Time and Time Again

Time and Time Again by Chris Green

Time is a bitch. You never know quite where you are with it. Einstein argues that the distinction between past, present and future is an illusion, albeit a stubbornly persistent one. This morning as I go through the mail, I appreciate the great man’s uncertainty. These bills are the same ones as yesterday, electricity, phone and pet insurance. Exactly the same. And there’s an identical postcard of an Agadir beach at sunset from Errol and Cheryl.

When set against the issues of political corruption, the terrorist threat, and the war in the Middle East, a duplication of personal correspondence is small potatoes. Puzzling, yes, but I have a large recycling bin. More importantly, I’m running late. It is 8.30 and if I don’t hurry, the traffic on Tambourine Way will be horrific. I scrape the ice off the Fiesta’s windscreen and give it a few squirts of de-icer. While the inside windows de-mist, I slip a Johnny Cash CD into the player, and I move off into the February frost.

I have a sense of déjà vu as I flash the headlights at Pedro in his SUV on Solitaire Street. My progress is impeded by an accident at the Scott McKenzie roundabout. As I edge through the flashing blue chicane of police vehicles, I notice the two battered cars seem to be the same two cars as those in yesterdays’s accident in the same spot, a white BMW and a black Audi. The impact of the collision has buckled both cars irreparably, as in the previous accident. The coincidence is way beyond that presented by chance.

I arrive at Sanctuary Inanimate Pet Crèche and Counselling Service, where I work. I greet Dmitri and Gerhard. I see the cyber-dog that was collected by its owner the day before yesterday is back. There is also a familiarity about the headline, Sharks Love Jazz Say Scientists in Dmitri’s tabloid. Admittedly, inanimate pet care is a repetitive line of work, but the phone conversation Gerhard is having with Major Churchill about his pet rock, Britannia, seems identical to the one earlier in the week. When Gerhard hangs up, I mention this.

He looks at me challengingly. ‘This may be just a job to you,’ he says, ‘but the Major’s rock is pretty sick.’

I consider taking up the point. Yes, it is just a job to me. Unlike Gerhard, who sees a visit to the dentist as a big outing, I have seen a bit of the world. I keep quiet instead. What is the point? One pearl of wisdom that comes with age is that past glories count for nothing. I am here, and it is now. My life has taken a nosedive. Like Orson Welles, I seem to have lived my life backwards. If not quite in the sense I am about to.

In the days that follow, I have a permanent sense of déjà vu. Everything every day has happened previously. I have the same conversation with my daughter, Holly, about the dangers of putting too many personal details on social media, the same conversation with Freddie Kite about West Ham’s problems in defence, and I buy another metal detector off Bogdan at the outdoor market. The hours on my watch are still going forward, but the date is going backwards. The papers on the news-stands each day are yesterday’s papers. The presidential election comes round again, and they bring back the old president, and the family entertainer we all once liked is prosecuted again for entertaining children in an inappropriate way.

At first, I imagine it must be a huge practical joke, admittedly one with a formidable amount of complicity. I do not advertise my predicament in case people think I am a basket case, but no one I speak to displays any sense that anything is wrong with their temporal world. There is nothing online to suggest anything irregular is happening in the cosmos. Just the usual reports on war, politics and celebrity indiscretions. I am alone in my renegade perception of time. There are a number of contradictions of logic involved in my situation. My days still move forward in a linear fashion. I go to work, come home, go to the pub, walk the dog, stream an old episode of Spender, and go to bed as normal, but when I wake up the next day, it is yesterday. Each day, I become a day younger.

This aspect of my condition is something that at sixty-seven, perhaps I should be pleased about. Instead of a creeping decay, there will be a gradual rejuvenation. In a world that places excessive emphasis on artifice, this is what millions of people dream of. Zillions of pounds every week are spent by slavish consumers on a staggering array of products promising the reversal of the inevitable. The consentient sorcery of keeping flowers in full bloom is the central tenet of our belief system.

If I am reliving the past, there is plenty to look forward to, or backward to. On balance, I have enjoyed my life. There are places I have been with lovers or friends that I have felt I wanted to go back to sometime. The times I have said or thought, I’ll always remember this. Things that could not be captured on film. I will also know when to expect the difficult times, like the divorce from Monique, Adam’s fatal illness, and the bankruptcy hearing. Painful though it will be, I can be prepared for these episodes. And I can go on to experience youth with a wise head. What was it Oscar Wilde said? Youth is wasted on the young?

