On Time Travel

I am reading H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine, which has got me thinking about the manifold paradoxes of time travel. Supposing that it were possible to travel into the future, any actions therewith taken become null and nonexistent the moment the traveler returns to his own time, for in his own present the future has yet to blossom. If, peradventure, the traveler advances just one year into the future, steals and destroys the Mona Lisa, and returns to his native time, the painting will still be secure in the Louvre upon his arrival because he has not yet desecrated the masterpiece.

Suppose now that you are visited by a time traveler from the past. For the sake of simplicity, let us assume that you had no foreknowledge of his arrival. The time traveler appears, shakes your hand and introduces himself, then returns to his present and your past. Aside from the singularity of such an encounter, your own reality has not been affected so much as a pin. Your life continues. Time keeps flowing. You still exist. By this same principal, an arbitrary future visited by a time traveler will continue to exist even after the traveler returns to his home era. By extrapolation, all eras of time exist simultaneously: not only the past, present, and future, but every single day, hour, minute, and second. As the units decrease (for it is assumed that a time traveler can choose any possible time), they near the infinitesimally small. We surmise, therefore, that there are infinite planes of time, arranged in the fourth dimension much like a line is arranged in two dimensions. However, if each moment is its own, discrete plane, how are we to account for the passing of time — the merging of planes? Does one plane become its successor, as it is replaced by its precursor? Even if we diagram time as a linear progression rather than a series of planes or points, we must remember that a line is made up of an infinite number of points. And it is mathematically agreed upon that a point occupies no space — and therefore neither does a line, and therefore such planes cannot exist.

There is yet another paradox borne from traveling into the future, which I will expound ignoring the impossibility of different planes of time. If the same time traveler who had gone one year into the future to destroy Da Vinci’s magnum opus had returned to his present and, rather than time travel again, remained inactive until the future he visited became his present, two realities would exist at once: the first being the passive reality, in which the Mona Lisa remains untouched by the traveler, the second being the active reality, in which the traveler has destroyed the painting. The French police would be looking for the man who destroyed a painting that rests safe in the Louvre. This is based, of course, on the previously discussed necessity of all times existing at once. It adds, however, a complication: all possible times exist at once, meaning that each specific location in time has an infinite number of duplicates, all different in some way or other.

Moreover, anyone who travels into the future arrives in a reality in which his arrival is known. If he sets off anywhere but the most furtive hiding place, the audience he attracts will remember his departure into the future, will immortalize it in the papers, on television, and in history books. The people of the future, having such knowledge, will be utterly aware of the exact time and location of his appearance, and, if they have not developed a time machine themselves, will ravage the traveler the instant he becomes a part of their time, in order to steal his machine away from him.

Apostroplural’s

I am fascinated by language, which is why I love grammar so much. I wanted to write a blog post about apostrophes–and where they’re headed–but it turned into a full-blown article with footnotes and everything. It would be too difficult to reformat it if I pasted it into the WordPress box, so I just uploaded the PDF instead.

It’s eight pages and esoteric, so if you don’t want to read it I won’t be the least bit offended.

But here it is if you’re interested.

The Future Perfect Ideal

I’ve been developing a thought process recently that has led me to accomplish daunting tasks with ease and to eschew the worry associated with pending crises of variable alarm. Those with a propensity for idle worry will find themselves in despair over looming, unwanted events, whereas I can simply pass these events off as complete before they have been born. To attack such a paradox, I examine the event from the future: by X time, it will have been done. While I may not have started a term paper due a week later, I can avoid stress (which of course releases cortisone into the brain, inhibiting intelligent thought) by treating the paper as complete, by picturing myself one week later with several neat pages stapled together. I call such perspective the Future Perfect Ideal, which derives its name from the grammatical aspect of the thought process it defines.

In the name of fair judgment, I looked at my philosophy from the standpoint of the opposition. Time is an invented concept, and therefore there is no time but the present. ‘Past’ and ‘Future’ do not and cannot exist, as they are merely concepts laid out on a time line invented by humans, who chose arbitrarily to make it linear. (After all, who says time is not a cycle? Hundreds of cultures treat it that way, and some even have a mobile week focusing on ‘today.’) Because the future does not exist, ulterior events cannot logically be ‘complete.’ The only certainty about the future is that it can’t be predicted: so there is no way to know whether my term paper will actually be finished in the next seven days.

