The Time Traveller
7: Gorleshill 22-03-84
Sometimes things don’t make it as far as you first thought. Sometimes the hope for something is beyond its natural reach, yet one strives to overturn that notion - to reach beyond that which we feel tethered with.
Thing is, should we? Should we push beyond the limits? Shouldn’t we just accept its natural length, and be happy, contented - positive even - of achieving even that, in the face of such negative and forceful opposition?
Who are we trying to impress? Who cares if we do more than we assume is enough? Is it we who survive, to extend, to push beyond the boundaries, merely to collapse into a heap of exhaustion - to a largely indifferent outside?
Who are we hurting? Who are we celebrating? If not us, then why? Why go past a limit that’s appropriate, natural and arguably limitless in its existence, when it makes no difference to anyone or anything?
So, who are we trying to impress? Because if it’s ourselves, we’re never going to be happy. We’re always going to fail. We will never reach our own expectations. Are we?
Damn it. Most of the time, we are our own worse enemy.
#
Gorleshill. The place Ippy made his mark. It happened something like this -
We turned up to the venue, to see a coach parked outside the Stage Door. It hadn't the logo emblazoned upon it, but it was a coach, which meant the band was here, at least. We thought of waiting there, to see if any of the band or crew exited the door and we could find out exactly what happened, but the sky was darkening and more people were starting to turn up, so we decided to leave and make for the venue entrance. Waiting in queues wasn't the most friendly of places. There was much jostling, crowding and the free flow of tardiness, with the usual keeping of places.
We never worried about that, however. There was never any point. We would get in to the venue anyway - we had a ticket. It was the ridiculous and often dangerous rush to be the most frontest of people. But what they didn't know, was that the band knew us. It was a strange feeling, like being on a select list of people, knowing it and basking in that knowledge. Thing was, this time, Ippy was missing. About five minutes before the doors opened, he finally turned up.
“Where you been Ippy?” asked Freddie.
“What? Oh, nowhere.” he answered cryptically. This wasn't like him. Maybe it was the excitement of the gig going on despite the coach crash, or simply that he was just getting used to life on the road. It didn't matter, because as soon as Viv pulled him in for a side hug, the doors opened and the mass began to spill in.
We had a favourite place to stand, about three quarters back from the stage, at the rear of the stalls - just inside the action, but separate from it at the same time. There we were bopping away, the stinging vibrations of live music prickling our skin in hair raising excitement, when Ippy strolled into the crowd. For someone slight and young like Ippy, I wasn't sure that was the best place for him, so I followed him inside, like journeying beyond the jaws of the beast to the belly beyond.
And it was dark, it was sweaty, and it was dangerous there in the wild. There were flailing arms, thrusting, pressing - bodies wet and gyrating, solid and immovable, swallowing up the air and creating a bleak hothouse humidity of instant pouring sweat, until there was a clearing, a gap, where the maelstrom of destruction danced its centrifugal force of turmoil, and the creatures within, grinning inanely, jumped about and pushed each other in a forceful action of mobility. It was always isolated to that patch, that clearing, never spilling over. Those on the outside kept the cordon within, thrusting back the creatures who attempted to escape. And it was into this that Ippy merrily danced.
I watched as he was thrown about the place, like a ragdoll in a washing machine, fists coming out, shoving, moving, all good natured, until a participant fell. Unlike the jungle, the dangerous, uncaring jungle, here the creatures made space to pick their comrade in violence up, to spin again, to throw themselves into the chaos, all for the rhythm of the song. Occasionally, the maelstrom would glide close to the stage, and like a satellite rock about a gravitational field, the draw of the larger object pulls that object out, and the creature from the pit climbs the stage and jumps back into the throng, to be carried along on the groping hands, or to be swallowed by the crowd, only to re-emerge and re-enter the fray. I watched Ippy, and he seemed happy. How could I deny this for him? But there was the one thing playing on my mind, that this was out of character, very much demonstrated by the next thing he did.
Bold, fearless and passionate. Three words that could describe Ippy at that moment and the ones preceding it. Foolish, dangerous and odd could equally be equated to him, at that moment, as he swung and missed the security, the Event Steward, with a wild flailing fist. I don't know whether pride should have been the natural emotion, but it took three of them to control Ippy. Naturally, he was escorted to the nearest exit and thrown out. I felt partly responsible for him, God only knows why, so I followed him out.