Despite these deliberations, the sequential upheaval continues to be disorientating. After a week of going over the same ground, I decide to seek professional help. I find myself limited by the need to arrange an appointment for the same day. The healing game does not operate this way. There is no point in my making an arrangement for any time in the future, and clearly, I cannot make an appointment for last week or last month. Similarly, I cannot arrange to see a priest, a mystic, a philosopher, or possibly even a time traveller at a few hours’ notice. Luna, the Auric Ki practitioner I manage to see at short notice, talks about meridians and explains that there might be blockages on the layers of my energy field. Over a dozen sessions she says she can balance my chakras and time will move forward again. I explain that he might need to do this in one session. She suggests that if this is my attitude, I should go elsewhere.

What would happen, I wonder, if I do not actually turn in. If I stay awake. Will one day progress normally to the next, or at a certain point in the night will I be flung back into the day before? Despite my predicament, there still seems to be an element of free will about my actions, so I decide to see Razor, a friend of a friend,in the Dancing Monk bar.

‘I have some wicked toot,’ he says, ‘One hit will keep you busy for days.’

‘Good,’ I say. ‘I may need it to.’

At my age, I am not a late-night person and have not taken non-prescription drugs for many years, so I am not sure what to expect.

Despite snorting the whole wrap of the wicked toot and playing some kicking music, I still drift off before daylight.

……………………………………………………………………

I wake up in a fugue state. Everything around me looks alien. In a stumbling conversation that must seem odd to my newfound companion, Song, I establish that this is the balcony of one of the upper floors of an apartment block in north-eastern China. It is 1988 – the year before Tiananmen Square. By my reckoning, I have gone back thirty years. Song and I are part of a team filming the spectacular estuary of the Songoua Jiang below for a travelogue for Sky television. It seems the Chinese authorities are keen to promote tourism in the area. It is Sunday morning, and from our high vantage point, we can see for miles. It is late August, near the end of the rainy season, and while the rainfall this year has been concentrated mainly in July, much of the floodplain is still underwater. Around the swollen river basin, acres of lush green landscape luxuriate. Song points toward a flooded football field to our right, saying that despite the pitch being waterlogged the locals are about to turn out to play.

‘We are used to water. We still play football,’ he says. ‘We have a long tradition. The Chinese invented football in the Han period two thousand years ago. Cuju. It means to kick a ball.’

Song goes deeper into the history of cuju in the region and says the water football game will look great on film, with a commentary about the history of the game from its Han dynasty roots. I nod my agreement. I am not surprised. Through Tai Chi classes back in, well, there is no other way to say this, back in the twenty-first century, I developed an interest in Sino culture. I came to understand that the Chinese invented practically everything from paper and printing to gunpowder and aerial flight, and most advances in science and medicine can be attributed to them. And Confucius was a clever bloke. Nearly everything he said has resonance.

The future as past takes some getting used to. Or perhaps it should be the past as future. While I am conscious of my vitality, I have the strange sensation that I am also an observer of my life.

It is humid. A dank haze hangs suspended above the water as if waiting for an impressionist painter. A boat carrying a team decked out in carnival colours comes up the river. The regressing part of me tries frantically to get a handle on what is happening. According to the log I am keeping to help with the editing of the film, I have been in the People’s Republic for ten days and am scheduled to be there for another ten. I am missing Monique, Adam and Holly. Song says that the phone lines will not be down for much longer, but I know in my world they will be down until my arrival, so I will be unable to phone home.

Adam is six, and Holly is five. It will be Holly’s birthday soon. Then she will be four. She will stop going to school. Before long, I will be reading her bedtime stories and taking her to nursery. It is curious to comprehend that my life going backwards means that everyone’s life around me is also doing so. I can only experience their past.

Filming in China goes back day-by-day as the day approaches that I arrive on a flight from Heathrow to Beijing. During this time, I ponder my situation continually. When Song says, ‘see you tomorrow’, I know I had already seen him tomorrow, but I will see him again yesterday.

I contemplate the age-old question whether we control our destiny or follow a preordained path. This seems more pertinent to my circumstances. Am I just reliving events in a life that I have already experienced, or could my new actions or thoughts as a person coming from the future have any effect? And how will I know whether they do?

More immediately, I am concerned about why time for me has gone back thirty years rather than the more conservative day at a time that I came to accept. I want to avoid such a dramatic leap happening again. I become anxious about sleeping, and visit one of the hundreds of acupuncturists here in Harbin. I buy various traditional Chinese remedies from a 114-year-old herbalist named Ho Noh at the local market. Not that Ho instils any confidence. He does not look as if he had ever slept. But I am particularly concerned that the flight on which I arrive in Beijing comes in at 5 a.m. local time. There seems to be no way of rescheduling this to reduce the risk of further temporal upheaval.

