A good deal faster than the first absorption.
I call it absorption because that seems, to me, the best description of it now. It is as though-instantaneously-I am drawn inward. First, there's a drifting sensation, one of mounting disorientation. I hear the music but it seems to have no meaning to me. I stare at the moving pencil point but it is a phenomenon apart from my self. It isn't me writing those words appearing on the paper; they're writing themselves. A mist begins to gather around me until my area of visibility is reduced to the pencil point. The music takes on a thick, distorted sound as though I'm going deaf. Then it stops entirely. No, that's wrong. It's not that the music stops but that, abruptly, I am no longer in its presence. I know the music is continuing. It's just that I am elsewhere and it doesn't reach my ears. The elsewhere being 1896.
This time I was aware of my body being there as well. I felt the mattress-or a mattress-under me. Which means that, where the first time was entirely a mental traveling to 1896, a momentary awareness of being there, this time I was there in the flesh. Physically, I was lying in this room in 1896. For five or six seconds, I was there completely, mind and body.
The sensation of returning was different too. The first time, it was rapid, somewhat jarring. I was, in a sense, yanked back; it was unpleasant to experience.
This time it was more like . . . slipping? Not exactly. Something like it, though. A physical sensation akin to sliding backward through a film, I think. Skip it, I can't reduce it to words. I only know it happened. The point is that the zone of conjunction, whatever it may be-an entryway, an opening, a film-is something very close and very thin.
Very available too. I feel as though it surrounds me even as I sit here, ostensibly in 1971, commenting on it. Time 2 I'll call it for lack of a better description. It is only a heartbeat away from us at all times. No, that's wrong too. It's not away from us at all. It's with us. We are unaware of its presence, that's all. With application, though, one can become aware of it and reach it. I have to try again.
I feel so close now. I wonder if I should dispense with the pencil and paper. Those instructions, written hundreds of times, are etched on my mind. Why shouldn't I just lie down and repeat them mentally to myself while I listen to the music?
Why not indeed?
� � �
One forty-three p.m. Must dictate this quickly before I forget the details.
The record had stopped when I returned from my absorption so I don't know when it occurred.
I know it was fantastic, though.
It had to have lasted more than a minute. It seemed much longer than that but I don't want to overestimate.
It happened this long, however: that I was able to see a painting on the wall that is not in this room as I sit here now.
When it happened, the conviction came first. That seems part and parcel of it each time. My eyes were closed but I was awake and knew I was in 1896. Perhaps I "felt" it around me; I don't know. There was no doubt in my mind at any rate. And there was, in addition, tangible evidence before I opened my eyes.
As I lay there, I heard a peculiar, crackling noise. I didn't open my eyes because I didn't want to take a chance on losing the absorption. I lay on the mattress, motionless, feeling it beneath me, feeling my clothes, feeling breath go in and out of me, feeling the warmth of the room, and hearing that odd, crackling noise. I even reached up once, without thinking, to scratch my nose because it was itching. That doesn't sound like much, I know, but consider the implication.
It was my first physical act in 1896.
I was there, my body lying in this room in 1896. So firmly entrenched that I was able to reach up my hand to scratch my nose and still remain. However banal the action, it was a portentous moment.
Clock time had not yet reestablished itself in my system though. That, too, is part of the process, it seems. To achieve Time 2, I have to leave Time 1 completely. But, once in 1896, I have to reestablish Time 1 in my system so I can function and remain there. Which could be an explanation of why I was yanked back the first time; because my consciousness was so totally in Time 2 that I had no anchor to hold me to 1896. That's too clumsy a word. Let's say connective tissue, that connective tissue being-initially at any rate-Time 1.
Well, this time I did establish enough Time 1 awareness in myself to analyze my surroundings. Because the crackling sound, which, for a while, was as far from being understood by me as Einstein's most advanced theory, did become apparent finally. It was the fireplace.
I was lying in the room in 1896, listening to the sound of a fire in the fireplace.
My heart beats heavily as I say it.
