I expected congested roads for the trip home from Naperville, but I wasn’t ready for seeing the Tri-State transformed into a parking lot. Since my tolerance for Rolland Fletcher’s music was exhausted, Linda was kind enough to find an FM station that broadcasted some Bach and Chopin for my enjoyment. Kevin and Lilly played back the tape of that organist’s interview and made comments in odd tones of voice that verged on singing. If I thought they were singing on purpose, I might not have minded so much. The reason that gave me the creeps was the suspicion that they didn’t seem to know they were doing it. Meanwhile, the Chopin Ballade came to an end and the station put on a talk show I didn’t want to hear. Linda flipped through some channels in search of something listenable and came across a song sung by a children's choir accompanied by what could have been a kindergarten band.

“Are you learning to appreciate music, or are you willing to listen to anything that isn't Bach?” I asked him.

“Don’t be a shtick, Dad. You don’t have to put me down every chance you get, do you?”

What could I say to that? I turned up the volume to humor by son and wished I hadn't when Kevin and Lilly started to sing along with the record. It was an odd little song that seemed unable to make up its mind if it wanted to be avant-garde modern or run-of-the-mill teenie-bop pop. Further into the song Kevin and Lilly started to sing what I could only call a counter-song, as if they were trying to drive out the song coming over the radio. As soon as the song came to an end, both children gave it a long raspberry.

“Remember that one?” asked the disc jockey. “I’ll bet you don’t. This is the sleeper that didn’t catch on when it came out two years ago, but has just been rediscovered. It ‘s sung by the Bee-Greens and the song is called ‘Lover Vine.’”

“I said: Stop treating me like an uncultured slob,” said Kevin. “I didn’t like it because it was not up to my standards.”

“I think you kids hit the nail right on the head,” said Linda. “It sounded like one of those souped up arrangements that take the soul out of a song.”

I resigned myself to the inevitable and gritted my teeth when the music started. I suppose it wasn’t horrible, but the sound was just too weird for my tastes.

“Hey!” Kevin exclaimed, somewhat softly. “This sounds a little like that awful record.”

“I see what you mean,” said Lilly. “I think the guys who did that record Lover Vine took some of Rolland’s music and wrecked it. Do you think so, Ms. Hoffman?”

“I can’t be sure at this point, but I think there is a chance you’re right,” she replied.

At long last we had inched our way to the accident that was the cause of the traffic snarl-up. It wasn’t your usual accident. It appeared that a car in the right-hand lane was wrapped up green wires. The music on the CD got louder. No; it was Kevin and Lilly singing along with it. Not believing my eyes, I looked at the accident again. On second look, it appeared even more bizarre. The wires looked like greenish vines that appeared to have broken through the pavement of the road. Police cars surrounded the scene and several officers were hacking away at the vines with little success. Needless to say, traffic was getting around this point at a snail's pace at best.

“A giant green tarantula sprung from Arcturus," Kevin suggested, his voice still singing as he spoke.

The children’s singing got so loud it drowned out the CD. As the police officers attacked the vines with their hatchets, Lilly fingered her green pendent fretfully. What happened next, happened so quickly I didn’t realize it until it was too late for me to stop it. First, a vine, or whatever-it-was, wrapped itself around the chest of one of the police officers. The other police officers pulled at the vines ineffectually in a vain attempt to save the officer from choking. The car door on Lilly's side opened and there she was, out of the car and running to the man caught by the vine.

"Is this your girl?" an officer asked me, pointing to Lilly, whom another officer had gripped around the wrist. I couldn't believe the ferocity with which Lilly was struggling with the officer.

Lilly ignored the yelling policemen and grabbed hold of the vine that was choking the worker. The look in Lilly’s eyes wasn't hers at all. There was something strangely wild about her, as if some alien presence had possessed her. Kevin wriggled up beside her and took hold of another segment of the vine. He, too, appeared to have undergone a sudden personality change so that I did could hardly recognize my son. Two officers lunged for the children but tripped over the vine. Lilly and Kevin resumed their weird singing, sounding something like Rolland Fletcher’s music. Every time the officers tried to get near the children, the vines thrashed about, making it impossible for them to do anything more than stand by helplessly. From my vantage point, the material of the vine was impossible to identify. It wasn't fibrous in any way that I would expect a vine in our world to be; it was something like a flexible lead pipe dyed green, if one can imagine such a thing. Inside the wrecked car, I saw man I guessed to be of advanced middle age. He looked pretty beat up and the vines were slithering all over him. At first I thought the driver was also being choked but, with a second look, I got the impression that the vines were trying to nurse him, although I doubt they were doing a good job of it. Whatever the children were doing with their singing, it worked. The vine loosened its grip on the worker just enough for him to slip out. Unfortunately. The children still weren’t quite finished. Still singing to the vines for all they were worth, they approached the car.

A little more weird singing and a cluster of vines pulled the car door off its hinges, clearing the way for the medics to get to the driver. That freed up the officers to nab the wayward children and escort them back to me. Already I could recognize the children I knew, which was a relief. At least I didn't have to worry about having to take a pair of possessed space aliens back into the car.

"You'll have to learn how to control your kids better than this," the officer said to me, but his heart wasn’t in his reprimand since he was so relieved about the trapped worker.