……………………………………………………………………

And indeed there isn’t…. When I become conscious again, I find myself on stage at a Pink Floyd concert. I have difficulty working out the time and place but conclude that it is The Wall tour in the early eighties and this must be one of several concerts in what was then West Germany. What is once again West Germany. I am a sound engineer, and it appears tape-loops for The Wall have been mixed up with those from Dark Side of the Moon. I suspect I have programmed something incorrectly into the console. Roger Waters is storming around the stage with a face like thunder, and some of the band stops playing.

Back at the hotel, I have a call from Astrid from the house in Rheims.

‘You seem upset, baby,’ she says. ‘Is something not good with you?’

I tell her I have just been sacked by Pink Floyd management. It seems better than saying I have just been jettisoned through space and time from the People’s Republic of China.

‘Why?’ she asks. ‘They seemed so nice at the party in Paris.’

‘A long story,’ I reply, intensely aware of two different life forces, the present, and the future in reverse. You cannot expect to have much of a conversation about space-time continuums on an international phonecall to someone whose first language is not English.

‘You could come down if you want,’ Astrid said. ‘I have missed you, you know. The only thing is I’ve got Monique staying. Have I ever mentioned my friend, Monique? I’m sure you would like her. She came yesterday.’

It occurs to me that unless I travel the 400 odd kilometres between Dortmund and Rheims by yesterday, I will never even meet Monique. It also occurs that I can’t anyway because I have spent yesterday in Dortmund with Pink Floyd. In a devastating flash, having travelled back to before they were even contemplated, I realise I will never see my children again, or for that matter, Monique.

Before The Wall tour starts, or after The Wall tour starts, I spend a month seeing the new year out and the old year in, with Astrid at the house in Rheims. Astrid is a freelance photographer who does shoots for Paris Match and Marie Claire, specialising in quirky subjects like Sumo wrestlers, dwarfs and circus performers. She is successful and works more or less when she chooses to. We make love morning, afternoon and night, paint, walk along the Vesle, go to galleries, concerts, and French films without subtitles.

During this time, I go to see a hypnotherapist and give up not smoking. Almost immediately I find myself getting through a pack of Gitanes a day. It is a revelation to me to discover that one session can change the habits of a lifetime.

With Astrid in Rheims I go with the flow, seize the moment, and try not to think about the disappearing future, about the first time Monique and I saw the Grand Canyon a morning in May, or looking down at The Great Barrier Reef through a glass-bottomed boat, walking amongst the mystical stonework of the sun temple of Machu Picchu or watching the spectacular patterns form in the Sossusvlei sand dunes in Namibia, the sun’s reflection on the water in the Halong Bay in Vietnam, about Holly’s wedding, or Adam getting in to Oxford, sadly just a month before his fatal illness took hold. I do not think of the excitement of my novel being published or the acclaim I received for the first feature film I directed. I certainly do not think of the months in The Jackson Pollock Recovery Home, the job at Don Quixote or about anything else that happened after my breakdown. The future is history. And the future from a normal chronology of events will now never be. I will not have to endure that period later in life when those around you are slowly dying off. Those senior years when if you see a friend you haven’t seen for a while, their news will be that someone else had died. Back in the future when I was in my sixties, I recall that this had already begun to happen. My parents had died, and of course, Adam had died. Also, in a few short months, my friend Giorgio had died from liver cancer, Jacques had died from a heart attack, and Marianne had died from complications during surgery.

I feel I can live with going back a day at a time, and being aware of what will happen next is not a huge problem. With Astrid, life seems easy. I am twenty-six, and it seems this is a time for pleasure. Each day the mystery of our attraction unfolds as we know less about each other. An affair lived backwards is exciting. The fascination increases day by day, the first time you will get a mutual invitation, the first time you will go away together, the first time you will get or buy a present, the first time you will have breakfast together, the first time you will undress one another, working toward that glorious, breathtaking moment when your eyes will first meet, when intuition and desire will form an immaculate, unstoppable, mystical union, that split second when love is heaven-sent.

……………………………………………………………………

Astrid becomes Francesca in Barcelona, then Isabella in Rome. In between, there is Natalie in New York, and before I know it I am twenty-four. These years are wild and exciting. I go to parties with painters and dine with divas. In a wave of hedonism, I soak up all the pleasure that is available and cannot recall when I last tried to exercise free will. I have gone with the flow, allowing my youth and libido free rein.

Time going backwards is by now the most normal thing in the world to me. Déjà vu has become so commonplace that it is now unnoticeable. I am no longer surprised that news items and soap opera plots unfold backwards. But I am sometimes made aware of echoes of a future life. A persistent voice in my head seems to narrate stories concerning an older person. The voice is familiar, and comes from within, but while it seems it belongs to me and has some sense of self, at the same time I feel a sense of detachment. I have recollections of having lived through many of the episodes, but they exhibit themselves like false memory.

