Changing the past.

It’s logically impossible to change the past. Or so I’m told. But you think about it: here I am sending messages back to you nearly 50 years ago, and you’re reading them. Is this the same past where nobody ever got to read this stuff? I don’t think so.

My Ellie wants to add something here. She says that this past where you’re reading my blob must be the past that we had in the first place. So anything I’m adding to it isn’t really a change, since that’s the way things always were anyhow. … Ellie’s a friggin’ genius, at least compared to me. Darn it. But I have to say that doesn’t make any sense at all.

Not only that, Ellie says, but this isn’t a “blob,” it’s a blog. Whatever. (It’s nice to know my qubital editor missed that.)

But getting back to changing the past, how can that be? I’m going to be telling people about the really bad things that happened between ad 2007 and 2055, and that would mean none of it did any good at all. That Collin Piprell got his novels MOM and The Proteant Enigmass published, and one other that I can’t talk about yet—and I know they all did pretty well—and nobody took a lesson from this. What’s the point, then? The point of anything, I mean. Gosh.

Still, here I am, channeling qubital life from the middle of the Third Millennium, adding to an ever-growing pile of notes towards the chronicle of my second half century and beyond. (If you have a look at MOM, which was published in 2008, you’ll find a few sections from my book, which I’m calling Full of It. The story of my first 50 years was called Half Full, and some claimed that the title was the best part of it. Though I doubt they ever actually read the thing, so what did they know?)

Anyway, that's it for now. Never mind I'm nothing but a mess of qubital data, I still seem to get tired easier than I should. Seems habits die hard, even in this brave new world, this "Aeolia," I find myself living in. If living is what I'm really doing.