My Library

and with a shaky hand lit up a cigar even though it was forbidden to smoke in the cranky Dynograph's room. Osis grabbed up the 7-UP can, and ran out to show the drawing and the can. Janet was in tears, and my eyes (and nose) watered, too. We hugged each other. I had to get out of there. In the ASPR's disgusting pink lobby, looking like a big lady's room, others were looking at the can and the drawing. I fled past them. I walked in something of an "altered state" and got to the subway stairs at the corner of the Dakota apartments on Seventy-Second Street. Half way down the stairs it hit me. I sat promptly down, blocking the way of others rushing to catch the subway. It was getting dark, and huge white snowflakes drifted gently down to settle on my hands and face. Holy shit! This IS possible. This really DOES exist. And IT exists somewhere inside of myself, in a place Idon'tknowwhere! What had happened, or so I figured, was that there was a perceptual process of some kind which itself could do that kind of thing -- a process completely detached from my cognitive consciousness, from my intellectual appreciation of it. IT had silently and without any mental fuss done ITS thing, and my intellect made no sense of it -- and it had done its thing upside down, but perfectly so.