This older person seems to have experienced considerable misfortune. He found his crock of gold early and bit-by-bit has seen it disappear. As a result of the dispossession, he has suffered some kind of nervous collapse. He lives a lonely life, works in inanimate pet care, drives an old Ford Fiesta and listens to Hank Williams and Johnny Cash. Even if this were to be my own future, it is neither tangible nor attractive. It seems to me that as my life is moving irrevocably in reverse, nothing is to be gained by taking possession of a character surrounded with so much sadness. So the more that it happens, the more I try to block out the voice.

It is often said that when you are young, life is a timeless flight, but as you get older, time seems to fly by on fast forward. As I grow younger, a similar thing is happening. Months fly by. One moment it is August, and the next it is April, and another summer is gone. Christmases and birthdays are closer together. No sooner am I twenty-three than I am twenty-two, and then in what seems the blink of an eye, twenty-one.

After an especially profligate drinking session, with a group of Dutch football supporters in a de Wallen bar in Amsterdam watching the 1978 World Cup final, I make the decision to fundamentally change the way I live. We have consumed bottle after bottle of Oranjeboom as Holland lose to Argentina in extra time and continued our drinking into the night, inconsolable.

The binge is the last in a long line of testimonies to guileless self-deprecation. I am unhappy with myself. I have begun to feel that my youthful comportment is frivolous and empty. My behaviour is inconsiderate and hurtful, and I despise the person I am becoming – or have been. I catch myself saying immature things and acting badly towards those around me.

………………………………………………………………….

What brings matters to a head is a chance meeting at Amsterdam bus station with Faith, a friend of my mother’s. Faith is dressed in a miscellany of chiffon wraps, scarves, bead chokers and jangly jewellery. She carries a tote bag with a yantric design on it and has rainbow coloured braids in her hair. Faith greets me with a warm hug, which brings with it an assault of patchouli.

‘What are you doing here?’ she says. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m not sure where I’m going,’ I say. ‘It seems to be more a case of where have I been.’

In that moment, I have a profound sensation of being disengaged from time.

In the 1960s, both Faith and my mother will live on the fringes of a bohemian lifestyle. My father, a man ensconced in the decorum of the professions, will not. He will go to the races and Rotary Club dinners, while my mother and Faith will metaphorically burn their bras and go on demonstrations. It is not hard to see how they will grow apart and the disagreements and separation that will be the backdrop to my early life will arise.

‘Time present and time past are perhaps present in time future,’ Faith continues. ‘And time future is contained in time past. If all time is eternally present, all time is unredeemable.’

‘Where does that come from?’ I ask.

‘The opening lines from T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets,’ she replies, looking me in the eye. It is an English teacher kind of look. I look away.

When I am younger, my mother will try to educate me in poetry and reason, but I will prefer the Rolling Stones and spontaneity. I will get an appallingly bad grade in English by reading none of the books. My father will not notice because I am too unimportant to be of any significance.

‘But if you do not know where you are going, you should not be at the bus station. Why don’t you come and have some lunch with me?’ Faith says. ‘I live in Haarlem.’

The bus arrives, and we take it. Haarlem is just a few stops away. I open up to Faith. I explain I haven’t seen mother since I was nineteen and then only briefly. She looks puzzled, so I tried to explain a little of my predicament.

She quotes T. S. Eliot at me once again.

‘We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started. And know the place for the first time.’

I began to wonder if T. S. Eliot might have shared my sequential dysfunction.

Faith spends the journey telling me about the community in which she lives, emphasising how happy she is. The community, she says, supports one another, shares everything, and works together towards a common aim. It seems idealistic, naïve, even, but I can see that Faith appears to be happy and feels she has found what she is looking for. An explanation of the Middle Way and the mechanisms of Dzogchen, which involves non-conceptual knowledge of one’s primordial true nature, sees us outside Faith’s house in Haarlem.

‘BEWARE OF THE GOD,’ says the sign on the front gate.

‘Which God?’ I ask.

‘It does not matter,’ she replies. ‘How about a Retriever?’

……………………………………………………………………

Alas, I am not given a chance to appreciate the sound of one hand clapping. I am thrown back in time once more. When I come to, I find myself in the playground of The Frank Portrait Primary School. I am wearing short grey trousers, grey flannel shirt and a blue blazer. I am fighting with a boy called Tom Keating. No!…..Wait! …… I AM Tom Keating. ‘Keating needs a beating, Keating needs a beating’ they are chanting, this swathe of little grey monsters. ‘Keating needs a beating.’ They empty my blazer pockets, and one of them, Nolan Rocco I think it is, takes my wristwatch. How will I know what time it is now?

Copyright © Chris Green 2025: All rights reserved

 

An earlier version of this story was posted as ‘Time’