December 4th, 1993 – “Last night I entered this giant department store in search of a white robe. I’ve been looking through this building before. It tends to age the more time I spend in it, and the higher I go the more medieval it gets. Soon it wasn’t like a store at all, and I was travelling up stone stairways and opening strange doors. At last I came to the final gate, one of wrought iron with finials on top. I opened it and went down into a stone chamber like a catacomb with an aloof ceiling. Across the rectangular chamber was another stairway leading up to a door gilt with gold. I opened it and entered a small, ordinary room; a doctors examining room in a doctor’s office. Marianne was there, sitting on the exam table.
“Oh you’ve made it!” -A simple statement with the combined weight of “Finally!” and “Good for you.” There is a sense of completion, of a mission finished.
“So you know your religion, now?” She got a telepathic assent.
“Have you written the book?” The query carried abundant weight, that she needed it, wanted to be converted, a sense that this was also somehow universal; it was a challenge.
“No I haven’t, but I’ll give you what I’ve written so far,” and I put the fuchsia book (with all the Aoreth writings) on the examining table beside her. Yet the book was supposed to contain everything about myself, a form of dialectic apology for everything I have done, enforcing my position combining it with theology. She took the book gladly and disappeared. I wept, as I often do when I hit this space. A small impish little man appeared and embraced me until my weeping drained away, but I’ve forgotten what he said (unfortunately), except the connotation, which was, Let go….”
