I don’t know if things changed after the death of the plumber. It may be that I just became much more aware of certain elements. I understand that the human mind filters out an astonishing amount of sensory data. There’s a condition called ‘accommodation’, where even the sound of a jackhammer outside your window can disappear from your hearing as you go through your day. There’s a lot of accommodation that goes on in a place like New York City. That accommodation is not just sensory but also emotional as well. People become hardened to things. I don’t suppose they have any choice. Rudeness becomes the reflex action for one whose space is too often pressed on and invaded.
I could not live in a city. The whine that magnetizes me is woven into a thunder of fury in these places. I am taken through special preparations when I go somewhere with such a concentration of human misery. It is not simply dealing with the howling cacophony. I have found that the measures I take for the extraction of a predator become far more extreme in such an environment. It’s as if that terrible orchestra is playing through me and there are times when I lose consciousness of myself in the event. Afterwards it appears as if a force of nature had come unhinged. But immediately thereafter I am all concentration and detail.
As I’ve said, some other intelligence is resident in me. I can feel the clear and certain understanding of all that I must do and it is automatic. I am also personally detached- even when passionately involved, then and always after. I do not feel responsible. I am not sorry. It is like being the hand of God.
In the nineteenth century in India there was a group of men who worshipped the goddess Kali. She is a particular archetype that symbolizes all consuming Time. She is often depicted as black with a red lolling tongue and a garland of skulls about her neck. In one of her several hands is a cup of blood, in the other a large knife. These men were called Thuggees and they went about the countryside killing in the name of Kali. It was a form of worship. There was a taboo against the spilling of blood so they strangled their victims with silk scarves in which a rupee was fixed. It was said that some of them had magical powers conferred upon them by the goddess. They were very difficult to catch.
In the twelfth century in Persia there was a man named Hassan I Sabbah. He was also called the Old Man of the Mountains. The word ‘assassin’ comes from his name. He would intoxicate his followers with hashish and then lead them into a beautiful garden filled with lovely women and all manner of food and drink. This, he said, waited for them in paradise should any of them die in his service. He once commanded forty of his men to march off a high battlement as an example of the loyalty he enjoyed. He had men in every kingdom in the East. At any time they might strike out and kill the ruler or anyone else. He was feared everywhere. They say he had powers too. That seems to have been true.
There are other examples of curious men, women and groups such as this. I mention them because it seems that this might be the case with me as well. This is what I would like to find out.
After the death of the plumber I returned to my routines, attending school, interacting with my parents in the awkward and formal manner that was our custom. But now I became able to pick out sounds that I had not heard before. I sometimes saw things in a state of hyper reality. I could hear conversations at a distance. I could see things with astonishing clarity. By example; once I was sitting by the pool as a dragonfly buzzed about. It was turquoise with emerald wings. In a particular moment it hovered in the air before me and I saw this dragonfly in its essence. Time stopped and a vast flow of information passed from the dragonfly into me. I ‘knew’ this dragonfly. I could see every feature of its countenance. I could see the spaces between its wing beats. Then, without warning or prelude, I became the dragonfly. The power and freedom that I felt are indescribable. Nothing has ever approached this experience. I had other similar experiences over time but this was the first. I don’t know for how long I was the dragonfly. At some point I was once again sitting by the pool with no idea of how I had been returned to myself. No great time seemed to have passed. It was the same part of the day. It might have been an hour. It might have been seconds. I have learned that time is an extraordinarily subjective and relative thing.
I have come to understand that one of the greatest tragedies in life is the common sense of time shared by people in their routines. It is a prison of increments. At a certain point there is nothing new in their lives. It is just a repetition of patterns.
Very often, I had dreams that would continue from night to night. I cannot say how it is for others. I only know what I have heard and read. By comparison with this information, I would say that my dreams are of another kind altogether. In my dreams the events are as clear and real as they are in my waking state. Sometimes, I am in realms that bear little resemblance to life on this planet. Seldom do I walk in dark places, though it does occur. And always in these rare ‘dark’ dreams, I am hunting someone. Always in these dreams, I will eventually terminate them. What is most unusual about this is that it is always just as it is when I perform the service in my corporeal self. There are the preparations, the search and contact, the inquiry and conversation period and then the finale. Am I working even when I sleep?
