Then Again Page 5
During my vision I seemed to travel to another dimension, a mysterious vantage point from which I could see the complex interplay of subatomic particles depicted as a dance, not unlike the dances we Native Americans often perform to bring us closer to nature. The particles themselves appeared as vibrating or oscillating strings, creating the music for this dance. Parallel to this, I saw these strings represented in numbers, like a mathematical translation. And even though I had no idea what the equations meant, I realized that all this so-called spiritual stuff was actually rooted in a digital realm of complex mathematics. The overwhelming impression I came away with was of an infinite universe made up of random vibratory patterns that could be resolved into a kind of harmonic stasis through the simple act of observation. Just as the random vibrations of guitar strings can be manipulated through touch to create the harmonic beauty of a chord or melody.
Many years later, while I was studying some of the ancient philosophers’ theories, I began to equate this orchestral perception with what Pythagoras called the music or harmony of the spheres. It was Pythagoras, by the way, who first discovered that the pitch of a musical note is directly related to the length of the string that produces it, and that the intervals between harmonious sound frequencies could be expressed as numerical ratios. This, to me, explained the numbers I was visualizing during my quest. It also led me to take up music and learn to play the guitar, but that’s another story.
The great takeaway from that experience only became evident after many years of theoretical experimentation and spiritual meditation, during which I began to develop some extraordinary skills. I soon found that I could observe this realm of subatomic vibration in two different, yet equally serviceable ways: one spiritual, the other scientific. And it was then that the significance of my youthful vision quest began to come into focus. Unfortunately, by that time I was so steeped in the egocentric pursuit of fame as a theoretical mathematician, I was having a hard time seeing the forest for the trees, so to speak. And when I realized this narrow viewpoint was holding me back, I decided to return to the source of my enlightenment, even though I knew it would lead to ostracism from the academic world of my peers.
When I tried to explain to some of my more liberal colleagues that I wanted to work from both ends of the spectrum, to combine my spiritual insights with traditional mathematical formulae, I was written off as a nut case. But despite the criticism, I felt sure I was on to something—so sure that I resigned from my various positions and traveled back to South Dakota to solicit the advice of Billy Skywalker, my medicine man. There, I was embraced by my tribe like a prodigal son, and Billy, who was then in his nineties, recommended another vision quest. He organized a sweat and some other preparatory rituals, and soon I was on my way up into the hills, with only my pouch containing a few herbs and sacred relics, and a small skin of water.
As before, I fasted for days, hoping to receive guidance from my ancestors. I can’t say how long I was up there, only that I was nearly dead from starvation and completely delirious before I had my second vision. Again, I was transported to that other dimension, only this time what I saw seemed different. Looking back, I don’t think anything had changed, only my way of perceiving things, and I assumed this was because my intellect and spiritual awareness had matured. Whatever the reason, I saw the entirety of space-time as a dynamic landscape of oscillating strings and numbers, much like an orchestra performing a probability symphony, with the vibrating strings playing the melody and the numbers representing the time signature. The experience was staggering, both intellectually and spiritually, and I was so enthralled that I began to imagine myself as the maestro, directing and manipulating the rhythm of this cosmic orchestra. I tried my best to influence the music, but I was unsuccessful, and I realized I was going to need some assistance in the form of consultation with some of my colleagues in order to move to the next stage. After talking it over with Billy, I decided to return to the academic world and expand my knowledge in hopes of learning how to become a conductor rather than just a member of the audience.
The only problem with my plan was that, in order to accomplish this goal, I needed access to specific researchers at the cutting edge of quantum physics and theoretical chemistry. And since I was unemployed, with dwindling financial resources, I had to find a way to accumulate a certain amount of wealth in order to reposition myself geographically, socially, and academically. Up until that time I’d never given much thought to making money, but once I realized I was going to need a substantial amount of it, I put my acquired knowledge to work developing ideas that might have some practical application. It wasn’t long before I was applying for patents and signing contracts with pharmaceutical companies and manufacturers in the aerospace industry.
The first of these patents was for a little thing I called an HHDR Photon Engine, a super-miniature, wave-based generator that today serves as the power source for some of the more advanced medical 3D imaging devices. This led to the development of a few other products and processes, and I eventually parlayed these into what most folks would probably think of as a small fortune.
If you’re wondering why I chose to settle so far from my homeland, the reason is that I wanted to be in close proximity to the most advanced quantum physics facility in the world. You’ve probably never heard of it, but it’s called CERN and it houses the LHC, or Large Hadron Collider, the largest supercollider ever built. This location, coupled with my willingness to provide several generous grants and endowments, gave me the opportunity to once again consult with the top researchers in quantum physics and biochemistry, and even to have occasional access to the LHC.