He was already walking away, kicking the harmless bushes around him mercilessly. I watched him expel that energy before approaching him. He was sitting at a bench when I caught up. He was staring at the floor as I came to sit next to him.
“Well, that was fun.” I said. I thought a little light comedy was needed at a time like this.
“Yeah, well.” That was all Ippy was willing to say. Soon I would know why, but right now, he just seemed like a grumpy teenager, with growing issues.
“So, moshing? I suppose it uses the energy. But stage diving? That’s dangerous, mate.” I couldn't keep my mouth shut, I suppose.
“Look -“ began Ippy, but he was quickly interrupted by the appearance of the other Woodworms. To a one, they had come out of the gig to see what was up.
Corakayla whispered to me as I rose to greet them, “Is he alright?” she asked, with Motherly concern.
I looked over to Ippy as though noticing him for the first time, “Oh, I think he’s fine. I reckon he just needed to blow off steam.” I didn't know if that was true, of course, but it’s what we say when we don’t have anything else to say.
The rest of the group huddled around Ippy and made a fuss of him. He seemed to warm to them. There was, however, an iciness between us both, so for the time being I decided to keep out of his way, out of his direct eyesight. I was sure that whatever it was would blow over. And I wasn't wrong.
I also wasn't right, either.
#
They say that energy cannot be either made or destroyed, it only changes state. Partially for this reason, I justify time travel. Conservation of energy. Even Thales of Miletus knew that. Something about the conservation of energy holds the principle that heat and mechanical work are interchangeable. I don't want to get too technical. I know it’s far more complicated than that, but I’ve forgotten an awful lot of what I once knew. What I can remember now would barely fill a book, whereas what I used to know could fill several large volumes. Maybe I’m getting old, or something? Something about Hugh Everett the Third?
Well, it supposedly follows, at least philosophically speaking that as energy cannot be destroyed, yet we die, that energy is released back into the quandary, to be utilised again. We are made of energy, as explained by the calorific theory. So they say. It suggests, in a round about way, that we do not die, we change state, from one type of energy to another. Again, a justification for time travel. The concept of time is a human creation, so, at least for me, this argues that time is malleable, depending, like Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, on the position of the observer relative to the change in state. Probably.
Then there’s the Many Worlds Interpretation - oh that’s the Everett person - which may or may not describe the idea that anything is possible in an infinite universe, every possibility is played out. But you know what I think? Like Schrodinger and his cat, that in the quantum concept, until the cat is observed, it exists in both states at the same time - both dead and alive.
So why can’t there be a me here, and a me there? At the same time? After all, that’s the balance of all things. I just think it’s a simple concept to realise that the universe craves balance, and that what happens elsewhere, the opposite here must be performed. So in one world there’s death. In the other there’s life. Balance. Philosophy. The justification for just about anything.
Oh, I’m not sure anymore. All I know is I’m here. In Eighty Four. That’s immutable. What am I? A physicist?
Possibly. I can’t remember.
#
I don’t precisely remember what era most of these memories occurred, but they are all true memories that happened approximately when I denote. It takes and took a lot to remember any of this and there are huge gaps where things happened and I cannot immediately recall. This is the disadvantage of life, though I’m sure I will remember them all again at some point. As though it had always been there. I’ve never had a good memory, or I have too many things using the brain power I have, leaving little time for the magic seven plus or minus one.
I do remember the last time I got stitches, however.
I was up the park, a friend of mine having commandeered my bike to go off with other friends up the hill. Then there was this kid who lived over the road from the park, and he fancied himself a golfer, what with his single Driver club. I don’t remember the Wood number, but maybe it’s imprinted on my skull somewhere?
He was right, of course, and has nothing to blame himself for.
I was standing behind him, fascinated. He warned me to step back. I did, but as he took his upswing, I stupidly stepped forward. The Club went right into the left side of my head on the follow through.
Apparently, my friend on my bike up the hill had heard the crack that far up, and my subsequent blood curdling scream. I held my hand to my head, thinking I was holding it together. I thought my skull was cracked and I was left with my brain exposed. I can still feel the pain now as I recall this. It makes me stop and wince. My friend raced down the hill, and I grabbed my bike from him and raced home.