I have heard that murderers are often pursued by furies. I have heard that their conscience can give them no peace. Some of them take their own lives. But I always feel as if I am watching something occur and even though I know that I am involved, it never feels that way.
Let me tell you about the next person I killed. With one later exception this was the last time I killed someone that I had previously met and the only other time I was personally involved before the fact. After this they were strangers. I’ve mentioned that I wasn’t very social at my school. I can’t say I had any real friends. There were people that I knew and I did things with them. Early on I recognized the value of fitting in and having the appearance of normalcy. So, no doubt there were people who thought they were friends of mine; people with whom I shared the appearance of camaraderie...but that was just something I did. I went to parties and some school functions. I drank and I smoked and I took drugs because that’s what everyone else did. And there were occasions when I forgot all about how strange I was and got lost in the moment. I never feel that way now and sometimes I miss it. I am always aware of myself and everyone around me. I always know where I am. I always know what I’m going to do next...with the single exception of when The Whine appears. At those times, as I have said, it doesn’t matter what I know. Whatever knows is intimately aware of me. I am in the passenger seat.
In my senior year I met a boy named Frank. Frank’s parents were rich too. Frank, unlike most of our associates, was not a smug, overbearing asshole. I could hang out with Frank and not find myself being constantly annoyed. Frank wanted to go to Australia and hang out with the Aborigines. I don’t know if he ever did manage it. He went on to college in California and I didn’t see much of him after that. This isn’t about Frank anyway. I mention Frank by way of introducing Colette. Colette lived near Frank and they had known each other since they were small. So when Frank had a party at his house Colette would usually come over. Frank had a lot of parties because his parents, like mine, were often abroad. In Frank’s house there were enough servants to take care of any mess that might happen. Frank was usually pretty good at not inviting any of the real trouble makers. Like me he didn’t make problems for his parents so they left him pretty much alone.
Colette was a lovely girl. At sixteen she had a haunting beauty, enhanced by a shy introspection. I rarely saw her smile but when she did she could take your breath away. She had raven black hair and blue eyes. I liked Colette and would spend my time with her when I was over at one of Frank’s parties and sometimes we would meet in a park or take a walk in town. It didn’t happen often. I got the impression that her parents kept her close to home. Half the time she couldn’t make it to Frank’s parties even though they lived close by one another. I never knew Colette to have a boyfriend. I believe I might have been the closest thing to that.
The first indication I got that there might be problems in Colette’s life was from a passing comment made by Frank. I had said that she seemed sad most of the time. Frank said, “Yeah, all is not right there.” When I asked him what he meant, he just shrugged and said; “If I knew maybe I could do something about it. Her family is strange.”
As time passed I became very close with Colette, though we did not manage to have sex. She was very conflicted about it and I didn’t press the issue. We would touch each other, intimately on occasion, and it was enough for me most of the time, to sit quietly with her and enjoy her presence. She couldn’t go out much. She said that her father wanted her at home. I finally met her father one night when he came by Frank’s to look for her. Colette and I were sitting on the porch swing overlooking the garden when he came up out of the darkness upon us.
“Ah Colette, there you are.”
Her father was a big man. He’d obviously been an athlete in his day. Now he was carrying an extra 30 pounds and had the florid complexion of a future stroke victim. This latter effect was enhanced by the fact that he had had a few somewhere before he arrived. His hair was curly and unmanageable and he used some sort of pomade to keep it down on his scalp. The face was moon shaped and of a dough like consistency. It was the face of a man who looked fat long before he was fat. He had button eyes and a broad nose. It looked as if it had been pressed back into his face with force. There was not much chin but a great deal of neck. I imagined he would never be comfortable with his collar buttoned underneath his tie. This night he was wearing brushed cotton slacks with a Hawaiian shirt. He wore round glasses with a very thin gold rim and the porch light reflecting from their polished surface made it quite difficult to catch anything from his eyes. I felt Colette jump beside me as he appeared in our view.
“Dad”! She exclaimed. I heard her voice catch. “We’re getting some air from the cigarette smoke.
He chuckled, artificially. “We do have to look out for our lungs.” This was someone who immediately made me uncomfortable. It had nothing to do with his daughter sitting beside me. It was obvious that all we had been doing was sitting. Yet I felt an intense scrutiny upon me, so much so that the hairs on my arm stood up.
“You’re a friend of Colette’s?” He asked me. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
“This is Bill”, Colette replied. “He’s a friend of Frank’s from school.