That was about ten years ago, and since then I’ve come up with a set of algorithms that combine experimental quantum mechanics with a synthesis of the chemicals that affect the brain during spiritual or transcendental experiences. By duplicating the brain chemistry that results from the complex interplay of physical and spiritual forces involved in these experiences, and combining it with a unique magnetic accelerative environment, I’ve been able to do some rather amazing things. You’ve seen a few simple, though somewhat limited examples, and if you found those demonstrations to be magical, let me assure you that, in the words of Randy Bachman, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”
Anyway, I’m sure you’re about to write all this off as so much supernatural horse manure, but before you do, consider that the greatest minds of today believe in things that cannot be seen, touched, understood, or validated in any way except through mathematical computation and a few rudimentary experiments in supercolliders. How much of a leap would it take, then, to accept that there is a way to observe and interact with these strange phenomena from a new vantage point? A vantage point that results from combining the illogical precepts of quantum mechanics with the seemingly preternatural power of spirituality as expressed through chemistry? Certainly this concept is no more fantastic than those the scientific community has already accepted as fact.
Think about it.
The Showdown
Heyoka’s speech sobered me like the flashing blue lights of a cop car appearing in my rearview mirror. Wheels spun in my head as I tried to comprehend the convoluted explanation he’d offered. But clear comprehension was beyond my intellectual capacity, and I soon realized that accepting his story as the unvarnished truth would require a serious leap of faith. Problem was, I had abandoned my faith in the supernatural as a teenager, when my devoutly religious parents, going against all church doctrine, decided to get a divorce. Upon hearing this news, I had locked myself in my room for three days, praying to God with all my might, asking Him to keep them together. In a way, my self-imposed exile was like Heyoka’s vision quest, except that it did not provide the desired results.
The story Heyoka told was compelling, mainly because I had personally experienced some rather astonishing evidence of his claimed abilities. I could easily attribute this to the random musings of a drunken mind. But as heavy a drinker as I’d bec
ome, I’d never hallucinated on alcohol the way I had on LSD, nor had I ever blacked out or lost track of time. My memory had become fuzzy and I tended to forget things I should remember, but that fact only made those trips back in time seem more amazing. Finally, I decided to admit my confusion.
“You’re going to have to slow down,” I said, retreating to the fiddle bar, pouring myself a drink, downing it, then pouring another and returning to the table. “I really do want to give you the benefit of the doubt and believe what you say, but a lot of it is beyond me. So why don’t you skip the scientific jargon and explain what you mean in plain English? And while you’re at it, I’d like to know why you’re telling me these things, why you’re giving me these demonstrations.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll give it my best shot. The explanation has to do with my ability to observe the past from a position outside space-time. All the complicated stuff about string theory and music of the spheres is irrelevant, other than to explain that I’m able to view the universe from a unique perspective. More important is the fact that I can move about in that outside realm at will, poking my head in where and when I want, to observe and, if I choose, record, any event I wish.”
I started to say something, but he held up a hand. “Please let me finish,” he said. “The second stage of this ability, which I have yet to fully demonstrate to you, lies in the fact that I can now share it. I’ve given you a glimpse with those photos and the video, but I didn’t want to blow your mind all at once by introducing you to the full experience, at least not until we talked and you were prepared both mentally and emotionally to handle it.
“The third stage—which is still speculative at this point—would be actual manipulation of the probabilities associated with your past life. That is, to send you—or someone else if need be—back in time to reenter your own existence at an earlier date, abandoning your current life for the chance to begin again from a certain moment in your past.”
“So,” I said, “what you’re saying is you’ve invented a time machine? I thought time travel was impossible.”
“Not exactly a time machine like the ones you see in the movies. You can’t, for instance, enter the past physically, only as an observer. Or, in the case of Stage Two, as a sort of vicarious participant in your own former life. The old science-fiction version of time travel isn’t possible because it leads to paradox. If you were to travel bodily into the past, there would be—or would have been—two of you, and the second you could do something that would change the first you’s future, leading to paradoxical impossibilities. These kinds of illogical situations are most often described using what’s called the ‘grandfather paradox,’ which was first portrayed by René Barjavel in his 1943 book Le Voyageur Imprudent. In Barjavel’s example, a man goes back in time and kills his grandfather before he is old enough to impregnate a woman. Consequently, the man’s father is never born, nor is he, so he wouldn’t have been around to travel back in time to begin with. I’ve studied the possibility of overcoming the paradox problems associated with physical time travel, and my calculations tell me that the universe simply does not allow scenarios that could result in paradox.”
“What about traveling into the future?”
“Again, impossible. And that one is simple. Basically, the future hasn’t happened yet, so there’s no future to travel to. Einstein’s postulation that the past, present, and future all exist simultaneously was, I’m sorry to say, incorrect. Time moves in a straight line, ending in the here and now. Nothing exists beyond the present.”
