No Time
I was obsessed with the notion of genius.
"I don't believe in it," I said, apropos of nothing.
"You don't believe in what?" My friend replied, between bites, mouth full.
"Time. I don't believe in time." I was sixteen. Sixteen and convinced of my own insights into Time, The Universe, and Everything.
I had read a book, or, to be more accurate, I had read bits and pieces of a book and presumed to understand its essentials. In truth I was very much confused by it. The book was Paul Davies' About Time and my brother had bought it, read it, and passed it along to me. It was full of philosophical science, or scientific philosophy, all of which expounded on Einstein's "Unfinished Revolution" into the import of the interconnections of space and time. As is often my tendency, I was more attracted to the idea of the book than the book itself. After struggling off and on for several weeks with the actual business of reading it, I felt my investment was ready to pay high returns in new, radical contributions to philosophical science, or scientific philosophy.
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," my friend replied.
I smiled to myself, silently lauding my obvious brilliance and revolutionary new theory. Why hadn't anyone ever thought of it this way before? Because it's dumb, the mental echo of my friend reiterated. Ah, but is it? It's brilliant! Brilliant! There is no such thing as time! Sheer genius! (Dumb.) Remarkable! (Dumb.) Outstanding! (Dumb.)
I was obsessed with the notion of genius. Intelligence so markedly distinct that such giant leaps (as I had just made) were natural, expected. I was also obsessed with the process of determining whether I possessed the requisite innate abilities to be considered genius-like. How many grains of salt are in that oddly shaped shaker? How long will it take for that accelerating vehicle to stop when it's raining? How fast is the Earth traveling around the Sun and what percentage of the speed of light is it traveling?
To the genius-qualifier in my head, I was just supposed to know these things. Intuit them; participate minimally in the transition from question to answer. So intuit them I did, answer-checking be damned.
It was a game I got good at, these internal shotgun question-answer challenges. How many marbles? Ninety three. How many tire revolutions per second of the car that just passed? Twenty one. What is the significance of this epic poem? I understand it perfectly. Does Time actually exist? No. Am I a genius? Inconclusive.
"Are you gonna eat that?" My friend leaned in, eyeing the rest of my burrito.
"What?" I wasn't so lost in thought that my food was going to suffer the indignity of being shared. "Have I ever not finished one?"
"Whatever man; I'm still hungry." He contorted around backwards to read the fifty-nine cent value-menu. "I'm getting another one. You want one?"
It was then that the brilliant theory fell apart. Hunger is a function of time. Especially for teenagers. My theory was bunk. I briefly mourned its passing.
"Yeah, get me another burrito."
Undeterred, the obsession continued.