“How ya doin Bill.”? He extended his hand and I took it. The hand was slightly moist as if it had recently held a drink, which I don’t doubt it had. Otherwise it was fleshy and cool, much like he was, with the warm bonhomie overlaying the reduced temperature beneath. “I’m Mitch, Colette’s daddy.”
I can still vividly remember that night and the exchange between us. I may have mentioned how very good my memory is. I remember clearly the growing unease I felt under his eyes. This was mixed with a definite but undefined impatience and the sense that he was more intoxicated than he appeared to be. He was wearing some kind of cologne that seemed to emphasize the alcohol in the air.
“Well now Colette”, his head swiveled toward her. “Your mom’s been looking for you. She finally sent me out into the neighborhood.”
There was no question that Colette was very uneasy. I could feel her conflicted state. At this time in my life I had very little understanding of the complexities of human emotion. Everything that I did know had come to me through books and the few things that I had experienced so far. Books can give a very accurate description of many conditions. What books cannot do is transmit visceral experience. I’ve learned an enormous amount from books but when it comes to the knowledge of life itself, I only know so much. Even though I had already killed and had sex, I was still an uncertain youth. So much occurred within me that I had not had the time needed for integration. Later I would be able to read volumes from the feelings that moved in the air around me. On this occasion, I could feel but I could not interpret. I remembered Frank’s words. “All is not right there.”
Colette was quiet for a moment and then she said, “I thought Mother went to her card game?”
Mitch nodded in a diffident manner, the light flashing from his glasses and dancing on the rims, “That she did Sweetie but something she had at dinner apparently backed up on her and she had to come straight home. She’s been sick several times already and she wants you to come and look after her.” He shrugged, “you know how useless I am in these situations.”
I felt it stronger now and I could identify it. There was fear coming off of Colette, fear and something else I could not identify. There was a sour smell hovering beneath the sweetness of Colette, a feral scent. I felt myself shift in my seat.
Mitch had his hand extended toward her and in this same moment turned to me and said. “I’m sorry to be taking Colette away from you. Perhaps she can return if her mother recovers a bit.” He smiled without warmth and I could feel his will draw Colette from her seat. She turned to me as she arose. I will never forget the look in her eyes. The sense of utter loss struck me to the core. I was rendered mute by the impact of her eyes on mine. I must have mumbled something as I also got to my feet. Once Colette was standing it was no time at all before Mitch had her down the porch stairs and they were away.
I could hear their voices trailing. Then, just moments later, that condition of paranormal hearing kicked in. I could hear them as if they were but a few feet away. This was not so developed then as it is now. I heard as if the words were ocean waves coming to the shore. There would be a brief moment of clear audio and then it would recede to incomprehensible murmurs; ebb and flow.
“Honey, you know how I feel I...”
“is wrong Dad. I’m breaking up inside I...”
“only for tonight, you’re my...”
Then she was softly weeping, no words following, just the sense of desolate resignation and from him an odious, comforting drone of meaningless endearments.
As I listened a terrible anger uncoiled in my chest. I had not apprehended the entirety of the outrage. Indeed at that time I am not sure I connected the reality of the event coming or the events preceding. It was more a sense of danger and violation without aspect. I felt a blanketing evil without definable form. I felt this evil touching me and burning me. The Whine began to sound. I was on my feet before I knew it and I found myself descending those same steps they had taken minutes before. It is strange that I did not know where Colette lived. We had always arranged our meetings over the telephone and I was dissuaded from ever picking her up but I could track their progress as a trained animal could track a scent. As I went, I felt myself morphing from within. It reminded me of the transformation of a werewolf in films I had seen. I could almost feel myself drop to the ground; my body extending and moving into a tireless, tracking lope, though no such thing actually occurred.
The air rippled with the echo of their voices as I turned into the street. I continued for several blocks until I found myself outside a metal gate that barred entrance to the driveway and house beyond. I could see a portion of the house from where I stood, it was a large Tudor mansion; the downstairs lights were leaking through the windows and pushing the shadows back from the lawn. Without thought I reached to the top rail of the gate and vaulted over it with no effort at all. I landed in a crouch in the driveway on the further side and moved toward the house.
