Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 40.1: October 7th, 2011
This is an untitled, unfinished novel that was technically left alone in late 2008. However, the last time it was modified and checked for errors was 2011, where upon I decided that the absurdity of the plot combined with the sloppy British research was too much for the story to continue.
However, seeing as this is Whims of the Time Traveler, it's a perfect example of my first attempt at long fiction, so I've decided to unabashedly display it.
Have fun.
Untitled: Prologue
by Belinda Roddie
There are three different kinds of people in the world: Those who find themselves straightaway, those who find themselves through experience, and those who never find themselves at all.
If you’re one of the people who believe that no one searches and comes up with at least one jewel from some unknown treasure cove, then you haven’t looked at the intricate details. Plenty have found a purpose or a true meaning to who they are. They just aren’t the majority of the population.
Of course, one could argue that the majority don’t find themselves at all. This is true. However, many of those people don’t mind if they can’t seek some aspect of their individualism. They just live life the way that they believe it should be lived, with merriment and satisfaction.
Then there are the people who spend perhaps even their whole lives on finding out just who they are in the world. There are different elements to such soul-searching as well. It could have to do with what they’re meant to do with their life. Should young Billy be a firefighter, just like his dad? Or is he meant to be a surgeon? Is Mr. Galloway, who lives in a small flat just a few miles away from Big Ben, meant to commit his life to charity, or is he meant for a position in the government?
It could also be about who should be involved in one’s life. Should Francis marry Tom? Or Neville? Or Lucas? Or that boy down the street who she kissed under the mistletoe two years ago, and she liked it?
Yet there are always the questions that attempt to dig deeper besides the “Why am I here?” question. These questions are like two separate armies; they conflict. They fight against what is the truth or the authority, perhaps even against God. Such are these thoughts that question what one has been taught is real. They’re the questions that your parents don’t want you to ask, besides the dreaded “Where did I come from?” They’re deeper. They’re more dangerous. And they can definitely be harmful.
For example you have questions like, Who is my mother? Who is my father? Who are my brothers and sisters, and do they love me as much as I love them? Where am I going? Where are you taking me?
I know what you’re thinking. I bet you think that the only big question is Who am I? However, that question sums up all questions and all elements of finding one’s self. No, another big question that pervades one’s thoughts, especially in the tender, fleeting mind of a child, is one that could make a little girl ask if she was adopted. Or a bastard child. Or even abandoned on the street by a couple who had too much to drink last night and “forgot the fucking condom, you shit-faced dick? How could you do this to me? How could you do this to us?” The question is as follows:
Am I really who you say I am?
I asked this question fourteen years ago. The details I’ll give later. One thing I can let you know now, however, is that this question burns. In a way, it’s like accidentally brushing your hand against a hot iron stove. At the touch, your first reaction is to pull away. The next is to either suck on it if it’s a finger or stick it right under a running faucet if it’s the palm of your hand, or right across your knuckles. Whatever you do, you attempt to stop the pain, to evade any sort of harm it could have caused you. But the damage is already done; depending on the severity of the burn, the mark, or at least the twinge of pain, lasts a long time. It’s not your fault. It’s not the asker’s fault. It’s the question. It’s a question that people don’t really understand the intensity of. There’s poignancy to it because in a way it’s basically your loved one not just asking you a question, but questioning you, questioning how trustworthy you are.
Children are highly perceptive, even when they are as young as twelve to fifteen years old. Sometimes I believe they are more perceptive than some of the grown-ups in the world. To them, lying is intolerable when you’re a grown-up. Grown-ups, to them, are supposed to be perfect, and they are obligated to let children know the truth no matter what. So when a child asks you, “Am I really who you say I am?” you better not blow them off. Because that’s not just a question of curiosity. The kid’s serious, and you better get them a straight answer or it’s you, not the child, who answers to the consequences.
One man I knew suffered the consequences; he was asked that question, and the result was that the child never spoke to that man again. I’m sure it’s happened more than once, and it’s certainly happened more commonly than people think. People don’t like to answer that question, regardless of how confidently they can say, “Oh, Henry, darling, how ever could you think you’re not who we say you are?”
But I digress. Like I said, there are three different kinds of people in the world. They come from different places with different views and different advantages. But every single one of them is born with a disadvantage, and that’s the inability to know who they really are for certain. And as I mentioned earlier, several of them are never able to know.
Others, however, never take “I will never know” for an answer. And many of these people are never satisfied with other simple answers that are given. The beggar is never satisfied with his predicament; down with Darwin. The writer is never satisfied with his results; down with society. The constituent is never satisfied with his expectations; down with the government. The scholar is never satisfied with his knowledge; down with the status quo. The lonely are never satisfied with their surroundings. The lover is never satisfied with just words. The fathers, the mothers, the uncles, and the grandparents are never satisfied with their hopes and dreams for their children. And the children, above all, are never satisfied with anything.
We all seek answers to big questions. Ironically, we’re never happy with the answers. Especially young children, and especially when the answer is, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” I asked all of the aforementioned questions at some point fourteen years ago. I received the worst of answers, the one you just cannot accept, and you simply cannot forgive. It is usually used for the question, “Who am I?” – it was used for that question when it came to me – but in terms of the “Am I really who you say I am?” it is still slightly relevant, and just as haunting:
I don’t know.
Such is the way of the world when it comes to searching for one’s self. But I wasn’t going to take that as a legitimate answer. There are three different kinds of people in the world, and I wasn’t planning to come up empty-handed. I guess that was what set me apart from the majority of people, other than the fact that I was dealing with a much bigger set of questions than most others deal with.
