Who Knows Where The Time Goes

I have a recurring fantasy that if one were to dial the telephone number of someone in the past, one would hear again a familiar voice, and time would instantly rewind from now to then. I still have Orson Welles’ telephone number in my book (213-851-8458). Do I dare ring him and talkstill here to him back in 1982, where he is busy trying to convince Jack Nicholson to play Pellarin for two not four million dollars? Should I tell him that he’ll not get the picture made? No. That would be too harsh. I’ll pretend that I have somehow got a copy of it, and that I think it marvellous though perhaps the handkerchief was, from so prudish a master, a bit much? Even incredible.

“Incredible?” The voice booms in my ear.”How could it be incredible when I stole it from Othello? But now I have a real treat for you. Standing here is your neighbour . . . Rudy Vallee! Overcome that ‘quiet reserve of shyness.’ Sing!

From out of the past, I hear, “My time is your time,” in that reedy highly imitable voice. The after-life’s only a dial tone away. “What makes you think that this is the after-life?” Orson chuckles. “This is a recording.” Stop story here.

—Gore Vidal, “Remembering Orson Welles”


3 Responses to “Who Knows Where The Time Goes”

  1. 1 sally July 29, 2014 at 9:13 am

    oh, oh, I should definitely read more Vidal. Had to look up Stephenson– I think he may be way out of my league. Been missing you. Glad you are back annoying me. Thanx. Namaste- xoxox

  2. 2 bluenred August 6, 2014 at 11:54 pm

    Stephenson is no ways out of your league. You, in fact, prefigured him. Start, in his works, with Anathem.

    And best to keep missing me. For I will continue to be fading in and out of this place. Like a wave. Like a particle.

  3. 3 sally August 7, 2014 at 8:39 am

    And it’s BOOM day — so happy birthday! I don’t think I ever baked you a cake and left it out in the rain– how sad. Yet, there still may be time… here or perhaps somewhere else– Namaste – xoxox

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When I Worked

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