Robert didn't believe in ghosts, but they were all over him. But he was good-natured about it. There were two types: the first type of ghost was indoors, and other type was outside. The ghosts indoors were clearly in Purgatory. The ghosts outside couldn't really be called ghosts, because they were most likely angels. In the hundreds.
Robert chuckled to himself as he stepped outside for a cigarette. It was well after midnight, probably getting close to 2, when he went out. He was amused because he had just done well at his writing on the keyboard. He loved it when the words flowed. When there was a chugging rhythm to it. When he thought in complete sentences, so the work was practically done before he finished typing. But most of all he loved the way that his muse nibbled on his ear, even though Robert couldn't see her. And he presumed it was a her, because if it were a guy, and if he were a ghost, which he would have to be, something supernatural, he would know enough about Robert and his sexual orientation, to know that he didn't stand a chance. Robert took some solace in this. There was nothing worse that for a homosexual man to talk to you, Robert thought, which ends up dragging the fag out in you, and you even start talking like one and prissing around, like I really could get used to this. Robert expected the beings sending him brainwaves to do the things that would fall in line with his fate, his destiny, the highly sophisticated matrix in which he believed he lived. That was why he was chuckling when he went outside.
Robert drew deeply from the cigarette, and let the smoke ease its way out of his mouth as the wind caught it and blew it back in his face. He was chuckling because he imagined the angels, which he perceived to be hovering over his home in the thousands, the hundreds of thousands, to be singing the Hallejulah Chorus from the Messiah as he walked outdoors because he writing was good, and he knew it. Hey, he said to himself, it must be good, and all the spirits wouldn't be trying to look over my shoulder to see what I was writing to help them develop a strategy to make the right decision and get out of Purgatory.
As much as admirers of Houdini were convinced he could dematerialize. Trick gear shows otherwise
HARRY HOUDINI, whose real name was Eric Weiss, was the son of a rabbi, and arguably a messiah-like 'superman' who inspired immigrants yearning for freedom and success. Houdini was beloved by all who knew him. Toward the end of his career, with his hair beginning to show touches of gray, he devoted his time to entertaining sick children in hospital. He may have been murdered by friend turned foe Sir Arthur Conan Doyle of Sherlock Holmes fame. Sir Arthur was a spiritualist, close friends with several mediums, and convinced that Houdini could dematerialize. And Houdini thought Sir Arthur was a nut and said so -- which is a credit to Houdini's craft, in the sense that it is, after all, just illusion. The author of the enormously popular Sherlock Holmes stories was a practitioner of the occult, and who knows, he may very well have seen ghosts in the presence of these mediums, hence his strong reaction to Houdini's debunking efforts. Doubtful, however, that any "Watchers" (in Purgatory?) could be produced at will, or that they could ring a bell or do other spectacular tricks. Sir Arthur was too smart a man to fall for spiritualism unless his occultic experiences produced tangible results; and they very likely did. Houdini's medical records from a Detroit hospital where he was treated after allegedly being punched in the stomach, rupturing his appendix, are highly suspect in light of the marked indication for the appendix on the medical chart on the "left" side. Any legitimate health care professional would have readily known the appendix is found only on the right side. No autoposy was ever performed, and, Houdini's body was placed in one of his trick caskets made of bronze, placed on a train and whisked to New York before the family knew what had happened to the famed magician's body. Houdini may have been poisoned. Was Houdini a forerunner of anything or anyone? Arguably, histoty often appears to be constructed as art.
TANATA: Things (often) Are Not As They Appear
- Randall Carter Gray
- Signal Mountain, Tennessee, United States
- student of Coptic and Judaic studies, gentleman (amateur) scholar