In 1970, I saw and heard events that would occur in daily life three years into the future. “That must mean that future time already exists in the present,” I’d tell myself. “But isn’t that impossible?” I’d argue back. I would go around and around like this until I didn’t know what the hell to think any more.

I became irritable and overly sensitive. “Little things” annoyed me and distracted my attention. Certain personal objects around my apartment that I once enjoyed, I now disliked. The reverse was true of some other objects. I didn’t question these turnabouts, I just figured I was changeable, and hard to please anyway. After some time, I began to notice that specific repeated actions — settling onto my couch to watch TV, opening the cupboard door for a cup, handling papers and drawing instruments — repeatedly resulted in the same mental images, virtual sounds, and sometimes, emotions. Sitting on the left cushion of my old couch, for example, evoked a sense of loneliness and despair. I feared losing my Social Security income. Then there were other mixed-up feelings about my brother Jimmy, and my two daughters, who didn’t know where I was and, I was bitterly certain, didn’t care anyway.

I wasn’t lonely, or old enough to collect Social Security. I had no brother Jimmy. I had no daughters.

The memory of the Endless Waves event continued to haunt me, but rumination upon it didn’t yield any further insights.

Eventually I began to tire of thinking and wondering about those fateful three days. I tried to deal with ordinary, everyday life and to put that craziness behind me. If it were not for the tangible consequences of the Waves, I expect that I would have quite forgotten the events over time. Or, perhaps I would have remembered them only as a dream — or a nightmare. But as the summer months of 1973 unfolded, I became increasingly moody and preoccupied with the conundrums of Reality and the apparent paradoxes of Time.