I wonder, really, how long all this took. A good percentage of my consciousness, I feel, remained in Time 2; if it hadn't, I'd still be in 1896. Accordingly, my interpretation of clock time in 1896 had to be inaccurate. I suspect I wasn't there anywhere near as long as I recall.
Whatever the period of time, however, after a while I opened my eyes.
At first, I didn't dare to move. True, I'd scratched my nose but it hadn't been a deliberate move; it had succeeded, I believe, by the very nature of its unawareness. To make a conscious move, however-a volitional move-seemed more perilous to me, defying the situation I was in.
So I did nothing; lay there totally immobile, staring at the ceiling; tried to hear other things besides the crackling of the fire but couldn't. Two possibilities there. Either the crackling of the fire drowned out other sounds, or I wasn't there completely enough to hear those sounds.
The feeling I have is that I was, in fact, in a pocket of 1896. Perhaps this is the way it works. I certainly can't prove it; probably never will be able to. But, at this moment, that seems to describe it: that, to travel in time, one begins at one's core-one's mind, of course-and radiates the feeling outward, first affecting the body, then making contact with immediate surroundings. The feeling of breaking through a film might well be the moment when one has radiated the inner conviction beyond the limits of the body.
In essence, then, if my theory is sound, I was lying on the bed in 1896 and heard the fireplace which was in 1896- but, beyond that point, 1971 was still in effect.
That sounds insane. Still, why do I feel it so strongly? Why, for instance, didn't I hear the surf in 1896? I should have heard it far more clearly than I hear it now because the ocean was much closer to the hotel then. Yet, I didn't hear it. I didn't hear the sounds of 1971 either because I was cocooned in my shell of 1896. Beyond that shell, I heard nothing. Which indicates, to me, that my theory must have some validity.
Let it go. I keep getting sidetracked from the most important point.
Again, I don't know how long I lay there staring at the ceiling. I only knew that I was in 1896, that the bed beneath me was in 1896, perhaps the entire room around me. The fireplace sound continued unabated and I saw the ceiling clearly and it wasn't the same color as it is now.
Finally, I dared attempt a physical move. Nothing earth-shattering, granted, but, again, in implication, shattering to me. Because it was done by will. It was voluntary; calculated.
I turned my head on the pillow. (I forgot to mention the
pillow but it was there too; in 1896, no doubt of that.) With infinite slowness, I might add; infinite trepidation. Frightened that I'd lose the moment and be taken back to 1971. The confidence I had (and have) about being able to reach 1896 was not evident in that moment. I knew very well that I was there but I lacked the assurance that I could control my remaining.
Odd to think, now, that all the time this was taking place, I didn't once think of Elise and the fact that she was in the same place I was. Perhaps I didn't because she really wasn't at that moment. If my theory is true, she wasn't there because I was in only a fragment of 1896, not in its entirety. All right, to return-once more. I moved my head very slowly on the pillow.
And saw a painting on the wall.
Let me describe it. There were two central figures; that of a mother and son, I gathered. The woman was wearing a gray dress and a white apron. She didn't look young. Her hair was pulled back. She was standing close to her son. She had her hands on his shoulders. I have to amend that. Her right hand was on his left shoulder. It was only my impression that she had her other hand on his other shoulder as well.
The boy was five inches or so taller than she. He wore a coat and -was holding a hat in his left hand-which meant, I suppose, that he was leaving. He might have been arriving, for that matter. No, that wasn't the feeling the painting conveyed; it was one of departure. Now I recall a black umbrella to the left of the mother. It was leaning on something; I don't know what, I didn't see that part of the painting clearly. There was a dog, too, near the umbrella. Sitting on the floor. Medium-sized. Presumably gazing at the boy who was leaving.
On the other side of the painting were figures. An old man or woman seated at a table; I forgot to mention that the mother and son were standing by this table and there was a chair behind the mother. The mother's expression was not a happy one. The boy's face was in profile. He didn't seem to be looking at his mother. Maybe he was supposed to be fighting back emotion; I don't know that either.
I was blinking my eyes to take a harder look when I was brought back.
This time it was even less distinct and rapid. As I blinked my eyes, the painting and the wall went blurry and I felt a drawing sensation all around my body, as though I were being exposed to suction. I knew I was going back; there was enough of a period for me to feel regret, I recall. So it was hardly eye-blink fast.