“So let me get this straight,” I said, scratching an imaginary itch on my head. “You’re saying you can step outside this straight timeline, then poke around in the past and reenter it at any point you want. But only as an observer?”
“Right. At least in stages one and two. That’s how I managed to get the original recipe for Coney Island chili sauce and record those images and the video. I wanted to keep the shock factor to a minimum, so I eased into it by first mentioning a few facts about your life that aren’t generally known. Then I followed that up with the 3D photos and the virtual-reality video. Finally, I thought it would be good to have something you could interact with physically, so I looked around for things you liked to eat when you were growing up. I could have gone with the steak sandwich from Triplets, or spaghetti from Pandal’s, but there was something about Coney Island’s secret chili sauce that I thought might be more convincing.”
I was trying to absorb all this without my brain freezing up. Dealing with the conflict between things I had experienced and what was left of my common sense felt like having my skull filled with hardening concrete. I opened my mouth a couple of times, but nothing came out, so I stared into my empty glass while Heyoka continued.
“Listen,” he said, flashing his trademark smile, “I can see you’re confused, and I’m sorry for that. The problem I have is that delving any further into an explanation of the physics involved is almost impossible. That part of the process is, as far as I know, unique and inexplicable, except mathematically, and even math can’t explain everything. Which makes it impossible to comprehend by anyone other than myself. Of course, there could be others who have stumbled on something similar, and that might explain many extraordinary phenomena recorded in various historical and religious texts. I’ve spent a lot of time investigating this possibility, and the closest I’ve come was observing some monks at a Shaolin Monastery in 794 AD who appeared to enter other dimensions from time to time. But during those observations I couldn’t be sure what the monks were actually doing or how. The point is that the best I can do is demonstrate the results of my time travels, so I’ve been trying to show you things from your past in such a way that their reality would be undeniable.”
I was beginning to recover a little, and the cement seemed to be slowly draining from my brain, probably due to the infusion of alcohol. I considered getting another drink, but stopped myself, figuring if I got too drunk I would have no chance of being able to think clearly.
“Okay,” I said, swirling the remaining ice cubes in my glass. “Speaking hypothetically, let’s say I accept what you’re claiming. But if I can’t change the past because of this paradox thing, what good would it be to go back and start over from a certain point in my younger life? I’d just have to live everything all over again exactly as it was, only with my adult brain, which would make it even more miserable and frustrating.”
“That’s not how it will work, Rix. The process involves something we call the multiverse or, to put it another way, alternate realities. And you will definitely have free will to conduct your new life in any way you see fit. But exactly how this happens will take a while to explain, and right now I’ve got some calls to make and papers to sign. Besides, you could probably do with a break in order to clear your mind. I should be finished in about an hour, so why don’t you play around with my digital recording studio while you’re waiting?”
After Heyoka left, I sat in front of the computer console and brought the huge wall monitor to life. The array of programming he had was impressive, and under any other circumstances I would have been intrigued. But all I could think about were those vivid depictions of the past. I’d often bemoaned the fact that I didn’t have this kind of setup when I was growing up, thinking what an incredible body of music I could have produced if I hadn’t had to work six or seven nights a week playing other people’s music in cover bands. I was in my thirties before I finally managed to get a record contract and start spending my off-time writing and working in a studio. But by then I was deep into the drug scene, and I’d expended most of my creative juices playing Proud Mary six times a night and covering hundreds of other rock tunes.
Even though I was still not totally convinced, I began to wonder what might happen if I took Heyoka up on his offer. Could I go back and change all that? Of course, even if I did, the digital recording technology of today wouldn’t be available for decades, so I’d have to work with the same primitive
equipment I’d been privy to back then. And with my knowledge of what was to come, I wondered if I could deal with the frustration. But at least I might be able to alter the way I used my musical gifts. Maybe I could keep myself from putting so much emphasis on the ego gratification of becoming a local rock star. After a couple of years playing sock hops and local parties in my early teens, I’d gotten a fake ID and graduated to nightclub work, wasting my talents on drunks and feeding my ego on occasional scatterings of applause and the sexual favors of admiring women.
If I did go back, about the only thing I could change would be the way I attacked life. I didn’t even know if I could alter my addictive behavior, since that seemed to be genetically or environmentally ingrained in my personality. Hell, I didn’t know if I even wanted to. What if my creativity was inextricably tied to the effects of the drugs? After all, I hadn’t written a damned thing since I kicked the drug habit and substituted an ocean of alcohol. Of course, the other side of the story was that decades of drug abuse and alcoholism had left me with serious health problems. According to my last round of blood work and some other tests, my liver was failing, my kidneys were in bad shape, my cholesterol was through the roof, and my diverticulitis had advanced to a dangerous level. Plus, I knew my brain was atrophying as well. Clear memories were a thing of the past, which made those vivid flashbacks Heyoka had shown me all the more convincing.