I just had a scientific breakthrough in my head, in which for a moment I understood how size is relative to or perhaps even a function of time. This is patently obvious to people who study physics in any kind of sophisticated college-level way, I assume, but it’s been a stumbling block for my stolid imagination. (Time, that is.) I was staring at the picture of the full moon that I posted on Facebook the other day, looking at all the pock marks where it’s been struck by flying space debris; particularly enjoying the outward bounding marks of scattered force, as if this were a time lapse photo of the event as it happened…. Then I was picturing us living out our human history on earth some thousands of years with asteroids flying past us here and there at various safe distances, working out what we perceive as fate between two accidental moments when the planet is struck by some large flying stone; I could see the whole thing — all of the universe with bullets of hot rock pinging around in it. And if you are much bigger than the universe — say it’s a beachball in relation to you — then the bullets go shooting around in there real fast but if you’re sub-atomic-particle-tiny, as we are, then they move slowly, taking hundreds and thousands of years to go from one place to another.
What’s clear is that I have to get hold of some good weed and revert to a 1979 lifestyle. In Detroit. Or New Orleans. Someplace cheap. Read old New Directions paperbacks. Everybody will have lots of pubic hair — huge mounds of it. Untended genitals. I’ll wonder — in secret terror — about the future.