I felt then, as I have often felt in future times, a sense of personal invisibility. There is a force that keeps my form hidden until it is meant to be revealed. We shall see in coming events how this has allowed me access to locations that would have been denied me were I not in possession of this power. Soon I was at the house and as I came around to the back, I found myself confronted by a large Belgian shepherd. He stood motionless in front of me. The light from the house made his eyes glow red. As is so often the case with me in these moments, I felt no alarm, no fear. We stood quietly for a brief interval and then I extended my hand. The dog moved forward passing under my touch and brushed against my leg and then stopped. I scratched his back and looked up at the second story of the house.
The moment is difficult to describe. Through my hand I felt the dog’s thoughts pass into me. It appears that there is a place where the animal kingdom and the human realm touch, a place where information can be exchanged. There was a sympathetic transfer between us concerning Colette. The dog was Mitch’s dog, a dog trained for the protection of the house and its occupants. Had I been anyone else, our meeting would have had another result entirely. I could feel in the dog’s mind that the dog saw me as a larger, bigger, smarter dog. I was higher up in the pecking order and the puppy aspect of the dog responded to the alpha male status of my being. The dog did not see me as human at all. I cannot put into words what the dog thought of me. I can remember exactly in my mind how it was and feel exactly what the dog felt but I cannot express it in words. It would be the same if I were to attempt to describe an alien landscape where the colors and shapes bore no resemblance to anything on Earth. There is quite simply, nothing to relate it to by comparison.
The dog trotted off into the night. I did not see the dog again. I continued around the house and then stopped at the next corner. From above me I could hear the conversation between Colette and her father. I could hear the murmur of his voice and her gentle weeping. I could feel in my mind Mitch’s excitement at her tears. I could hear the rustle of clothing and the soft abrasion of skin on skin.
The rage that now began to emerge in my chest was so much greater than I had felt before. I could hardly contain it. I felt a new intelligence move within me and take the rage in hand. It turned me about and led me past the swimming pool, the cabana and then quickly up the trunk of a large maple tree and into the branches above. I could hear the sound of that dark activity taking place in the room across the way. There was a low light in the room and I could see into it from my vantage point now several meters above it. There were the combined forms of Colette and her father. Her father’s body moved rhythmically above her. I could see Colette’s despairing face as she turned her head to the window. It seemed then and it seems now that our eyes actually met, though she could not have seen me from that distance, into the trees and through the covering darkness of the night. A mute plea of awful desperation passed across the space between us. I turned my head and disappeared within myself for a time.
When I returned the room was dark. I knew that Colette was still there, no longer weeping but staring into the darkness above her head. Her father had departed and gone to his den. I could see him in my mind, drinking a Scotch and remembering the pleasure of his recent conquest. His fingers stroked the blotter on his desk. I could hear a film projector whirring. I could feel the part of him that was engaged in the activity upon the screen. None of the perceptions that I possessed in such moments has ever seemed strange to me. I have never found myself in an objective state, analyzing the how and the why of it all. They are just a part of me. I could just as well look at my hand and wonder how it came to be upon my wrist. No one makes such speculations. It is just a natural extension of the arm. Just as we accept that we can see. We have always seen. There is no miracle there.
I dropped from the tree to the ground and moved toward the house. I felt myself fill with determination and purpose. The anger was there but it was a controlled flame. It might flash, it might roar for a moment like the fire inside an incinerator, but it was contained. Riding above the anger was a keen sense of purpose, a sense of distances and the passages across them, a sense of the nature of the event to come.
The majority of my clients have no question concerning their activities. It is this, I believe, that contributes to their passing more than any other factor. It may be that the soul of the client questions. I am of the belief that no matter how evil anyone might be, there can never be a time when the light of the soul is not present; if the soul, as we understand it, exists. Even if the contact is as remote as the distance between the stars in space, the connection is there, the soul is there, if the soul exists. It must be so. There is no animation, no life except that this connection exists.
I am of two minds always when I consider these things. There is what I know, or have reasoned to be possible and there is what I have read and heard. Often there is a disparity between them. Much of what I have read and heard seems like nonsense to me. The meaning given to words in the common parlance often applies fantastic and distant meaning to things that are void of ordinary substance. If it’s not made of dirt and blood; plastic, metal... something the senses can touch... then it is too often the fruit of an undisciplined imagination. This world abounds in superstition and rumor. It is what makes the gods of religion seem so absurd. We live in a world of blind men groping elephants.
