By Hal Mansfield
After years of sporadic writing, procrastination and suffering from writer's block, the old man signed up for a writers' conference. In the days leading up to the workshop, he went over the meager list of articles and stories that he had struggled with over the years. He did some minor re-writing and printed them on the computer's printer.
His output turned out to be about 200 printed pages, mostly double-spaced. It consisted of only those things that were on the computer's hard disk and that were more or less completed. There was great variety in length and in subject matter. Some were photo essays; some were opinion pieces relating to contemporary social, economic, energy or political issues; a few were fictional short stories. The fiction pieces ranged from a story for of 'children' of all ages through psychological pieces to fantasy pieces. True, a few of the opinion pieces were published in the local paper or in regional papers or magazines. Most languished on the hard disk for months or years after completion.
The old man mused over the pile of manuscripts. He was disappointed in both the quality and the quantity of his output. The dry, arid climate of the Southwestern United States permeated his opinion of the results of his writing labors.
The night before the conference, he went to bed late. After tossing and turning for some time, he finally fell into a light, troubled sleep. Several times, he dreamed that he was in some sort of elaborate chamber. On a shelf or pedestal in the chamber there was some sort of large figure, an idol perhaps. In the dream, the old man felt that the figure held some great secret and that if he could but break the idol, the secret would be revealed. But he could not get close enough to the figure to see it clearly or to grasp it.
Several times, he woke up. Each time he awoke, he was sweaty. Twice, when he woke up he had to go the bathroom to relieve bladder tension. That was unusual; normally, he slept through the night.
A strange specter entered his dream after he returned to sleep following his second trip to the bathroom. "Was it really his long-dead friend or just a dream figment," the old man wondered. He was both attracted to and repelled by the image.
"Roy, is that you," the old man finally asked.
"Of course it me, dumpkopf. Have I been dead so long that you don't remember and old friend?"
"Well, the dead don't usually come back, do they?"
"All depends on what you mean by 'back.' In most ways, we never leave. That's one of the things memory is for. How do you think the idea of life after death evolved?"
"Never thought of it quite like that. Why are you back now?"
"I am here to help you unlock the riddle of the idol. Once we unlock its secret the knowledge will help you at the conference tomorrow and the next day."
"Help me? Conference? How do you know about that?"
"What you know, I know, except for the fact that I am also in touch with and fully aware of your unconscious mind."
"I don't believe in the unconscious mind, Roy, you know that. There is no scientific evidence."
"I can site you chapter and verse of anecdotal evidence from events in your life. That should more than convince you that the unconscious is there in almost everything you do or think. Want me give you a few examples?"
"You bet I do!"
"What about the time you left your billfold lying on the computer desk in the library. Its disappearance caused you a great deal of trouble. It was right there when you left; your unconscious mind 'hid' it from you. What about the time you took Joan to the theater, but you did not go to the bathroom before leaving. Then, you couldn't have sex with her as she wanted. She dropped you after that. Remember?"
"Those are not proof."
"Yes they are. I could site hundreds more. You are resisting the obvious."
At this point, time was called in the workshop.