Chapter 1
And the snow is falling, and year 1996 is knocking on the door; almost there, yet not completely.
It is grey morning of December 30, and everything is covered with endless snow; and gown, almost hundred years old, there is gown of vivid scarlet silk, vivid and daring, from another place and time; and I am standing with my beloved, favorite, trustworthy gown: dressed for almost all times and places.
Behind the solid wall of snow, continuum of time plays hide and seek: this could be 1886, 1906, could be 2026.
Duncan argued once, over the scotch, older than himself, that these tiny escapades, jumps are possible on two conditions: it should be mercilessly raining or snowing, in order to obscure the world from our brain; and another thing of essence is.. as long as there is at least one 6 or 9 in the year, the jump is possible.
I do oppose, because, as long as there is an imagination, as long as mind knows when it belongs or, in my, in our case, where it chooses to belong and provides the ether, the universe, the time-and-space continuum (call it what you wish, it does not change the matter) with level of details that serves as coordinates, as anchors in time, it IS enough.. but they should be general and specific enough simultaneously (the challenge with future is, we rarely manage to imagine it spot-on; if we fail - we remain where we are).
I do oppose on the principle of hard evidence: the sun is coldly shining, and this is 2020, somewhere in the very beginning of September, judging from children, rushing with flowers in all directions; my gown - I raise head, arrogantly - is just the proper attire, the latest fashion, and I do fit in here.
Brave New World, here I come!