Then I guess I slept or passed out or-who knows? All I know is that when I opened my eyes, I was back again.
What brought me back, I wonder? Why, when I was there so strongly, did I return? Is it a matter of repetition? I must assume that. Just as I had to repeat-verbally and in writing and in thought-those instructions again and again, apparently I'm going to have to consolidate my position in 1896 again and again until it sticks. A little maddening that, now that I've been there so vividly Still, I must accept it. The process has to be respected. I'll do whatever is necessary to make it permanent.
I must return immediately, though; of that I'm positive. I feel as if I've now constricted my involvement with the present. I know I mustn't-under any circumstances-venture from this spot and enlarge that involvement again. I must break back through that film as soon as possible.
� � �
Later.
There again. Lasted minutes.
� � �
Are ... minutes there ... minutes here?
When I . .. came back .. . adagio still playing. Did I replay it? Can't remember.
Really feel .. . peculiar.
Unreal.
1971 ...feels ...as 1896 did.
Not real.
Lying here . . . feels like . . .
Like it did in 1896.
As though I . . . have to watch myself.
Or lose it.
Funny.
Shall I... turn my head ... describe a-picture on the wall?
To prove I'm here?
Feels that way.
Feeling of . . . impermanence.
As if... I'm really ... man from 1896 ... trying to reach ...
-what?
Odd sensation.
Don't resist it.
� � �
Coming.
God, I feel it coming.
Have to . . . stop . . . talking. Close my . . . eyes, struct my . . . mind.
Tell my . . . my . . .
self, my self tha'. . .
Drifting.
Heavy
Feel.....................so heavy
November 19, 1896
I opened my eyes to see the fire of sunset on the walls and ceiling.
At first, it didn't register. I lay on my back without moving, head and body feeling numb, as though I'd had too much to drink. I knew I hadn't been drinking though. This numbness was caused by something else.
I listened to the surf for minutes before the realization struck me.
The sound of it was infinitely louder than it had ever been before.
I was there.
The knowledge caused a sudden, weblike tingling in my fingertips and all across my face. I looked down at my body-at the dark suit and the pointed boots near the foot of my bed. Then I refocused my eyes and looked beyond.
Where the bureau had been, I saw a fireplace. I couldn't see the hearth because of my position but I saw the mantel made of polished cherry wood and, as the pounding of the surf abated momentarily, heard the crackling of a fire.
Incautiously, I pushed up on my right elbow. For ten to fifteen seconds, the room swam around me darkly and I suffered the dread that I was going back.
Gradually, then, everything assumed a natural perspective and I stared at the fire. To my surprise, I saw coal burning on the grate; I had expected wood. Immediately, I saw how injudicious that would be. A hotel constructed of wood with hundreds of erratic wood fires in its rooms? It would be an invitation to catastrophe.
I looked toward the windows and received another surprise when I saw Venetian blinds. I stared at them in confusion, only realizing gradually-with incredible mental sluggishness, it seemed-that, now, they were made of wood.
My gaze shifted. Instead of drapes, there were white, airy-looking curtains tied back on each side of the windows. The writing table and chair were gone. Against the wall, below the windows, stood a low, rectangular table, a lacelike scarf across its polished surface, a heavy, brass plate lying on the scarf.
I turned my head to the left. There was only one bed in the room, and the bathroom wall was gone. Where the tub and shower had stood was a massive bureau with a large, square mirror hanging above it.
I twisted around carefully and looked up at the framed print on the wall. I couldn't see it very well. Laboredly, I turned myself and strained to my knees on the soft mattress.
The painting was as I'd remembered it except that now I could make out all the details I'd missed. An old woman was sitting in the shadows by the dog, the umbrella leaning against her legs. There were three additional figures as well, located on the right side of the painting; two men and a young girl. One of the men had his back turned away and was holding a grip in his left hand. The other was standing in a doorway, looking toward the boy and mother. My gaze dropped to the tide plate on the bottom of the frame. Breaking Home Ties by Thomas Hovenden.