But that’s the entire story altogether.
However, seeing as this is Whims of the Time Traveler, it's a perfect example of my first attempt at long fiction, so I've decided to unabashedly display it.
Have fun.
Untitled: Prologue
by Belinda Roddie
There are three different kinds of people in the world: Those who find themselves straightaway, those who find themselves through experience, and those who never find themselves at all.
If you’re one of the people who believe that no one searches and comes up with at least one jewel from some unknown treasure cove, then you haven’t looked at the intricate details. Plenty have found a purpose or a true meaning to who they are. They just aren’t the majority of the population.
Of course, one could argue that the majority don’t find themselves at all. This is true. However, many of those people don’t mind if they can’t seek some aspect of their individualism. They just live life the way that they believe it should be lived, with merriment and satisfaction.
Then there are the people who spend perhaps even their whole lives on finding out just who they are in the world. There are different elements to such soul-searching as well. It could have to do with what they’re meant to do with their life. Should young Billy be a firefighter, just like his dad? Or is he meant to be a surgeon? Is Mr. Galloway, who lives in a small flat just a few miles away from Big Ben, meant to commit his life to charity, or is he meant for a position in the government?
It could also be about who should be involved in one’s life. Should Francis marry Tom? Or Neville? Or Lucas? Or that boy down the street who she kissed under the mistletoe two years ago, and she liked it?
Yet there are always the questions that attempt to dig deeper besides the “Why am I here?” question. These questions are like two separate armies; they conflict. They fight against what is the truth or the authority, perhaps even against God. Such are these thoughts that question what one has been taught is real. They’re the questions that your parents don’t want you to ask, besides the dreaded “Where did I come from?” They’re deeper. They’re more dangerous. And they can definitely be harmful.
For example you have questions like, Who is my mother? Who is my father? Who are my brothers and sisters, and do they love me as much as I love them? Where am I going? Where are you taking me?
I know what you’re thinking. I bet you think that the only big question is Who am I? However, that question sums up all questions and all elements of finding one’s self. No, another big question that pervades one’s thoughts, especially in the tender, fleeting mind of a child, is one that could make a little girl ask if she was adopted. Or a bastard child. Or even abandoned on the street by a couple who had too much to drink last night and “forgot the fucking condom, you shit-faced dick? How could you do this to me? How could you do this to us?” The question is as follows:
Am I really who you say I am?
I asked this question fourteen years ago. The details I’ll give later. One thing I can let you know now, however, is that this question burns. In a way, it’s like accidentally brushing your hand against a hot iron stove. At the touch, your first reaction is to pull away. The next is to either suck on it if it’s a finger or stick it right under a running faucet if it’s the palm of your hand, or right across your knuckles. Whatever you do, you attempt to stop the pain, to evade any sort of harm it could have caused you. But the damage is already done; depending on the severity of the burn, the mark, or at least the twinge of pain, lasts a long time. It’s not your fault. It’s not the asker’s fault. It’s the question. It’s a question that people don’t really understand the intensity of. There’s poignancy to it because in a way it’s basically your loved one not just asking you a question, but questioning you, questioning how trustworthy you are.
Children are highly perceptive, even when they are as young as twelve to fifteen years old. Sometimes I believe they are more perceptive than some of the grown-ups in the world. To them, lying is intolerable when you’re a grown-up. Grown-ups, to them, are supposed to be perfect, and they are obligated to let children know the truth no matter what. So when a child asks you, “Am I really who you say I am?” you better not blow them off. Because that’s not just a question of curiosity. The kid’s serious, and you better get them a straight answer or it’s you, not the child, who answers to the consequences.
One man I knew suffered the consequences; he was asked that question, and the result was that the child never spoke to that man again. I’m sure it’s happened more than once, and it’s certainly happened more commonly than people think. People don’t like to answer that question, regardless of how confidently they can say, “Oh, Henry, darling, how ever could you think you’re not who we say you are?”
But I digress. Like I said, there are three different kinds of people in the world. They come from different places with different views and different advantages. But every single one of them is born with a disadvantage, and that’s the inability to know who they really are for certain. And as I mentioned earlier, several of them are never able to know.
Others, however, never take “I will never know” for an answer. And many of these people are never satisfied with other simple answers that are given. The beggar is never satisfied with his predicament; down with Darwin. The writer is never satisfied with his results; down with society. The constituent is never satisfied with his expectations; down with the government. The scholar is never satisfied with his knowledge; down with the status quo. The lonely are never satisfied with their surroundings. The lover is never satisfied with just words. The fathers, the mothers, the uncles, and the grandparents are never satisfied with their hopes and dreams for their children. And the children, above all, are never satisfied with anything.
We all seek answers to big questions. Ironically, we’re never happy with the answers. Especially young children, and especially when the answer is, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” I asked all of the aforementioned questions at some point fourteen years ago. I received the worst of answers, the one you just cannot accept, and you simply cannot forgive. It is usually used for the question, “Who am I?” – it was used for that question when it came to me – but in terms of the “Am I really who you say I am?” it is still slightly relevant, and just as haunting:
I don’t know.
Such is the way of the world when it comes to searching for one’s self. But I wasn’t going to take that as a legitimate answer. There are three different kinds of people in the world, and I wasn’t planning to come up empty-handed. I guess that was what set me apart from the majority of people, other than the fact that I was dealing with a much bigger set of questions than most others deal with.
But that’s the entire story altogether.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since October 7th, 2011.
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