A fair argument. But assuming that I am still alive in seven days, and that I am duly compelled to complete college assignments on or before their deadlines, it is virtually certain that I will have completed my paper next week. The Future Perfect Ideal is by nature a conditional argument. But, ceteris parabus, it makes for sound logic.

What makes the Future Perfect Ideal adoptable is the notion that worry accomplishes nothing, and therefore it is useless to lament something that has yet to be undertaken. More preferable are the early congratulations borne by its acceptance. A recent example of the success of my philosophy was its application to three actual term papers assigned and due at generally the same times. Rather than fret over my personal, upcoming apocalypse, I simply told myself that at a certain point in time — namely, the end of the semester — I will have had three excellent term papers iced with shiny staples. Such was the case: while I worked methodically and kept the present in my peripheral vision, I focused on the future, on the date of completion for each paper. Two papers received A’s and one an A+.

I taught myself long ago not to worry — though we’re all human, and can’t help but indulge once in a while — but the addition of the Future Perfect Ideal to my mental repertoire of weapons against deadlines has proven to be a great asset.

Somnovisions

Here’s my problem: I’m a dish sponge trying to be a car-wash sponge. There is so much I want to read, so much I want to write, so much I want to learn, and so little time to do it. I want to be able to absorb life faster, or to absorb more knowledge each time I soak myself in words, but there are temporal as well as physical limitations to the extent of one’s education. This is where my Literary ADD comes into play: I want to read every book, and read them all right now. I order books from Amazon about twenty times faster than I can read them. I often lament that as a human being I must give those mesonoxian hours to Morpheus which otherwise could be spent reading and writing. It is a mutual transaction, however, for Morpheus gives back to me those eccentric stories of myself and those wild visions which we call dreams.

I find that writing down my dreams helps me to remember them far more often when I wake up. Before I made a habit of scribbling down the ‘plots’ in a notebook, I would seldom recall my dreams, except when their utter singularity had stamped a burning impression on my mind, or when some object, word, or semblance in real life triggered a subconscious memory relapse hours, or sometimes days, later. I begin to wonder if dreams have meaning, or if they are merely the result of the brain ‘doodling in the margins.’ I don’t subscribe to the popular notion that dreams are capable of portending future events: time travel is impossible because time is an invented concept, not a ‘location.’ A time line is simply there to help us relate the past to the present and the present to the future — it is not a map, and none of the points, save for an infinitesimally small one at the present, exist.

But the question of underlying meaning in dreams is perhaps one we will never answer. There are hundreds of theories out there, and even dream interpretation books and websites that scrutinize each salient element of the dream and relate it somehow to a real-life concept, fear, emotion, or object. I can’t say one way or another whether these are correct. What I can say, however, is that whatever images the mind conjures during sleep certainly retain the same connotations to the dreamer as they do in waking life. The brain develops relativity of concepts, images, words, etc. through a massive network of neuron connections, which is a physical structure that is not altered during sleep. Therefore it is safe to say that, in the strictest sense, the objects one sees in a dream represent the same thing they do in the subconscious as in the conscious mind. Someone who is intimidated by authority figures will connect policemen, soldiers, etc. with a certain level of fear; in dreams these figures still carry the intimidations they impose by day.

Does one dreaming about authority conjure images of these familiar instantiations, or does the dream originate with an authority figure and automatically arouse emotions of fear? Moreover, what exactly causes one to dream about one topic or another? Do the thoughts and emotions from a day’s work transfer to the world of the subconscious? Do subconscious thoughts by day give rise to sub-subconscious thoughts by night? And does the mind really hold the power to warn itself against itself — in other words, can it analyze its own faults and present them in a parable? I’m not reluctant to latch onto this belief, which dream analysts try to understand — the human mind is an astonishingly powerful, and equally mysterious, entity. But why would such a powerful machine as a human mind dissect its scruples in the dark?

Free Money… NOT!

