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<blockquote data-quote="taykair" data-source="post: 169623" data-attributes="member: 9418"><p style="text-align: center">Part Two</p> <p style="text-align: center">Conversations</p> <p style="text-align: center"></p> <p style="text-align: center">"I knew a man in Christ above fourteen years ago, (whether in the body, I cannot tell; or whether out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth) such an one caught up to the third heaven. And I knew such a man, (whether in the body, or out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth) How that he was caught up into paradise, and heard unspeakable words, which it is not lawful for a man to utter."</p> <p style="text-align: center">- Saul Paulus of Tarsus. II Corinthians. Chapter 12. Verses 2-4. (KJV)</p> <p style="text-align: center"></p> <p style="text-align: center">- - -</p> <p style="text-align: center"></p> <p style="text-align: center">Chapter Seven</p> <p style="text-align: center">Elizabeth (1991)</p><p></p><p>As I say, I went from job to job during my trek though "the wilderness". One of those jobs was working in the kitchen of a nursing home. On most days, I'd bring the patients their meals and wash dishes after. What was good about the job for me was not that I was being helpful to the elderly residents of the home or even that I was being paid (although sex, drugs and rock-and-roll has an economic cost as well as a physical one). The best thing, as far as I was concerned, was that I worked the lunch/dinner shift instead of the breakfast/lunch shift. This meant that I had a few extra hours to recover from whatever the previous night's debauch had entailed. The work was, to me, dull and repetitive. I was serving people who were either waiting to die or wanting to die.</p><p></p><p>We had a common bond.</p><p></p><p>Is this depressing enough yet? Do I come across as pathetic enough? Good. Then I've hit just the right note. Because this was at the lowest point in my life. The only bright spot at work - or in my life at the time - was when I'd take Elizabeth her meal.</p><p></p><p>Elizabeth was in her late seventies, and had suffered a stroke about ten years earlier. She couldn't speak, couldn't walk, and had only limited use of one arm. She had been a resident of the home for a long time. In fact, you might say that she was a fixture at the home. And that's about the way she was treated - as a fixture or a piece of furniture. Most everybody tended to ignore her. Even her own children neglected to visit her.</p><p></p><p>I don't know what it was, but from the moment I first met her, I liked her. I would always volunteer to take Elizabeth her meals. Sometimes, I'd wheel her to the day room so she could have a better view of the outside. Once, I even took her outside so that the two of us could have a "picnic".</p><p></p><p>Why did I do this? Maybe it's because I felt sorry for her. Nobody else seemed to want to take time with her. Maybe It was because she was alone and I was alone and, for a little while at least, neither of us felt lonely. Maybe it was because she reminded me a little of Gramma.</p><p></p><p>Maybe it was all of the above, but I think the main reason I liked being around her was because, when she had finished her meal, and I had taken her back to her room, and I would say, "Well, girl, I've got to get back to work. See you later," she would smile her crooked little smile, raise her good arm, and touch my cheek.</p><p></p><p>My friends at the time were only friends until the liquor or the dope ran out. My "relationships" were no more than that of any rutting animal - sometimes with those whose names I could not remember the morning after.</p><p></p><p>But when Elizabeth touched my cheek, this was something else. This was special. This was the only real human contact I had.</p><p></p><p>One day, as I was coming in to work, I heard one of the nurse's aides say to another, "Poor old thing. Well, at least she's in a better place now," and I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I went into the kitchen and looked for Elizabeth's name among the index cards which were used to identify which meal went to whom. Her card wasn't there.</p><p></p><p>I went out to the parking lot, past the place where Elizabeth and I had once had our picnic, and got in my car. I frantically searched the ashtray for a roach, the glove compartment for a bottle. Nothing, nothing.</p><p></p><p><em>'She was an old woman,' I reasoned to myself. 'She was in poor health. She died. Just move on. Move on. Keep moving. Keep working.'</em></p><p></p><p>I finished my shift. I went home. I went to bed. It was only a little after eight, but I was tired. Of everything.</p><p></p><p>I woke up in the Place of Light. The old man was there.</p><p></p><p>"You already know more than you need to know. Fortunately for you, you'll forget most of it, and the parts you remember won't make sense to anybody but you."</p><p></p><p><em>I remember thinking, 'Who said it was making sense to me?'</em></p><p></p><p>"Part of your problem now," he went on, "is that your configuration keeps changing. This has the unfortunate twin result of, happily, making more information available to you than would otherwise be probable along with, unhappily, having that information all being less clear than it would otherwise be. The conversation we've been having all this time, for instance: You have forgotten it now."</p><p></p><p><em>'Yes. I have forgotten it,' I thought. 'No. Wait. I never... But I did. What's happening?'</em></p><p></p><p>"Oh, eventually, you'll remember it. Parts of it, anyway. Once your configuration is stable, then you can focus better. The shape you're in now, though, I marvel that we're connected at all. Why you do this to yourself is really beyond all understanding."</p><p></p><p>"Why do I do it? Did you actually ask me why I have done this?" My anger grew hotter and my voice became louder with every word. "I haven't done a damned thing! You've done this to me! I want you to leave me the hell alone! I want you to leave all of us alone!"