railroad tickets and barking dogs and wars and marshmallow sundaes. But, like
theology, metaphysics has no answers. Just questions.
But what lovely questions!
Was this world created? If so, when and by whom and why?
How is consciousness (`Me-ness’) hooked to the physical world?
What happens to this `Me-ness’ when this body I am wearing stops, dies, decays, and
the worms eat it?
Why am I here, where did I come from, where am I going?
Why are you here? Are you here? Are you anywhere? Am I all alone?
(And many more.)
Metaphysics has polysyllabic words for all of these ideas but you don’t have to use
them; Anglo-Saxon monosyllables do just as well for questions that have no answers.
Persons who claim to have answers to these questions invariably are fakers after
your money. No exceptions. If you point out their fakery, if you dare to say aloud
that the Emperor has no clothes, they will lynch you if possible, always from the
highest of motives.
That’s the trouble I’m in now. I made the mistake of flapping my loose lower jaw
before learning the power structure here… so now I am about to be hanged (I hope
it is as gentle as hanging!) for the capital crime of sacrilege.
I should know better. I didn’t think anyone would mind (in San Francisco) when I
pointed out that the available evidence tended to indicate that Jesus was gay.
But there were cries of rage from two groups: a) gays; b) non-gays. I was lucky to
get out of town.
(I do wish Pixel would come back.)
On Friday we got my daughter Nancy and Jonathan Weatheral married. The bride wore
white over a peanut-sized embryo that qualified her for Howard Foundation benefits,
while the brides mother wore a silly grin that resulted from her private activities
that week and the groom’s mother wore a quiet smile and a faraway look in her eyes
from similar (but not identical) private activities.
I had gone to much trouble to slide Eleanor Weatheral under Sergeant Theodore. To
their mutual joy, I know (my husband says that Eleanor is a world-class mattress
dancer), but not solely for their amusement. Eleanor is a touchstone, able to detect
lies when she is sexually linked and en rapport.
Let’s go back two days.
On Wednesday my zoo got home from the circus at 6.05 p.m.; we had a picnic dinner in
our back yard at 6.30, the exact timing being possible through Carol’s having
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prepared it in the morning. At sundown Brian lit the garden lights and the younger
ones played croquet while we elders – Brian, Father, Theodore, and I – sat in the
garden glider swing and talked.
Our talk started on the subject of human female fertility. Brian told Father that he
wanted him to hear something Captain Long had said about the matter.
But I must note first that I had gone to Father’s room the night before (Tuesday)
after the house was quiet, pledging him a King’s X, then told him about a strange
story Sergeant Theodore had given me earlier that night, after that silly unplanned
visit to Electric Park, a story in which he claimed to be Captain Lazarus Long, a
Howard from the future.
Despite my promise of King’s X, Father left the door ajar. Nancy tapped on it and we
invited her in. She perched on the other side of Father’s bed and facing me listened
soberly to my repetition.
Father said, ‘Maureen, I take it you believe him, time travel and ether ship and
all.’
‘Father, he knew Woodrow’s birth date. Did you tell him?’
‘No. I know your policy.’
‘He knew your birthday, too, not just the year, but the day and the month. Did you
tell him?’
‘No, but it’s no secret. I’ve set it down on all sorts of documents.’
‘But how would he know where to find one? And he knew Mother’s birthday – day, year,
and month:
‘That’s harder. But not impossible. Daughter, as you tell me he pointed out: anyone
with access to the Foundation’s files in Toledo could look up all of these dates.’