The Man Who Lived Backwards

It’s four-thirty in the morning, and I stub out my cigarette with the heel of my boot and walk groggily to the nearest park bench. The air smells of dew, and there’s a soft glow everywhere that might just be the pint of neat whiskey I consumed in the last hour.  Or morning come early, I’m not sure, but it annoys me how militantly straight the jogging path is.

“Not all that drunk,” I say out loud, staring up at two unusually bright stars swimming in and out of the dark red haze of the day’s pollutants, raised to divine omnipresence in the night sky.

“Not enough to forget me by morning?”

“It is morning,” I drawl, as I adjust to the uncomfortable realization that someone’s been sitting next to me on my bench for a while without me noticing.

“Thank god for that,” he smiles.

“Friend of the daylight, are you?” I swear to myself that the next thing I say will be a dismissal, because I’m quite sure I’ve never met him before.

“Not particularly. Just hate the end of the day.”

“Try drinking through it, then.”

He chuckles, turning around to look straight at me. He holds my gaze for a few awkward seconds, and then sighs.

“I don’t know how to do this, so I guess I’ll just be honest with you,” he says.

I run through a self-concocted list of things ‘honest’ could mean in the dictionary of the kind of men who sneak up on lone women in four a.m. park benches. My hand’s been parked around my pepper spray inside my bag all this while, so I’m not too worried.

“I hate the end of the day,” he explains, “because I can never wake up the next morning.”

“You don’t say, Mr. Unique.”

“You misunderstand me. My problem isn’t waking up. It’s waking up the next morning.”

“Everybody loses a day here and there, especially on weekends, slippery little things.”

He shakes his head. “Not me,” he insists. “I brush my teeth, get into bed, check my alarm and fall asleep. Then I get up the previous day.”

I laugh. “So you’re stuck in a time loop?”

“You don’t believe me,” he says. “I’ve always worried that you won’t believe me. No, I’m not stuck in a time loop. I’m just going through my life in the opposite direction you are.”

“Benjamin Button?” I ask. “I suppose you have grand delusions of growing young while the love of your life grows old.”

“No, no, no.” He runs his fingers through his hair, frustrated. “I’m doing this badly. I’ve never tried to explain it before. I got up with you this morning, hypothetically. I went to work, same as you. Joined the Friday night party afterwards, same as you. Went home, same as you, and went to sleep. When you wake up next, it’s Saturday, and you’re a day older. But when I wake up next, it’s Thursday, and I’m a day younger.”

“Wow,” I say. “Hit and miss – nice try except you should have skipped the part about me aging. But I’ll give it to you – that’s got to be the most elaborate pickup line ever invented.”

“Well, it better be. I’ve been rehearsing it for forty years.”

“You don’t look a day above thirty.”

“No, I don’t,” he says.

 I laugh again. “Alright, I’ll bite. Have you been rehearsing it since the day you met me – in the far off future?”

“The day I met you the first time, and the day you saw me the last time.”

“Complicated. Which one of us died?”

“You did. Only, I didn’t know you very well, so you were the one crying.”

He smiles sadly, his eyes never leaving my face. He’s a good actor, because I feel like he’s anticipating my every expression, staring at them not to memorize them, because he knows them by heart already, but to see them again, one last time. I am much more drunk than I thought I was, and surprisingly sentimental for so early in the morning, but this conversation could actually be more entertaining than finally getting to use my pepper spray.

“Why a day, though? Why don’t you just live straight backwards through every second? This seems terribly back-stitchy of you.”

I’ve made him laugh. “It really does, doesn’t it? And I have no idea why – but that’s just the way it is. I’ve got a few theories of course, and my best attempt at a guess would be that a day is the quintessential unit of time.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, not measurable time – I’m not going anywhere near the Planck word. What I mean is time, as a larger entity. Philosophically speaking, the stuff of memory – what we make of our lives. I think we live that in terms of days.”

“But why days? Why not seconds, or smaller?”

“Because you remember your life in days? The day my father died – the day I stubbed my toe – the day my son was born – “

“But that’s just a linguistic simplification –“

“Maybe for you. Maybe it’s because I live my life in days. Maybe there are people like me walking around who live their lives backwards in hours. Maybe there’s someone who lives their life entirely in reverse, and learnt how to speak, read, write, walk and talk backwards, like a tape in rewind, because that’s the only way they knew to interact with the rest of the world. I don’t know. All I know is that I live my life a day at a time, and every new day for me is an old one for everybody else.”

