same book: "It seems to mean that basically the different
dimensions of reality are not divided as our senses show them. It
seems as if perception by the senses has superimposed these
distinctions on reality, and that in some ultimate way these
differences of thought and thing, near and far, present and future,
are only superficial, the creations of the human mind."
So where does that leave us, you and me, in
our attempts to rationalize the irrational?
Yeah, right, it leaves us in my beach pad at
Malibu with a dead woman who does not seem to realize that she is
dead and insists on inhabiting space and time with those of us who
are not really prepared to acknowledge her ability to do that.
I have had a few bundles of psychical
experiences. I have even, I believe, had fleeting communications
and "visitations" from the dead. That's okay. I handle that okay.
Because except for a couple of small exceptions, that could all be
rationalized as occurring entirely within my own mind. I have never
had to reach too far outside my paradigm to explain to my
satisfaction how such things can fit my tidy concept of
reality.
But just look at this mess
we're in now! I cannot rationalize Jane Doe as a dream or as a
waking hallucination, and not even as some form of extrasensory
perception. There is nothing extrasensory about it. The woman
died more than twelve hours ago. Her cadaver is at rest in the
county morgue at this very moment. Yet that same body—or a damned
good copy of it—is also at rest this very moment in my bed. It has
weight and warmth, it is animated by a crackling personality, and
it seems quite content to just stay there, maybe
forever.
So. Put yourself in my place, please. I
don't care if you are male or female, pal; put yourself there and
assign Jane to the opposite sex. How do we handle this? Do we treat
her like a person or like a thing? Do we try to ignore her and hope
that she will leave the same way she came?
And—if she won't
leave—what then, old pal? What the hell do we do with her? She didn't bring
any clothing with her! What if someone drops in? Do we introduce
her—and if so, how? Does she need to be fed? If so, what? Should we
put down a bowl of water, like for a stray puppy, in case she gets
thirsty?
See ... this is the kind
of stupid shit the mind retreats within when it is confronted with
the inexplicable. I was not thinking sanely at all. I should have
been pondering eternal truths or something equally noble; or maybe
I should have been thinking of how sweet it would be to trot Jane
Doe down to some sacred halls of science and watch those guys try
to rationalize her away. There were any number of deep
implications, having to do with the nature of life and
death—religious implications, legal implications, scientific
implications—medical implications, for God's sake.
But I was worried about what the neighbors
might think. Like, I have a friend who teaches CPR, and she left
her dummy at my place for about a week once. Bothered hell out of
me, like having a sex doll lying about the place and what would
people think.
See, this is not sane
thinking, and I knew it at the time. I was busying the intellect
with meaningless frick-frack, avoiding the necessity for really
dealing with this situation. I got away with it for most of an
hour, too, but then Jane herself began to force the issue. I heard
her getting out of bed, and that shivered me with some nameless
dread. Like, a monster was up and moving about my house. That was
insane thinking too. It was nothing whatever like a monster but a
very lovely woman who came into my office. She was sipping a Coke
from my refrigerator. One of my bath towels was wrapped about the
very shapely body. She sat in my chair at the computer and offered
me a sip of the Coke. Her eyes were beautiful,
compelling.
But, see, I had to deal with that Coke. I
tasted it. It was the real stuff. I handed it back and watched her
take another sip. It was going somewhere, sure as
dimensions of reality are not divided as our senses show them. It
seems as if perception by the senses has superimposed these
distinctions on reality, and that in some ultimate way these
differences of thought and thing, near and far, present and future,
are only superficial, the creations of the human mind."
So where does that leave us, you and me, in
our attempts to rationalize the irrational?
Yeah, right, it leaves us in my beach pad at
Malibu with a dead woman who does not seem to realize that she is
dead and insists on inhabiting space and time with those of us who
are not really prepared to acknowledge her ability to do that.
I have had a few bundles of psychical
experiences. I have even, I believe, had fleeting communications
and "visitations" from the dead. That's okay. I handle that okay.
Because except for a couple of small exceptions, that could all be
rationalized as occurring entirely within my own mind. I have never
had to reach too far outside my paradigm to explain to my
satisfaction how such things can fit my tidy concept of
reality.
But just look at this mess
we're in now! I cannot rationalize Jane Doe as a dream or as a
waking hallucination, and not even as some form of extrasensory
perception. There is nothing extrasensory about it. The woman
died more than twelve hours ago. Her cadaver is at rest in the
county morgue at this very moment. Yet that same body—or a damned
good copy of it—is also at rest this very moment in my bed. It has
weight and warmth, it is animated by a crackling personality, and
it seems quite content to just stay there, maybe
forever.
So. Put yourself in my place, please. I
don't care if you are male or female, pal; put yourself there and
assign Jane to the opposite sex. How do we handle this? Do we treat
her like a person or like a thing? Do we try to ignore her and hope
that she will leave the same way she came?
And—if she won't
leave—what then, old pal? What the hell do we do with her? She didn't bring
any clothing with her! What if someone drops in? Do we introduce
her—and if so, how? Does she need to be fed? If so, what? Should we
put down a bowl of water, like for a stray puppy, in case she gets
thirsty?
See ... this is the kind
of stupid shit the mind retreats within when it is confronted with
the inexplicable. I was not thinking sanely at all. I should have
been pondering eternal truths or something equally noble; or maybe
I should have been thinking of how sweet it would be to trot Jane
Doe down to some sacred halls of science and watch those guys try
to rationalize her away. There were any number of deep
implications, having to do with the nature of life and
death—religious implications, legal implications, scientific
implications—medical implications, for God's sake.
But I was worried about what the neighbors
might think. Like, I have a friend who teaches CPR, and she left
her dummy at my place for about a week once. Bothered hell out of
me, like having a sex doll lying about the place and what would
people think.
See, this is not sane
thinking, and I knew it at the time. I was busying the intellect
with meaningless frick-frack, avoiding the necessity for really
dealing with this situation. I got away with it for most of an
hour, too, but then Jane herself began to force the issue. I heard
her getting out of bed, and that shivered me with some nameless
dread. Like, a monster was up and moving about my house. That was
insane thinking too. It was nothing whatever like a monster but a
very lovely woman who came into my office. She was sipping a Coke
from my refrigerator. One of my bath towels was wrapped about the
very shapely body. She sat in my chair at the computer and offered
me a sip of the Coke. Her eyes were beautiful,
compelling.
But, see, I had to deal with that Coke. I
tasted it. It was the real stuff. I handed it back and watched her
take another sip. It was going somewhere, sure as
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