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<blockquote data-quote="taykair" data-source="post: 169636" data-attributes="member: 9418"><p style="text-align: center">Part Three</p> <p style="text-align: center">Conclusions</p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">"...it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."</p> <p style="text-align: center">- William Shakespeare. Macbeth. Act V. Scene 5.</p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">- - -</p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">Chapter Thirteen</p> <p style="text-align: center">Words, Words, Words (1995-2001)</p><p></p><p>If you've managed to slog though this far, then I have good news. Part Three is much shorter than the previous two. There really isn't that much more of my tale to tell.</p><p></p><p>The weird memories of what the old man had told-showed me, about the Alphans and T'Sing and all that, stopped in the Spring of 1995. After that, there were no more mind trips - no more miraculous voyages.</p><p></p><p>Unless, of course, you want to count my rather rapid transformation from quasi-illiterate into the brilliant, erudite (and modest) individual you see before you today.</p><p></p><p>I mentioned earlier on that, near the end of the time that these memories were invading my brain, I was beginning to read about subjects other than the Bible for the first time in my life. Let's begin with that.</p><p></p><p>I started my journey into the world of books by reading everything I could get my hands on concerning paranormal phenomena - specifically astral projection. I was hoping to gain some sort of insight as to what exactly had happened to me.</p><p></p><p>Unfortunately, most of what I read was rather disappointing - particularly concerning the various techniques which the "experts" claimed would propel me back into the astral realm. All of their advice, techniques, rituals and instructions were less than worthless. I know. I tried them all.</p><p></p><p>(Isn't it simply, blissfully, wonderfully ironic? When I was leaving my body, I didn't want to. Now that I wanted to, I couldn't.)</p><p></p><p>A small example of the valuable information I found in those books:</p><p></p><p>According to the experts, there is a Golden Cord - a kind of umbilical which connects the astral body to the physical. Now you'd think, as many times as I journeyed out-of-body as a young man, that I would have tripped over this cord at least once or twice, but no. I never even saw the damned thing. Those same experts also claimed that everyone has travelled out-of-body at some point, although many do not remember the experience. Can you imagine all those Golden Cords getting tangled up? It would be like the first day of fly-fishing season, for God's sake. So much for experts.</p><p></p><p>From my starting point with the "literature of the paranormal", I branched out into other fields of knowledge. For awhile, there was nothing that did not interest me. I read books on history, science, mathematics, fiction, flower gardening...</p><p></p><p>Yes. That's right. Flower gardening. The town library's major donor was the local garden club. Since about every third book in the library seemed to concern itself with how much manure would make one's rose bushes healthier, I didn't really have much choice in the matter.</p><p></p><p>I wasn't very discriminating, at first, in my choice of reading material. One day, I'd be reading Shakespeare. The next day, it would be romance novels. One day, Plato. The next day, petunias. Books had become a new kind of dope for me - only without the nasty side effect of brain damage. (Well, perhaps except for the romance novels. I can see where too many of those could rot the brain.) It was as if I had been near starvation all of my life, and was now treated to an all-you-can-eat buffet.</p><p></p><p>It would be neat if I could tell you that I read every single book in that library, but I didn't. It would also be neat if I could claim to have a photographic memory, and was able to retain every morsel of information I devoured, but that's not true, either.</p><p></p><p>I may as well confess it now: I am simply not that intelligent. The only reason that some people think I'm smarter than I really am is because they're not as smart as they think they are. It's all relative. A really intelligent person would see me for what I am - only about a half-step above moron, most likely.</p><p></p><p>It's true that my knowledge base is fairly wide, but it is also rather shallow. As such, I would make an excellent Trivial Pursuit player or Jeopardy contestant, but am not fitted for much else in life.</p><p></p><p>My period of "book-feasting" lasted about six years. Although I still read (and I can no longer imagine not doing so every day), my consumption rate is nowhere near to what it was during that six-year period. On the other hand, a lot of my reading is from the internet now - which means I have changed over from gourmet cuisine to fast food and, occasionally, eating from trash bins.</p><p></p><p>Speaking of the internet...</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="taykair, post: 169636, member: 9418"] [CENTER]Part Three Conclusions[/CENTER] [CENTER]"...it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." - William Shakespeare. Macbeth. Act V. Scene 5.[/CENTER] [CENTER]- - -[/CENTER] [CENTER]Chapter Thirteen Words, Words, Words (1995-2001)[/CENTER] If you've managed to slog though this far, then I have good news. Part Three is much shorter than the previous two. There really isn't that much more of my tale to tell. The weird memories of what the old man had told-showed me, about the Alphans and T'Sing and all that, stopped in the Spring of 1995. After that, there were no more mind trips - no more miraculous voyages. Unless, of course, you want to count my rather rapid transformation from quasi-illiterate into the brilliant, erudite (and modest) individual you see before you today. I mentioned earlier on that, near the end of the time that these memories were invading my brain, I was beginning to read about subjects other than the Bible for the first time in my life. Let's begin with that. I started my journey into the world of books by reading everything I could get my hands on concerning paranormal phenomena - specifically astral projection. I was hoping to gain some sort of insight as to what exactly had happened to me. Unfortunately, most of what I read was rather disappointing - particularly concerning the various techniques which the "experts" claimed would propel me back into the astral realm. All of their advice, techniques, rituals and instructions were less than worthless. I know. I tried them all. (Isn't it simply, blissfully, wonderfully ironic? When I was leaving my body, I didn't want to. Now that I wanted to, I couldn't.) A small example of the valuable information I found in those books: According to the experts, there is a Golden Cord - a kind of umbilical which connects the astral body to the physical. Now you'd think, as many times as I journeyed out-of-body as a young man, that I would have tripped over this cord at least once or twice, but no. I never even saw the damned thing. Those same experts also claimed that everyone has travelled out-of-body at some point, although many do not remember the experience. Can you imagine all those Golden Cords getting tangled up? It would be like the first day of fly-fishing season, for God's sake. So much for experts. From my starting point with the "literature of the paranormal", I branched out into other fields of knowledge. For awhile, there was nothing that did not interest me. I read books on history, science, mathematics, fiction, flower gardening... Yes. That's right. Flower gardening. The town library's major donor was the local garden club. Since about every third book in the library seemed to concern itself with how much manure would make one's rose bushes healthier, I didn't really have much choice in the matter. I wasn't very discriminating, at first, in my choice of reading material. One day, I'd be reading Shakespeare. The next day, it would be romance novels. One day, Plato. The next day, petunias. Books had become a new kind of dope for me - only without the nasty side effect of brain damage. (Well, perhaps except for the romance novels. I can see where too many of those could rot the brain.) It was as if I had been near starvation all of my life, and was now treated to an all-you-can-eat buffet. It would be neat if I could tell you that I read every single book in that library, but I didn't. It would also be neat if I could claim to have a photographic memory, and was able to retain every morsel of information I devoured, but that's not true, either. I may as well confess it now: I am simply not that intelligent. The only reason that some people think I'm smarter than I really am is because they're not as smart as they think they are. It's all relative. A really intelligent person would see me for what I am - only about a half-step above moron, most likely. It's true that my knowledge base is fairly wide, but it is also rather shallow. As such, I would make an excellent Trivial Pursuit player or Jeopardy contestant, but am not fitted for much else in life. My period of "book-feasting" lasted about six years. Although I still read (and I can no longer imagine not doing so every day), my consumption rate is nowhere near to what it was during that six-year period. On the other hand, a lot of my reading is from the internet now - which means I have changed over from gourmet cuisine to fast food and, occasionally, eating from trash bins. Speaking of the internet... [/QUOTE]
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