There are two schools of thought on the mutability of the past. Some say that because the past has already happened it is unchangeable, and the only modifications possible are of our interpretations of these events, which, no matter how we choose to interpret them, remain fixed in the unalterable past. The other way to look at it is to say that since the past is past, it no longer exists other than in the form of memories, recorded histories, and physical changes in matter. According to this school of thought, the past must necessarily be in a constant state of flux, since it is defined by our interpretation of these evidentiary fragments.
To simplify, some people believe that we are stuck with the past; others contend that it is under our control.
I fall firmly into both camps.
A few dozen days after the toilet episode I was watching the ceiling spin, gripping my mattress as if it was the last bit of flotsam on a wicked sea, when Smed swam into being, floating above the foot of my bed. I was actually grateful for his appearance, as it gave me something to fix my eyes upon. He didn’t say anything, just stared down at me the way you might look at a slug crossing a hot sidewalk, wondering if it was going to make it. I asked him what his position was on the mutability of the past.
He said, “You know, I died in this room, Pete.”
“So you agree with the immutable past people.”
He shook his head. “Your question is nuncupatory.”
This, from a ghost who types nonsense, sits on my toilet, and destroys his eldest grandson’s writing career.
“OK, 8-ball,” I said. “But I think you’re wrong.”
Smed shrugged. “Don’t matter what you think,” he said.
I had often suspected as much.
“So how’s the writing going, Pete?” he asked.
“You know damn well how it’s going.”
“Not so good, huh?”
“How come you always show up when I’m loaded?” I had yet to see Smed while I was sober. This meant that the mornings after our conversations, I always had to deal with this sliver of doubt. Was Smed’s ghost real or was it memory? Which, of course, led me straight into the mutable past question. Which led to the mutable future question, which led to my future, which was looking bad, which called for a drink.
“It’s all the same, Pete.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means drunk or sober, what you do counts the same.”
“Immutable future,” I said. “I was afraid of that.”
Smed was shaking his head. “Let me try and explain it to you, Pete. What happened happened. What didn’t happen might have happened. Understand?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I understand you’re here to torment me.”
“Not true! Not true!”
“Then why are you here?”
“I’m here to haunt you, Pete. There’s a difference.”
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