 “So what happens to your precious theory when you screw up your sleep cycle?”

“My days are strictly sleep to sleep, with no thought whatsoever to any Calendars, solar or Gregorian. Yours?”

“Ah well, I do have a day job.”

“Go on, then. Ask me the usual test questions about yourself? The ones I’m going to know the answer to because I’ve known you for forty years in reverse.”

“No, I’d rather stay in this delusion for a while longer, it’s a damn site more interesting than the view from the park bench.”

 “Then ask me the other questions – the delusional ones about the future.”

“No, I don’t really believe you, and I’m not really interested in a random person’s science-fiction inspired construction of what the world will be like in fifty years’ time. So I’d much rather discuss the logical loopholes of your beautiful little story. If that’s okay with you.”

“Whatever keeps you interested. Frankly, I wish I could sit here and talk to you for the rest of my life, but you’re going to get up and leave me in a few minutes. And I can’t do anything about it. Except try and keep you interested for just a bit longer. You always loved the workings of things. I remember going to a magic show with you and getting terribly bored with how you’d insist on going through every trick and figuring out how it was done. Although I don’t think anything you said today would bore me. After all, I’m never going to see you again.”

“And how do you know that?”

“You told me, of course. An advantage of living backwards is that everyone you meet can tell you your future – and you can tell them theirs.”

“And have you ever tried tricking that future? Met someone one day who said they met you one day ago – and then ignored the guy the next day, so you didn’t actually ever meet them? Set-up paradoxes?”

“I used to do that a lot when I was old. This whole thing was terribly exciting then. I was still growing into it, so yes, I did try to trick it. Woke up in my apartment one day, and deliberately slept in a friend’s house the next night.”

“What happened?”

“I was jerked awake by the friend fifteen minutes later and driven back to my apartment, because his girlfriend decided to come home a day early.”

“So you can’t trick time?”

“Nope. Tried many times. Never worked.”

“Does that make you bitter about how preordained your destiny is?”

“My destiny isn’t necessarily pre-ordained. All it proves is that my timeline is as seamless as yours. And that there are people who know my future, and, well I know theirs, so it’s really all the same.”

“Except that you’re alone. And the whole world is heading in a different direction. A person you meet for the first time cries because they’ll never see you again. And a person you’ll never see again doesn’t know you well enough to acknowledge you the day you’re mourning their exit cue from your life.”

“Pretty much. Only, it works exactly the same way for the person in question.”

“I don’t believe you. If you know me for forty years, and you’re never going to see me again, why aren’t you more desperate to keep talking to me? I don’t believe you.”

“Then why is that worrying you at all?”

“It’s not. I’m just pointing out the flaws in your story.”

“Sure.”

“Yeah. I mean, if it were me, I’d grab me in a tight hug already.”

“I didn’t think you’d really want to hug a man you’ve never met in the middle of an empty park at four thirty in the morning. It’s not that great a pickup line.”

“ – pickup novel.”

“Yes, that. The last thing I want to do is scare you off.”

“So…  are there flying cars in the future?”

“What happened to not being interested in a random person’s science fiction inspired construction of the future?”

I grin. “I think I’ve run out of loopholes.”

“No you haven’t. You’re just invested in the delusion, now.”

“Hook, line and sinker,” I say. “If future me told you this conversation lasted under an hour, maybe you’ll finally get to trick that “seamless timeline” of yours for once.”

He stares at me, and then, before I can react, leans in and shoves his face into mine. My reflexes kick in just in time, and I leap away, pepper spray in hand.

“What the hell –"

He’s still leaning forward on the park bench, his hand trembling slightly, his eyes shining up at me. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Please –"

“Are you crazy? You just appeared out of nowhere at four in the morning! It’s not that convincing a story. “

“I didn’t think it was.”

I back away towards the park entrance. He’s still sitting frozen on the bench. As I shut the gate behind me, something crazy comes over me and I call out, “It wasn’t that bad, you know. Find me again someday in the daylight, when I have lots of friends around me, and try a new one.”

I turn and run, then, but not before I hear him sob. “But I already did.”

_________________

The Where (or Elemental Worlds)

Elementalism. Modern fantasy is as obsessed with the word as it is with any other fascinating idea that has its roots in ancient or medieval philosophy. It is a beautiful - if somewhat old-fashioned sentiment - to feel closer to the four original elements: earth, water, air and fire - and in some cultures a fifth - space. The 'elements' that all life seemed to be born out of to the primitive eye.