</p><p></p><p><em>'All of us? What did I mean by that? Can't remember.'</em></p><p></p><p>The old man looked at me for a moment. No. That's not quite right. He looked <em>inside</em> me. Inside my head. Making sure all was nice and tidy before he left. Making certain that some of the rooms in my top floor were securely locked. It was his way. He had done it before.</p><p></p><p><em>'Yes. Before. When? WHEN?'</em></p><p></p><p>"This will be the last time, I promise you," he said. "After this, it will be over."</p><p></p><p>"WHAT will be over?" I shouted. "WHAT the HELL do you WANT? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"</p><p></p><p>"Let's play a game!"</p><p></p><p>The voice came from behind me. I turned. It was a little girl. She looked to be maybe five or six years old.</p><p></p><p>"Let's play a game," the little girl repeated.</p><p></p><p>"That sounds like a fine idea," the old man said. I watched as the little girl and the old man sat down upon the white, bright light that was the floor. They began pretending they were having a tea party, just as little children do.</p><p></p><p>"Come and play," said the little girl.</p><p></p><p>I felt like a fool, but I sat on the floor. I wasn't angry anymore. Instead, I was in the emotional state I was usually in whenever I would visit the Place of Light - confusion laced with fear. Mostly confusion. The little girl started chatting away between sips of imaginary tea - going on and on about how wonderful everything was, and how she had met so many new friends, and how she was able to play all the time.</p><p></p><p>In the meantime, my confusion was turning back into anger - with a side-trip to brooding. The old man was avoiding my questions. He was good at that.</p><p></p><p><em>'How in the hell do I know that?' I thought.</em></p><p></p><p><em>What did he want? What is this place? Who is he?</em></p><p></p><p><em>Who am I?</em></p><p></p><p>My thoughts were interrupted by the little girl. She had, apparently, come to an exciting part of her childish narrative - her voice pitching higher, her words coming so fast so as to leave her almost breathless.</p><p></p><p><em>'There's already a little girl at this tea party,' I thought. "Why, then, do I feel like Alice? I've got to get some answers... as soon as this kid decides to shut up.'</em></p><p></p><p>The little girl immediately fell silent. She and the old man were staring at - inside - me. Then the little girl began to giggle.</p><p></p><p>"You don't think I heard you, but I did," she said.</p><p></p><p>"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I didn't mean to."</p><p></p><p>"It's okay," she said. "You don't know any better."</p><p></p><p>"Michael has to leave now," the old man said to the little girl. "Why don't you say goodbye, and then run along and play?"</p><p></p><p>"Okay," the little girl said. She stood up, making herself only a little taller than my still-seated self. "Bye, Michael." She raised her arm and her little hand touched my cheek. I knew.</p><p></p><p>"Bye," I whispered. "Elizabeth." The little girl smiled.</p><p></p><p>"You see?" the old man said, "I told you he would know. Now, scoot!"</p><p></p><p>I watched Elizabeth as she skipped off into the light.</p><p></p><p>"This is over now, Michael," the old man said.</p><p></p><p>There wasn't enough time for me to think the word "no", much less say it. I awoke in tears, yet feeling better than I had felt in a long, long time.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="taykair, post: 169623, member: 9418"] [CENTER]Part Two Conversations "I knew a man in Christ above fourteen years ago, (whether in the body, I cannot tell; or whether out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth) such an one caught up to the third heaven. And I knew such a man, (whether in the body, or out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth) How that he was caught up into paradise, and heard unspeakable words, which it is not lawful for a man to utter." - Saul Paulus of Tarsus. II Corinthians. Chapter 12. Verses 2-4. (KJV) - - - Chapter Seven Elizabeth (1991)[/CENTER] As I say, I went from job to job during my trek though "the wilderness". One of those jobs was working in the kitchen of a nursing home. On most days, I'd bring the patients their meals and wash dishes after. What was good about the job for me was not that I was being helpful to the elderly residents of the home or even that I was being paid (although sex, drugs and rock-and-roll has an economic cost as well as a physical one). The best thing, as far as I was concerned, was that I worked the lunch/dinner shift instead of the breakfast/lunch shift. This meant that I had a few extra hours to recover from whatever the previous night's debauch had entailed. The work was, to me, dull and repetitive. I was serving people who were either waiting to die or wanting to die. We had a common bond. Is this depressing enough yet? Do I come across as pathetic enough? Good. Then I've hit just the right note. Because this was at the lowest point in my life. The only bright spot at work - or in my life at the time - was when I'd take Elizabeth her meal. Elizabeth was in her late seventies, and had suffered a stroke about ten years earlier. She couldn't speak, couldn't walk, and had only limited use of one arm. She had been a resident of the home for a long time. In fact, you might say that she was a fixture at the home. And that's about the way she was treated - as a fixture or a piece of furniture. Most everybody tended to ignore her. Even her own children neglected to visit her. I don't know what it was, but from the moment I first met her, I liked her. I would always volunteer to take Elizabeth her meals. Sometimes, I'd wheel her to the day room so she could have a better view of the outside. Once, I even took her outside so that the two of us could have a "picnic". Why did I do this? Maybe it's because I felt sorry for her. Nobody else seemed to want to take time with