When I think of Jesus and other teachers of humanity I think of this. I believe that they have some deep and profound knowledge of something that is the source of their boundless compassion and understanding. I do not possess this knowledge. It may be that it is not germane to my work and might even be a hindrance. I am another aspect of the whole. We are all aspects of the whole. This is something that I do understand and even in the fire of reclaiming the client to another place it is something that I know. Even in the rage that might flower in awesome aspect, I know this. I am returning the client to the whole, for the good of the whole. How could anyone argue with that?
When I am in my state, when I am in this transcendence there seems to be no barrier that can stand before me. Doors, bars, locks, alarms all give way or fail to start at my touch. It is not that I tear the door from its hinges; although I assure you I can. There is seldom any warning of my approach unless it is necessary to the entire scenario of the client’s transition. Does some as yet unknown energy pass from my hand to the schematic of the doors essence? I could not tell you. I remember thinking once how like the classic profile of the boogeyman I am. The boogeyman can get in anywhere. The boogeyman can’t be stopped. The boogeyman can’t be killed. The boogeyman is going to kill you. The boogeyman is not going to kill you though before he scares the living shit out of you and he is going to kill you in some unpleasant way; some way that you are not going to like at all. I laughed out loud the first time I thought of this. You see, I do not think of myself as the boogeyman at all. I am not Michael Myers come fresh from the institution, or Jason in the hockey mask. It is the pure unstoppable, automaton feature of these imaginary beings that I believe is their most frightening aspect. And I have to ask myself, do these cartoon monsters come from some real persons and events that travel in parallel with ordinary life? Are they somewhat based on me? Am I one more manifestation of a group of men (are there women too?) who have come down the ages, men of whom the passing years have whispered? The evidence of these men’s passing exists...but the men themselves have never been seen by one who has survived. Is it from the activities of men like myself that the legends of the boogeyman and werewolves and vampires have come? I can assure you that some of the scenes I leave behind are very reminiscent of the tales told of these mythic creatures.
Very soon I was standing behind this man in his study. The light from the projector flickered. Colette was on the screen, Colette at the age of 12 perhaps, nude and frightened, staring in hopeful desperation into the camera lens.
I said, “I suppose it’s a big part of it, the fear.”
Mitch spun around in his chair; his face was a mix of outrage, anger and fear.
“What are you doing in my house?” He demanded. “Scout!” he called. I knew it was the dog he was calling.
“Scout won’t come.” I said. Now there was more fear in his eyes. He moved suddenly toward his desk and pulled open a drawer.
I grasped his wrist, arresting his progress completely. He struggled to free himself but only succeeded in moving his body around his wrist. His wrist did not move. I pulled him to his feet and led him out of the door. Sensing that he was about to scream, I spun him about and closed his mouth with my hand. I walked him down the hallway and opened the door that I knew led to the basement.
We entered into a combination family playroom and work shop. There was a pool table and a bar, a pinball machine and a home entertainment center with a large comfortable sectional arranged around it. A connecting door led to the workroom. It was the work room I was interested in so I led Mitch into that area and proceeded to duct tape him to the captains’ chair that sat at a long worktable. During this process Mitch began screaming at me. I was no longer concerned with the noise factor as I knew that the entire basement area was soundproofed from the levels above; so began my first actual interrogation.
I asked Mitch about why he felt that he had the right to behave as he did. He proceeded from telling me it was none of my business, to the fact that he could not help himself and as he saw me choosing tools and laying them on the table before me, to saying that he needed help, that he would get help and then begging for his life.
I told him that this was the time for him to consider his real reasons for his actions because he would have no further opportunity to talk to anyone.
“What are you going to do!” he screamed, struggling so violently that he tipped the chair over. I caught it on the way down and righted it.
“I am going to introduce you to yourself and then I am going to set you free. I am hoping before you go that you will see how wrong your actions were and will not take their seeds with you.”
“What? What? What are you talking about?” he looked at me in a crafty way then and said. “You’re just a kid. You can’t intend to hurt me. This is like a lesson right? This is something you got up to with my daughter. You want me to stop? I’ll stop.”
I looked at him and nodded. “You will indeed stop. Your daughter knows nothing about this though. I’m not even sure why I’m doing it. But I am sure it needs to be done.”
“What are you going to do? You’re crazy...” and then he began screaming for help as loudly as he could manage.
