My Library

I did not make any attempt to "go** to Mr. Bahnson for several months. I presumed without any known reason that he needed rest. It had something to do with a violent death, and I'm still not sure I was right Finally, I grew impatient On Sunday afternoon I lay down with the deliberate intent of going to visit Mr. Bahnson. After about an hour of preparation, I finally made it out of the physical, and began to travel rapidly through what seemed to be nothing but darkness. I was mentally shouting, Agnew Bahnson I, again and again as I traveled. Suddenly, I stopped, or was stopped, I was in a rather dark room. Someone was holding me very still in a standing position. After a moment of waiting, a cloud of white gas seemed to blow up through a small hole in the floor. The cloud took form and some sense told me it was Mr. Bahnson, although I could not see him too well or identify his features. He spoke immediately in an excited and happy way. "Bob, you'll never believe all of the things that have happened since I've been here!" There was no more. At a signal from someone, the cloud of white gas lost its human form and seemed to recede back into the hole in the floor. The hands on my elbows steered me away, and I took off back to the physical. That is the way Mr. Bahnson would have been—too interested in new things and new experiences to waste time in the "then" or the past Just like Doctor Gordon. If it was a self-induced hallucination, at least it was original I have never read anything like it. Does that explain the time coincidence in the New York hotel room? There is one more. In 1964 my father died at the age of eighty-two. Although I had been rebellious in early years against paternal authority, I felt quite close to my father in later years. And I'm sure he felt close to me. He had suffered a stroke several months before which had left him almost completely paralyzed and incapable of speech. The latter was evidently most vexing, as it would naturally be to a man who was a linguist, whose life had been devoted to the study and teaching of languages. During this period, when I visited him, he made desperate, heart-rending attempts to speak to me, to tell me something. His eyes pleaded that I understand. Only slight moans came from his lips. I tried to comfort him,