this is another way
nyquil isn't time travel, rather it's interdimensional. i've been traveling for the past few nights and i've had some interesting experiences. here's what happened last night:
well, everything was ordinary enough, as far as nyquil travel goes. i was in what i realize now was my parents' house, but it was laid out completely different. rooms were there that don't exist, but true to life the whole place was covered in shade from the tall trees overhead, and the windows shone forth with yellow lamp light visible from the road as they always do.
i was living with max jones, a large black fellow who i don't know, and some italian kid who was nice enough but i knew inside would be trouble eventually. he just made me uneasy, watching out the back window as he walked in the backyard in the pouring rain. something didn't seem right.
i had forgotten to do my math homework, so i was in high school again, i suppose, which is a recurring theme when i do these travels. luckily max had copied the answers out of the teacher's edition, so i sat down and set to work copying from his paper onto mine. interestingly enough, i did feel a twinge of guilt, leading me to believe that conscience and emotions are fully present in this parallel world.
after returning my math work to my backpack i went into an adjacent room where max and the black fellow were playing PS2, minding to step carefully over the cords. my time in the room was brief, however, as i knew i had places to be, and so after a brief conversation and the emergence of the fully soaked italian kid, i set off.
by now it had stopped raining and was bright out, i'd say mid-afternoon. i was on a winding street not unlike those off tottenham court rd, but not as narrow. cobblestone with a lot of granite buildings about. no cars. could have been an alley off of dupont circle somewhere, it looked somewhat similar to that. but what happens further leads me to suspect it was london.
i stopped into a crowded and noisy pub. lots of office workers, all white, in their early 30s to mid 40s. i definitely stood out, especially with my large duffel bag. sidled up to the bar and waited patiently for the barkeep to take my order. an old man with glasses on the bridge of his nose and a black polo shirt looked at me and i started to speak, but he cut me off and pointed to his left, to a younger man wearing the same polo.
"what'll it be, then," he asked and i hesitated before replying "umm, an IPA..." he looked impatient so i said "umm a Bass IPA please." my accent was somewhat surrey and not the least suspicious.
as he was pouring it struck me that i left the backpack with my math homework at the house! i slapped myself on the forehead and began to panic. i was running out of time and i desperately had to turn in that work but i so didn't want to go all the way back to the house. i briefly considered asking the barkeep to watch my duffel bag while i ran back, but then i laughed thinking "right, i walk into crowded pub full of white folks at 5pm and leave a giant duffel bag there and exit, that won't arouse suspicion at all." so i was out of options.
well it's foggy how that was resolved because next i knew i was sitting with my father in a light rain on some concrete pylons blocking a driveway. we were across from a sloping block of townhouses, each set about five feet apart from the other, each distinct in their masonry and exteriors. i couldn't believe we were in india. my father confirmed that they were. "although it looks more like 18th street and park road," he said, and i nodded enthusiastically because that's precisely what it looked like. as i scanned the view across from us i noticed a corner store sign in english and i thought to myself "who'd have thought india looked so much like the US?" i then asked about appliances and electricity and all the modern conveniences.
soon enough i was sitting on another pylon at the end of a driveway, this time in pouring rain. i had a stinging injury to my left hand; the skin was removed from about a quarter-sized section of the top of my thumb. i held out the raw flesh to the falling rain to soothe it.
the deceased canadian journalist and former ABC news anchor peter jennings came walking up through the downpour and examined my hand. he then began admonishing me, in rather profane fashion, mentioning that i didn't really know pain until i'd "used a knife to cut out a box full of slugs shot into your leg by an italian soldier." i couldn't help but agree with him.
at this point i found myself back in our normal world, the one with which i have this website to share these experiences with you.
well, everything was ordinary enough, as far as nyquil travel goes. i was in what i realize now was my parents' house, but it was laid out completely different. rooms were there that don't exist, but true to life the whole place was covered in shade from the tall trees overhead, and the windows shone forth with yellow lamp light visible from the road as they always do.
i was living with max jones, a large black fellow who i don't know, and some italian kid who was nice enough but i knew inside would be trouble eventually. he just made me uneasy, watching out the back window as he walked in the backyard in the pouring rain. something didn't seem right.
i had forgotten to do my math homework, so i was in high school again, i suppose, which is a recurring theme when i do these travels. luckily max had copied the answers out of the teacher's edition, so i sat down and set to work copying from his paper onto mine. interestingly enough, i did feel a twinge of guilt, leading me to believe that conscience and emotions are fully present in this parallel world.
after returning my math work to my backpack i went into an adjacent room where max and the black fellow were playing PS2, minding to step carefully over the cords. my time in the room was brief, however, as i knew i had places to be, and so after a brief conversation and the emergence of the fully soaked italian kid, i set off.
by now it had stopped raining and was bright out, i'd say mid-afternoon. i was on a winding street not unlike those off tottenham court rd, but not as narrow. cobblestone with a lot of granite buildings about. no cars. could have been an alley off of dupont circle somewhere, it looked somewhat similar to that. but what happens further leads me to suspect it was london.
i stopped into a crowded and noisy pub. lots of office workers, all white, in their early 30s to mid 40s. i definitely stood out, especially with my large duffel bag. sidled up to the bar and waited patiently for the barkeep to take my order. an old man with glasses on the bridge of his nose and a black polo shirt looked at me and i started to speak, but he cut me off and pointed to his left, to a younger man wearing the same polo.
"what'll it be, then," he asked and i hesitated before replying "umm, an IPA..." he looked impatient so i said "umm a Bass IPA please." my accent was somewhat surrey and not the least suspicious.
as he was pouring it struck me that i left the backpack with my math homework at the house! i slapped myself on the forehead and began to panic. i was running out of time and i desperately had to turn in that work but i so didn't want to go all the way back to the house. i briefly considered asking the barkeep to watch my duffel bag while i ran back, but then i laughed thinking "right, i walk into crowded pub full of white folks at 5pm and leave a giant duffel bag there and exit, that won't arouse suspicion at all." so i was out of options.
well it's foggy how that was resolved because next i knew i was sitting with my father in a light rain on some concrete pylons blocking a driveway. we were across from a sloping block of townhouses, each set about five feet apart from the other, each distinct in their masonry and exteriors. i couldn't believe we were in india. my father confirmed that they were. "although it looks more like 18th street and park road," he said, and i nodded enthusiastically because that's precisely what it looked like. as i scanned the view across from us i noticed a corner store sign in english and i thought to myself "who'd have thought india looked so much like the US?" i then asked about appliances and electricity and all the modern conveniences.
soon enough i was sitting on another pylon at the end of a driveway, this time in pouring rain. i had a stinging injury to my left hand; the skin was removed from about a quarter-sized section of the top of my thumb. i held out the raw flesh to the falling rain to soothe it.
the deceased canadian journalist and former ABC news anchor peter jennings came walking up through the downpour and examined my hand. he then began admonishing me, in rather profane fashion, mentioning that i didn't really know pain until i'd "used a knife to cut out a box full of slugs shot into your leg by an italian soldier." i couldn't help but agree with him.
at this point i found myself back in our normal world, the one with which i have this website to share these experiences with you.
posted by TID Staff at 8:29 AM
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