I just left the bike where it fell and ran inside. Mom was obviously anxious and checked that my brain was still there. Out came the car and we went to the Hospital. It was becoming dusk as we were leaving, and while I lay in Mom’s arms in the back of the car, I made a promise that this was the last time I would ever have stitches.
It wasn’t. I had broken my promise to myself, justifying future acts of the same, I suppose. I had nine teeth removed under anaesthetic. That wasn’t an accident like the other times, and I didn’t know the full extent until I woke up.
Anyway, the Golf Club. I thought it had broken my skull. It hadn’t, and left little, even a discernible mark on my skull. I do think that perhaps that changed something in my brain though. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe the headbanging years later did.
Maybe I just look for something to blame. It could just be coincidence, circumstance and environment. I’m none the wiser.
#
In my Junior School, I used to wear a Parka coat. I would sometimes pull the hood over my head, enclosing myself inside that secret, private world. It made me realise I could be anywhere I wanted to be despite my location.
On the ground floor corridor in the School was where every Pupil were made to put their coats. I would hide in them sometimes too. I have a memory of some girls teasing me and I being embarrassed but made to express a fancy for one of them, which fed their ego rather than leading to something for me. A common thread, I’m afraid.
#
I remember Sendre.
I was sitting on a hill, watching the sun come up, the sky was cloudless, but a morning mist hung over everything like a veil. The air was calm, but I felt a slight chill.
I didn’t panic, I wasn’t scared.
If anything I was warmed by the solitude of me sitting there, like I was the only person alive, and it didn’t make a difference. It was like the very air around me shrouded me and calmed me like a thick soft blanket.
I noticed I was gently humming, the sound coming from deep within me and making me smile with the pure pleasure and bliss this action gave me.
I could see for miles, sitting on this grass slope. It felt like it was all there just for me, for the pleasure of looking.
Then I heard other voices and could see other people, playing below me. But here, they felt other worldly, ethereal. Their voices carried on the wind, soft, indecipherable, just adding to the joy of where I was. I could see the world, see its people, doing their thing. I think I felt Godlike, not like an all powerful vengeful god, but a benevolent spirit. I wanted to spread love to everyone, but at the same time didn’t want to share that feeling with anyone. It was my feeling, my unique feeling that no one else was allowed to share.
It was mine alone.
I closed my eyes, felt the hum of my voice in the back of my throat, seeming to calm everything that could hurt me, felt the wind soft and gentle like silk fingers caressing my face. I could hear the noises of nature and the laughing from below, but It was beautiful.
Trouble is, no matter how vivid the memory, I’ve never been to Sendre.
#
I can’t remember the exact chain of events, but I know that whole years, whole existences disappeared in that time.
I think it started with derealisation. I would be in the car with a friend, and we had stopped at a petrol station. Suddenly, I had a thought - what if gravity suddenly stopped? This seemed perfectly rational at the time.
Other signs presented themselves, like the sense of endless open expanses.
I think I talked myself into something then. I had always been a bit of a hypochondriac - a family trait I’m afraid. It taught me a lot about information gathering in those years. I could go into minute detail of the progress, but for expediency, I will paraphrase. I wanted to know what I had. I researched, and after a while realised I had panic disorder. I’m not sure if I talked myself into it, but agoraphobia followed. Whether I added it or not, it became very real. So real, in fact, that it laid me so low I couldn’t even leave a chair, or move in the chair, for hours on end. I almost became so tied to my room I wouldn’t be able to leave it. But even then I realised this was unreasonable.
I fought back. I learned to cope with it, like an alcoholic or a drug addict. It was the realisation that there were people out there with the same condition as me who could do absolutely nothing for it. I was determined I would not get caught in that trap.
It is never that simple, though I’m over the worse of it. Not cured, of course. Just functional. People around me had no idea what it took to do even the simplest things they took for granted. They never will until they see it for themselves.
I seemed to have lived my life in reverse, seeing and experiencing the things that take until middle age to realise - of mortality, of degradation, of the slow falling apart of the human body, even if the mind is strong and free - so much have I that it holds no fear for me now. That, or it doesn't hit me as hard. Just learning to cope with it all, I suppose?
And once one does, life seems to get so much easier -
#
I had a soup at the Train Station. It was delicious. Seasonal they called it. Chicken soup with vegetables, I call it. But it hit the spot, just before we made for Ferrith.
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