It’s common knowledge that the government is synonymous with inefficiency. Tack on whatever epithets you will–slow, circuitous, hypocritical–they’re mostly true. So should it come as a surprise that the way the government is handling the Economic Stimulus Act of 2008 is less than intelligent? For those unfamiliar–that is, if you haven’t received one of those letters–the government plans to send most people who make less than $75,000 a payment this May of $300 to $600 to stimulate the economy. Sounds good so far. But it cost $60 million to print the letters, many millions of which inappropriately arrived in the hands of those not receiving a payment. I know this because I got the letter, and I’m not getting a cent because I can be claimed as a dependent. Meticulous IRS records somewhere in Washington show that I am not eligible, so why spend money to send me a letter? I suppose this would be way too easy, but why not just send the eligible taxpayers a check with a small printed explanation?

Gee, I wonder why everyone’s worried about a recession.

Time

I really thought I’d have the time this semester to update my blog, but it turns out I’m overwhelmed with other things and unfortunately have to kill it off until summer.

So goodbye till then.

Get it? Got it? Good.

Considering several rationales, including, but not limited to, the lack of funding for grammar school, the need to appeal to consumers who have horrible grammar themselves, or a typographical blunder, I’m putting my money on down-to-earth kitschiness as the reason why H&R Block’s current slogan reads “You Got People.”

Stop me if I’m making things up, but got don’t swing that way. It’s a past-tense form of the verb to get, meaning to acquire, and it’s right at home in sentences like “I got an anatomically correct sculpture for my birthday” and “Crayola chicken pox got me out of detention.”

For the couch-potato linguist who milks his excitement vicariously through grammatical structures, to get is friends with the auxiliary verb to have. There are an infinite number of sentence constructions using the two: “Dylan has gotten more muscular this month,” “Dylan’s gotten nineteen gold medals,” etc.

So, the burning question: If it’s has gotten and have gotten, how come I can say has got and have got, as in “Dylan has got to stop using steroids?”?

Glad you asked. The answer is that you can say whatever you want. No one is are going to stopping you.

Seriously, though, the has got construction may at one point have been passed off as “incorrect usage,” as are most budding grammatical constructions and turns of phrase. In most cases, though, it’s just a matter of English changing to adapt to (and to adopt) a new way of saying something. Remember the nineteenth century? Probably not. I’ll fill you in: people said “Have you this?” and “Have you that?” Got wasn’t yet at center stage — back then it was only a groupie. But now, we’re inclined towards turns of phrase like “Got a cigarette?” and “Got Milk?,” in which got wholly replaces have, even though got is traditionally the past-tense form of to get, and not an infinitive. Am I confusing you yet?

It seems that phrases like “Got Milk?” are shorter forms of phrases like “Have You Got Milk?,” but because in the former the auxiliary verb is nowhere to be found, and also because of the overly prim and proper, almost wholesomely Amish connotation of “Have You Got Milk?” on a billboard, I’ll leave this one alone.

So, back to the starting line: Why does a gigantic corporation like H&R Block, which obviously has the budget for a plethora of top-notch marketing executives, screw up the grammar in their slogan? “You’ve Got People” sounds good enough to me — though as you may have noticed from this article, I’m a grammar Nazi, and it very well may be that “You Got People” sounds “good enough” to the average layperson. I’ll admit that “You Have People” sounds like less of a corporate slogan and more of a cross stitch pattern you’d find in your mother’s kitchen. But come on, H&R — I know you went to accounting school, but surely you know about auxiliary verbs?

While I’m at it, I’ll share the new Domino’s advertising campaign slogan with you: “You Got 30 Minutes.” (Which, by the way, is a scam of a campaign that focuses not on 30-minute delivery, but the “gift” of free time to their consumers.)

You be the judge. If you speak English, you have a minuscule influence on the way our language develops. It’s the speakers, not some committee of cantankerous grammar grouches, that shape the language.

But maybe it’s sticklers like me who complain about the language that keep it from evolving too quickly.

Hi 2008

I think “avid” is an appropriate term for my previous blogging, as I have been gone but two weeks and already feel the pangs of separation between myself and WordPress. Moreover, due to my rather frequent posting habits of yesteryear, two weeks is something of an eternity to be away from my window to the world. Not long enough, however, to come back with a tacky “hello world!” post, in which the only words are “hello world!” (words, I might add, which are more suitable for the millions of blogs that die after their first post, namely the “hello world!” post).