her. Maybe It was because she was alone and I was alone and, for a little while at least, neither of us felt lonely. Maybe it was because she reminded me a little of Gramma. Maybe it was all of the above, but I think the main reason I liked being around her was because, when she had finished her meal, and I had taken her back to her room, and I would say, "Well, girl, I've got to get back to work. See you later," she would smile her crooked little smile, raise her good arm, and touch my cheek. My friends at the time were only friends until the liquor or the dope ran out. My "relationships" were no more than that of any rutting animal - sometimes with those whose names I could not remember the morning after. But when Elizabeth touched my cheek, this was something else. This was special. This was the only real human contact I had. One day, as I was coming in to work, I heard one of the nurse's aides say to another, "Poor old thing. Well, at least she's in a better place now," and I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I went into the kitchen and looked for Elizabeth's name among the index cards which were used to identify which meal went to whom. Her card wasn't there. I went out to the parking lot, past the place where Elizabeth and I had once had our picnic, and got in my car. I frantically searched the ashtray for a roach, the glove compartment for a bottle. Nothing, nothing. [I]'She was an old woman,' I reasoned to myself. 'She was in poor health. She died. Just move on. Move on. Keep moving. Keep working.'[/I] I finished my shift. I went home. I went to bed. It was only a little after eight, but I was tired. Of everything. I woke up in the Place of Light. The old man was there. "You already know more than you need to know. Fortunately for you, you'll forget most of it, and the parts you remember won't make sense to anybody but you." [I]I remember thinking, 'Who said it was making sense to me?'[/I] "Part of your problem now," he went on, "is that your configuration keeps changing. This has the unfortunate twin result of, happily, making more information available to you than would otherwise be probable along with, unhappily, having that information all being less clear than it would otherwise be. The conversation we've been having all this time, for instance: You have forgotten it now." [I]'Yes. I have forgotten it,' I thought. 'No. Wait. I never... But I did. What's happening?'[/I] "Oh, eventually, you'll remember it. Parts of it, anyway. Once your configuration is stable, then you can focus better. The shape you're in now, though, I marvel that we're connected at all. Why you do this to yourself is really beyond all understanding." "Why do I do it? Did you actually ask me why I have done this?" My anger grew hotter and my voice became louder with every word. "I haven't done a damned thing! You've done this to me! I want you to leave me the hell alone! I want you to leave all of us alone!" [I]'All of us? What did I mean by that? Can't remember.'[/I] The old man looked at me for a moment. No. That's not quite right. He looked [I]inside[/I] me. Inside my head. Making sure all was nice and tidy before he left. Making certain that some of the rooms in my top floor were securely locked. It was his way. He had done it before. [I]'Yes. Before. When? WHEN?'[/I] "This will be the last time, I promise you," he said. "After this, it will be over." "WHAT will be over?" I shouted. "WHAT the HELL do you WANT? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" "Let's play a game!" The voice came from behind me. I turned. It was a little girl. She looked to be maybe five or six years old. "Let's play a game," the little girl repeated. "That sounds like a fine idea," the old man said. I watched as the little girl and the old man sat down upon the white, bright light that was the floor. They began pretending they were having a tea party, just as little children do. "Come and play," said the little girl. I felt like a fool, but I sat on the floor. I wasn't angry anymore. Instead, I was in the emotional state I was usually in whenever I would visit the Place of Light - confusion laced with fear. Mostly confusion. The little girl started chatting away between sips of imaginary tea - going on and on about how wonderful everything was, and how she had met so many new friends, and how she was able to play all the time. In the meantime, my confusion was turning back into anger - with a side-trip to brooding. The old man was avoiding my questions. He was good at that. [I]'How in the hell do I know that?' I thought.[/I] [I]What did he want? What is this place? Who is he?[/I] [I]Who am I?[/I] My thoughts were interrupted by the little girl. She had, apparently, come to an exciting part of her childish narrative - her voice pitching higher, her words coming so fast so as to leave her almost breathless. [I]'There's already a little girl at this tea party,' I thought. "Why, then, do I feel like Alice? I've got to get some answers... as soon as this kid decides to shut up.'[/I] The little girl immediately fell silent. She and the old man were staring at - inside - me. Then the little girl began to giggle. "You don't think I heard you, but I did," she said. "I'm sorry," I stammered. "I didn't mean to." "It's okay," she said. "You don't know any better." "Michael has to leave now," the old man said to the little girl. "Why don't you say goodbye, and then run along and play?" "Okay," the little girl said. She stood up, making herself only a little taller than my still-seated self. "Bye, Michael." She raised her arm and her little hand touched my cheek. I knew. "Bye," I whispered. "Elizabeth." The little girl smiled. "You see?" the old man said, "I told you he would know. Now, scoot!" I watched Elizabeth as she skipped off into the light. "This is over now, Michael," the old man said. There wasn't enough time for me to think the word "no", much less say it. I awoke in tears, yet feeling better than I had felt in a long, long time. [/QUOTE]
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