Stories, of course, are mostly narratives built around a simple core idea. And elementalism is a simple idea with much potential. At least, in the mythological sense of the term. The word 'element' is used for a large number of things today. Among others, it still conveys the idea of the basic building blocks of the existing world, but, as with all things, the building blocks of the existing world are no longer as simple and, more importantly, 'compact' as they once were.

If fantasy were to evolve with the sciences, the number four - or five, as the case may be - might well have to be replaced by a hundred and ten. That definitely complicates things.

But more than that, it creates a certain sense of hierarchy. The original elements were equals, if not to your staunch fire temple devotee - definitely from a quieter philosophical point of view. It would be quite difficult, however, to prepare an argument that would place, say, Bismuth, on the same footing as Oxygen. Even if I were to look at it quietly and philosophically - leaving quantity and abundance out of the equation - Bismuth, in turn, would definitely be superior to Unnilbium, fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on which way way you look at it - also named Nobelium.

Or would it? If the Ununtrium Tribe, blessed with and devoted to the worship and use of the element Ununtrium, were a so-called Uncontacted - or in this case - Undiscovered tribe in the deepest darkest caverns of the farthest reaches of our 'elemental' fantasy world (it would have to be quite a technologically superior tribe as it would be fantastically difficult, even in our fantasy world, for Ununtrium to occur naturally, since in our - also 'elemental' - world we haven't even discovered it yet), would they not consider their patron element to be above and beyond your petty hydrogen and nitrogen and what have you? Especially since they would have a much more appealing name for it - something that would probably be more pronounceable - or at least have a certain ring to it - if only in the Ununtrium - or whatever they'd call it - tongue.

Elementalism, after all, is its own religion - a way of life or whatyoumightcallit. And even a hundred and ten is a small number compared to the cultures and traditions of our world. Looking at it this way, perhaps, it's not such an insane idea for a fantasy story after all. A hundred and ten gods or a hundred an ten nations or even a hundred and ten planeteers is still less complicated than our 'elemental' world. Orbitalism - some strange kind of continentalism - would make things easier to categorize - as would your little political - or in this case, periodic - groups and associations. Historic world wars between the Metallic and Non-metallic factions(think that's a bit one-sided? well, think again) and haunting industrial disasters(okay, that really wouldn't be anything new) would be easy enough settings - but there's still one question that would need a little bit of thinking - and some lengthy justifications(often overlooked, omitted or added just as afterthoughts by the authors of many fantasy worlds).

What would the plant and animal life look like?

The Who? (We Only Want Our Heads Back.)

We Only Want Our Heads Back.

We Are Peaceful Cyberspace Aliens Whose Heads Have Been Captured By The Screen Font Georgia.

We Can Live Without Our Heads, But The Venerable Large X-Height Font Must See That This Can Be Quite Difficult.

If Our Heads Are Not Returned, We Shall Be Aided By Our Ally On Earth, Verdana, To Fight Georgia.

Beware. You Might Have Our Heads. But We Have Verdana.

the what? (apple stories)

Here it is - the apple of discord from Greek mythology. It's big, round and red - and it shines gold in the morning light.

Over the years, we've seen it disappear, return, disappear and return again and again garbed in the cloaks of youth, love, sexuality, sin and science.

It could be a separate religion by itself - with the number of well-known characters that are associated with it, whose lives are in a way determined by the apple, who are remembered for their relationships with the apple.

We could look at the apple as something that has come into close contact with these characters - and thus has grown in terms of symbology and semiotic baggage because of this contact.

Or we could look at these characters: Adam and Eve, Hercules, Atlas, Paris, Eris, Newton, Iduna, William Tell - as characters who have grown and remained in human memory because of their close association with the apple - a kind of philosopher's stone - that turns the everyday into history and mythology.