And speaking of glass-pane metaphors, I suppose I should reconsider my last. If this were merely a window to the world, I’d be sitting with my elbows on the sill and watching the rain fall, or perhaps be spying on the creepy old lady next door. It’s more than a window because of its interactive element. Maybe a drive-through window is more appropriate. Especially for quick posts.

Anyway, I’ve discovered a strange cycle in my writing habits. It seems I flourish with my words towards the end of summer, and become weighed down by the oh-so-familiar blank screens of writer’s block in December and early January. What does this mean for you, reader? Why, it simply means that the temporary vow of silence I’d taken in December was a mental vacation. Call it holiday stress, call it seasonal affective disorder, call it what you will. From here on I’ll be picking up speed as far as I can guess.

What will be different about this magnificent new year, two thousand eight, will be the lack of those twice-a-week “neologisms of the day” that have attracted so many fans and admirers. Sure, I can think up twenty or thirty novel words. But 104 a year, on top of school and work? Not a promising promise. I’m sure I’ll have some neologisms to share with my readers (I have a couple brewing) but they’ll appear only when they’re borne from the depths of my insanity (in other words, in a sporadic fashion).

This semester’s going to be tough on an English major. Four classes and fifteen books, twelve of them plays and novels. So this is no summer vacation for me or my WordPressin’.

See you all in the coming weeks.

P.S. Screw that post about not spending any money in January. I’ve already failed.

P.P.S. Reflecting on this reflection, I realize I’d committed one of the cardinal sins of blogging: thinking my material was immaterial to the blogosphere. But anything you write, whether it’s trivial or indispensable, whether it’s publicly displayed or burned immediately afterward, is a step forward in the career of a writer. The only way to get better at writing is to read and to write, and wouldn’t you know it? Blogs provide both services.

P.P.P.S. Yes, I should just include all these postscripts in the main body of my post. But it’s fun to have them down here. Anyway, here’s what I just realized, and this goes along with my post about wanting to have been born in the 19th century: blogging is, in a sense, a step up from conversation. And when it’s put that way, it’s almost like the modern-day equivalent of writing letters to friends by candlelight to discuss anything and everything in a diplomatic and intelligent way.

Words… or, Lack Thereof

You may have noticed my failure to update this blog recently, aside from my Neologisms of the Day. Or you may not have. I certainly have. But then again, this is my blog.

Anyway,  I’ve been posting constantly since August, sometimes more than once a day, and I’ve reached a block. I’ve even stopped dead in the middle of the short story I’m writing.

Writers: you can sympathize. No man contains infinite words.

So I’ll return with some new stuff probably later this month, or perhaps January, but most likely no later than January.

In January, of course, I start the spring semester at Rutgers, for which I have already bought 13 books.

For three classes.

Bye for now.

January

Ah, December. It’s a heart-warmer and a wallet-breaker. Hundreds of dull green rectangles will inevitably go flying from the creases of your wallet (which you thought was safe in your back pocket) into a motley assortment of cash registers and the hands of the bell-ringing Santa brethren, while you, oblivious, are mesmerized by glowing fires and off-key carols.

There’s nothing you can do about twelfth-month expenditures if you celebrate Christmas, apart from some drastic precautions that involve you either temporarily converting to Buddhism or “going missing” until the stores have turned red with Valentine’s Day candy. However, there is something you can do to offset the tears your wallet has no doubt already shed. You can carefully monitor your January expenditures.

To take this even further, I plan to spend zero dollars in January with scarce exceptions including gasoline and my car insurance payment. I’ve attempted something like this before, but it certainly didn’t last for an entire month. To combat straying from this path, I’ll be posting any superfluous expenses right here on this blog for everyone to see. If I fail, I might as well do it publicly.

I am not attempting to carry out such an ambitious task with a loophole, either. I’m not going to go out and buy things this month I think I might need in January. But thirty-one days isn’t that long, is it?

(Answer: Yes, it is.)

P.S. This is not a New Year’s resolution. Those are meant to be broken.