I said, “You know the screaming isn’t going to help. You made sure of that when you had it remodeled, just before you started bringing Colette down here. And Colette isn’t the only one is she?”
At this he looked into my eyes and said, “Who are you? How do you know these things?” I could see that he was becoming very unsettled about possibilities he had never considered before. At the same time, a train of images...a series of vignettes about this man’s life were passing through my mind. I had to stop in my preparations in order to follow them. I saw this man’s life rush before me and for a time I was unaware of my surroundings, unaware of anything but the passing of the images.
How can I describe what I saw? I cannot. When it was done though, I knew something about mankind in an area other than any I had been familiar with before. Nothing like this had happened with the plumber. I saw for the first time that there were aliens living under the human skin. There were life forms for which no moral limiter existed; men in whom conscience had never been known. In all of what I saw there was no sign of remorse. There was no thought that wrong had been done. There was only fear for what might happen and a desperate searching for release, for some saving event. Release he would have...
I don’t think it is necessary for me to go into the graphic details of what happened next, nothing would be gained except an appeal to the darker, prurient nature of certain readers. I have no way of knowing if such people will ever read this but I can militate against that feature of my confessional.
He was found the next day but not by Colette. I called her that morning and we went off for a breakfast in town.
I have wondered why so many of my clients have been guilty of crimes against young people. Quite a portion of them are in some way connected to acts of sexual battery and other torments of the young. I get the impression that a large majority of the world’s ills stem from just such behavior. The world is teeming with those victimized in an unprotected state. Later these victims go on to carry out similar acts upon others. It is like some infection that passes plague-like through all cultures and nations. Long ago perhaps there were some few evils that occurred for the first time in the dawn of the world. They were then passed on in an ever widening circle until no person was left untouched in some way by them. Maybe my job is to eliminate the Typhoid Mary’s from whose minds the idea of such activities broadcast into the minds of the unknowing and unwary.
Perhaps all crimes connect somehow to the crime of savaging innocence. I have often noted how epidemic this behavior is among the wealthy and powerful. In many large cities of the world, men and women in high positions in government and law enforcement engage in secret bacchanals with children of every age. On occasion large scandals will manifest and a few small fish will be thrown into the pot while the more powerful malefactors escape to continue as before. Only a few years ago there was such a thing that ran from Omaha to the White House. Once again, a few small fish ...and the more powerful, to this day, continue. I know this.
In my studies of the hidden side of life I encountered the process where seed impressions are deposited into the virgin subconscious for the purpose of creating the physical manifestations of an idea contained in the seed. This virgin matter, this fresh parchment of innocence is pierced; inscribed upon, parted, split or what have you. Then this virgin matter makes of itself the form that the seed contains the promise of within itself. It is one of the essential processes of applied magic. Could it be that in the infernal realms of the human mind some parody of this is carried out in the actual rape and violation of the physical body of virgin kids? Is this a sacrament of the low orders? Whatever the case may be, such practices are far more prevalent than the world suspects.
The newspapers described it as a horrific torture murder. The police said the scene was indescribable; the work of a twisted, demented, psychopathic personality. I can see how it would look that way. But these men do not know what I know...nor do they know the purpose of that which Mitch endured. They do not know that evil needs be wrung from the bones of a man...or evil may replicate further. When I am near completion of an event, I can see the evil crouching, waiting...with nowhere left to hide or to go. In that moment I can take the evil into my hands and fill my hands with fire and burn that evil to nothing away. I do not know where this fire comes from, or where it goes after. It disappears with the fuel...and in every case, I have been able to hold this evil forth before the eyes of the client...no matter how close to death they may be, enough of their attention remains for this. There is a mystical transfiguration that occurs in that moment that I will not even attempt to desecrate by way of explanation with words.
I listen to a woman on the radio. I read her column in the newspaper. It’s a big city paper. Her name is Natalie Parmer. You may have heard of her, she’s a syndicated columnist, not in a big way yet but on her way. She says many uncanny things. Lately it has seemed as if she was speaking directly to me...and lately I have been thinking that I should speak to her as well. Oh, I don’t think I would go to see her but I might write her. Lately it has been growing in my mind that I might send her what I have written so far. It seems that she knows something, something about me. It is as if she were talking to me alone. Maybe I will send her these writings and see if there is something she can tell me. She may not even know that she possesses answers, yet those answers may be in her.