the why?( we care)

the cosmos is where we live. i wrote that down and then i wondered whether there was any point in the sentence. it isn't like saying india is where we live - because there are other countries where we might have lived but don't - or saying the earth is where we live - because there are other planets where we might have lived (or more probably died) but don't.
but it's natural to want to know more about where you live. natural to guess, and then be delighted equally by a confirmation or a contradiction.
natural to want to know whether your home has nine rooms - or eight (and the last promised room turned out to be a broom cupboard).
natural to want to know whether the central heating system will work fine for the next, say, five billion years.
natural to want to know whether the next few houses on the street have tenants yet - or the ones beyond.
natural to want to know whether the active nucleus of the township - its central hub - is the place most new apartment blocks are gravitating towards.
natural to want to know whether any of your neighbours are massively rich enough to swallow your little home whole.
natural to want to see whether the street outside is foggy or clear, and then natural to arm yourself with a flashlight to see the dark.
the dark. that's where so many of our questions come from and go back into. there's a fear associated with it - and a strange sort of fascination.
so far, we've been looking to the light for the answers to all these questions. looking to the stars and the energy they send, through storm and space, time and aeons to us, faithful observers of interstellar beauty.
teasing answers out of them - answers to our questions about them - and consequently about us.
and now we must look to the dark, as well.
it's been telling us, throughout our communion with light, telling us quietly but firmly that it's there - that it cannot be ignored. mischievously creeping into our observations and slyly toying with our gravitational calculations.
we live in the dark.
a dark that is penetrated by pinpricks of lovely starlight, true, but is dark nevertheless.
and it's natural to want to know what's hidden in the shadows of our cosmos.

the when? (or symphony)

The baton moved in a wide arc over their heads.
As the deep brass peals resonated through a thousand ear drums - something quivered in the foundations of the music hall.
It was new, built with the latest acoustic knowledge of the realms of sound, and filled with the best musicians in the world - an experiment, and achievement, the first of its kind - a musical symphony to best all others of its time.
The resonance created now had never been heard - never been felt before in the history of existence.
And these deep vibrations seemed to reach everywhere - and everything, traverse through the very molecules of the world.
But they had been underestimated. The resonance wasn't just reaching molecules - it was reaching the very fabric of space-time that held these molecules together.
And things were shifting.
And as the orchestra moved - with one single beautiful powerful wave of magnificent sound - so did the molecules of the world - and beneath them... space-time.
And with the loud percussion peal that marked the beginning of the first movement - somewhere within the molecules, within the atoms, within the quarks, far far within where space circled in on itself - a tight circle of brilliant energy began resonating with the bang - spinning and splitting into little bits of the primal matter - and moving out - to create space.
The orchestra continued, the music moved in chords and notes and harmonies. As the frequencies changed, the resonance miraculously survived - and with each new lovely sound - new lovely things began to happen to the universe that had just been birthed somewhere within.
It would last as long as the music lasted - go through miracles with each miraculous bar - sing with it - and die with it.

the "How?" (to travel around the Universe and some other things)

Last Monday I met Mr. Mobius again. He looked quite like his old self. His mole had shifted back to the left side of his face. And his squint was back in his left eye instead of his right – which is where it had been the whole of last year.

He shook hands with me, a little disorientedly. “I’ve been using the other one for a whole year,” he said, after mistaking my left for my right.

“That’s not the only thing you’ve been doing that’s strange – ”

Mr. Mobius looked around quickly and then smiled innocently at me.

“Sharp, aren’t you? Was it the mole you noticed? Or the sudden bouts of ambidexterity?”

“Both. Well, specially the mole. You’ve – you’ve changed. Twice in the last year.”

“Not changed, child. Just laterally inverted. Like what happens to you in a mirror.”

All sorts of strange ideas floated around my head.

“You’ve been through a mirror?”

“No,” he said. “Through is difficult. Around – that’s an easier trick. I’ve been around.”

“Around a mirror?”

“Just around the Universe.”

I stared.

“How?”

“In my Expansion Capsule. It uses a plane of relativity where there’s no such thing as the distance around the Universe.”

“So this spaceship – your Expansion Capsule thingy that bends space to nullify distances – ”

“It doesn’t bend space, child. Gravity does that. It just spaces out your molecules so you can become comparable to the size of the Universe – which has a pretty spaced out molecular structure – and you can slide across the gravity curves.”

“…bends space to nullify distances, it – it inverts you?”

“No. It’s just space that does that. The Universe twists before it loops back in on itself. So every time you travel around it – you come back laterally inverted. (And upside down too – but that’s easily corrected in an upside down world.) Your mirror image comes back instead of you. It’s like traveling around a Mobius Strip.”

“Seems to me that you’re the one who twists everytime you travel out there. Not the Universe.”

“That’s it. I’m the man who likes to twist around the farthest reaches of the last collapsible dimension and come back to tell the tale.”

“Also twisting himself a little bit in the process.”

Mr. Mobius smiled his strange lopsided smile and said:

“You look older today, child. You’ve had a long year, too, haven’t you?”