POSTSCRIPT III

Why has he not deleted my posts? Is he unaware of them? No, I don't believe that. There is every chance he is reading this right now.

Well like I said, no more games, that's not me. And if this post stays here for fifty years or five minutes, no matter. At least I've done it. I will always know I did my best to be truthful. Because there is such a thing, whatever He says. So, here's what happened: Bare with me, I may not have his florid, his...insinuating prose style, but I know the truth when I see it. Four days ago I knocked on his door. Of course, it gives me no pleasure to say that he looked older, tired, craggy. In fact, mildly decrepit, I would say. He opened the door quickly, as if he'd been waiting. Had he? No, won't go down that road. But- and this was even more unnerving- he ushered me in with an impatience- almost a familiarity- as if I were an errant son or nephew who'd been popping round the house for years. Of course, he said, remembering to smile. His greying hair was stuck upwards like he hadn't washed for days. In fact, he looked like a 20th Century painter whose name I forget. He led me down the hallway, then turned. But I must finish shaving, he said. Shaving..? Actually, my first thought was...nobody shaves anymore! It was ridiculous thought but a measure of my anxiety. Nevertheless, I was relieved to have a few minutes to compose myself- only later did I realise that he was already perfectly shaven when he said it. And this was the pattern of our whole encounter. I would have random intuitions- like the shaving- but they would formulate themselves as abstract ideas- like..noone shaves! Luckily I had the tape recorder, or I could never have pieced it all together. So, question is, why did he say that? I've run the gamut of possibilities- some of them, I admit- rather paranoid, others more literary. But at the end of the day I think that he, like me, simply wanted time to compose himself. Saying that, just prior to sprinting up the stairs to the bathroom ( and he sprinted...!), he gestured to a picture on the wall at the end of the hallway. You may find this of interest...Immediately, I knew he was trying to distract me, or at least control the situation. Nevertheless, I took a note of the picture because it may have signified something and, if so, I had to know about it. It was a Chagall print, a signed limited edition of his picture Promenade. Now, I've thought long and hard about this and I have no intention of writing an essay, interpreting or deconstructing this picture, let alone analysing his reasons for drawing my attention to it. Some things just exist as they are. We are all of us victims of the present moment and not everything means something. So, again, I give him the benefit of the doubt. He was just being the generally insane, controlling man I knew him to be. Or maybe, maybe, he was just being sociable. That is conceivable, and something I may have to take into account. Nevertheless, I will post the picture  here because -

I will post it here because...I mean, who really knows, in the great whale of time, what is really the case? In five minutes I may decide that he was trying to say something about me, my life, or maybe only on my deathbed will the whole thing come together. Or maybe only at the very end of time will this moment have its fractional relevance. I just don't know. The therapist would, after all, talk about the...transpersonal. So there we go, here it is. At the end of the day, it's all evidence. It's part of the story I'm trying to tell, but no more. I'm tired, and it's late. Though I have to say, even before I arrived at his house, he really did not look well.

CH