m not a librarian. I did say that, didn’t I? Strictly speaking, the gathering of information is time-bound, isn’t it? Why would you bother?

So it’s a problem that doesn’t express my meaning either! Not the literal meaning of librarian, but the figurative, imaginative sense. Not that people find librarians to be all that interesting!

Living out of time is so discombobulating! There’s a word for the ages! Or is it a word? What if I make it into a word, and a dictionary assimilates it, and then? Aren’t we right back where we started? Time-bound when time does not exist!

What is reality anyway?

“You again?”

The words appear, and I speak them. Adorable as the kid is, he remembers how I talked to him last time. His mother is making him speak to me. I can see she’s hoping I don’t see her, making “Go on!” motions with her arms and mouthing unheard encouragement.

“Please, mister…space people did visit us! I need to write about it for school!”

“School?” I mouth. Now, there is a concept! Juveniles attending institutions to acquire knowledge about space people whose journey to visit us and their very existence were rejected for publication and public belief! What can I say? I feel so discombobulated!

“What would you like to know?”

“Everything!”

I rustle through this and that. So much is blanked out or redacted, and people have so much to write about…their opinions, of course, more than anything.

Opinions supplant evidence, and rejected opinions are called “doctrine.” I suppose the word “doctrinaire” describes someone with an opinion that cannot be accepted? When did that word become a pejorative description of anyone’s firm knowledge of anything?

Oh, so easy! Doctrine became a pejorative term when people made their opinions the arbiter of truth! How ironic! What is used to describe something as acceptable and true becomes a dismissive term for an opinion that has no credence!

Oh, what insight! I can barely think of anything else: opinions swallow everything until nothing is left—to the point that we no longer believe that cause and effect matters anymore!

Thus the principle component of time no longer has any meaning. Our very beings are short circuited.

“Here.” I toss him a chit. He’s galloping for joy. In ever wider circles with Mom looking on.

Then she sidles over, not meaning to talk to me but doing it anyway.

“You’ve got some nerve treating a child in such a difficult manner!”

I am affronted. There must be doctrine at the stake here. “Sorry, dear! What was your name? Karen, what?”

I have excellent hearing—so much better than anyone else. She’s leaving in a huff. Muttering, "My name is not Karen!"

“Spit it out, why don’t you!” I roar.

#

So then, I started my journey into space. We are all space travelers, don’t you know? Bending time and thought to our will. I think therefore I am someone said.

I am that someone. Lowly me, so engrossed in myself, yet somehow aware of what?

The journey. Of course. This time, it will be accepted for publication.

Yes, it was a spaceship—Earth, of course. Who else? They were so naïve. Such idealism! Unlike how we are now, there were many discoveries in the offing.

Who could blame them? Blameless! What a perfect state, a virginal state of mind not consumed with doubt and self-loathing. Little did they know!

It started with nothing—trifles. Someone hid the best breakfast cereal so they could have it for themselves. That part wasn’t recorded, but you could infer it if you looked hard enough.

It was a crummy job following that trail right to the heart of the problem. Why did it all fall apart? I can't hardly believe it myself!

#

But the more we understand how we come to understand things, the more simple things become. The failure of the most crucial mission in Earth’s history was anything but uneventful.

The fight over breakfast cereal was between who exactly? Their names were redacted as if such a detail didn’t matter. What improvised weapons they used were a matter of public record, though that also disappeared later.

The curious thing about those who change history is that they like to keep a record of the truth for themselves. A prize pony or special doodah for guests. A great help to us winged souls who come later?

But I digress. You aren’t interested in who makes “truth,” are you? Especially when it is all a matter of opinion? Any more than you are wondering whether reality is real! Cut to the punchline. Be a standup comic why don’t you? They know when a joke falls flat.

#

She’s glaring at me, her tyke in tow. It’s the next day, but it could be a moment later—what difference would that make? Clammy hands and a sweaty brow complement my nonchalance. I’m waiting for the moment when I enter his office.

He’s a mess. Everything is that way these days.

“Come in!” he sighs, even though I’m already there. How does that happen? Is there some rip in whatever and space?

It’s a shambles, that office of his. Oh, sure, tidy by appearance, but the way he looks at everything, his head bent down, eyes shifting everywhere, there could never be a correct answer.

To anything. Or anyone. He throws the library complaint form at me.

“It's your third this month,” he slurs.

I say nothing. No need. It would just be my opinion anyway. I snatch the form and go to gather my things.