“I don’t know what’s come over them,” I said, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I hastily deposited the children into the car and plowed through the traffic jam with the help of an escort from the police officers who probably wanted to be rid of us before any further incidents occurred. Since it was well past dinner hour by this time, we got off at the next exit where there was a Chinese restaurant. Lilly called her father to tell him where she was. At the restaurant, I kept glancing over at Kevin and Lilly in case either of them started changing into some weird creature, but they persisted in looking like normal children who always draw pictures on the place mats while waiting to be served in a restaurant.

“Kevin! Your father is speaking to you! Please show some manners and give your father an explanation of what happened out there!”

Linda gave me a look that suggested I wasn’t handling this situation very well. I have to admit that I was getting that haunted feeling a man gets when he realizes he has just spoken to his son exactly the way his father spoke to him.

“I’m not being rude on purpose,” said Kevin. “It’s just that we don’t know how to explain it.”

“For starters, what were you singing when you went over to those tendrils and got them to loosen up?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Kevin replied. “Just because I’m singing doesn’t mean I know what I’m singing.”

“Whoever they are,” said Kevin, “they’re Tim Hawkins’ friends,” Kevin added.

“Do you get the feeling they are speaking through the music?” Linda asked, “or maybe I should say speaking in the music?”

“Yea,” said Kevin, “but there don’t seem to be any words to their songs.”

The waiter brought us our egg rolls, and we started to relieve the hunger pangs from which we were suffering. I winced when Lilly put enough Chinese mustard on her egg rolls to burn out an elephant’s esophagus, but she survived the ordeal as far as I could tell.

“Do you think the vines—or whatever they are—come from that planet?” Linda asked.

“Yea,” Lilly answered, “and I get the idea that there are others who aren’t here by their own choice.”

“They’ve been brought here the same way slaves we’re brought here from Africa.”

“Do you mean that some green vines have been sold into slavery and other green vines are here to rescue them?”

“Not those vines,” said Lilly. “I think they were trying to be friends but didn’t know how to do with without causing a car wreck.”

Lilly and Kevin looked at each other. They appeared tempted to laugh at me but then thought better of it. Linda said nothing, but there was too much sympathy in her look for my taste.

Wow! How exciting! Green snakes and jungle vines! Neat! No, I haven’t seen creatures like that here. The only thing I’ve seen that’s like a vine is the plant with a funny flower that grows by the computer desk when I’m working at it and Link-uh-Lugs isn’t here to see it. Except for that, this planet is all green rock with veins of silver that we’re supposed to mine for the rich cats who made us prisoners. I sent an e-mail to the Orpheans about it and, like you said, they said they didn’t think those vines were attacking anybody. They were just visiting a friend and they didn’t know they were wrecking a car doing it. There are Orpheans mad enough to attack the earth, so watch it. And there are lots of Orpheans who think they might have to find a way to move to planet earth if things get too dicey on this planet. Does that make you feel better?

You never know what this planet is going to do next. Right after we finished our own barracks so we wouldn’t have to sleep out on the rocky ground, we started having trouble. I hope the slave drivers are having the same trouble and they just won’t admit it. They’re the ones who made us build their barracks first, and then for us boys. I don’t know how to explain this, but the ground swelled up around the legs of one kid’s bunk. The kid wanted to change places, but Link-uh-Lugs was real mean about it. When not even the biggest and strongest kids could move it, Link-uh-Lugs kicked them in the rear. When Link-uh-Lugs stopped throwing his temper tantrum and went away, I went up to the bunk myself. I just had this feeling somebody was telling me I could do something. I guess somebody was. The other kids stepped way back and held their breaths. I felt along the rock where it had grown around the bunk’s leg and got a tingle of musical vibrations in my fingers. I didn’t know what to do, so I just sort of mentally asked the planet to stop doing this stuff to the boys. They could do what they wanted with the slave drivers who put us here, but it wasn’t our fault we were here and we should get better treatment. After a while, I felt something inside that felt like an answer saying “okay.” Sure enough, the rock slid away from the bunk’s leg. Nobody said anything. I was really shaking by the time I went to my own bunk. I didn’t get any sleep that night. The good thing is that the other boys are starting to respect me, even if I am the smallest and weakest. They even give me extra bits of food if they think I’m not getting enough, which I’m not.

As you can see, I have attached another piece of the priest’s diary and I will keep sending them as soon as the Orpheans send them to me. I guess those children and those monks and nuns are on the other side of this planet or something because I haven’t seen a sign of them yet.

What you said about the CDs you got of Rolland’s music sounds neat. Thanks for promising to make some sound bytes to send me. I can hardly wait. Thanks for scanning the papers by Paul Schuler and sending them to me. I’m really glad this lawyer has made friends with you. It was fun to read about Paul Schuler’s meeting Rolland Fletcher, and what you said about your interview at that church was even better. Rolland must be quite a guy! With so much happening so fast, we’ve got to find him! Thanks for getting on the case right away. If anything you tell me about him gives me any ideas, I’ll let you know.

I’m not bending people’s ears out of shape. I’m just trying to bend people’s ears back into shape.—From The Witless Wisdom of Rolland Fletcher

When the Orphic Trio materialized in Seattle on March 17, 2015, storms of controversy hovered over every note. A capacity audience was on hand to join in the excitement of either cheering on the young musicians or driving them out of the world of music. The result was a checkered audience where some listeners sat in rapt attention and others squirmed in their seats in the most conspicuous way. The end of each work was greeted by vigorous but scattered applause and equally vigorous and scattered hissing and catcalls. Not surprisingly, local critics were mixed in their evaluations. The unsympathetic John Borg said:

Not even the most devoted listener could have recognized a note of Schubert’s trio in that misperformance. The jerky stopping and starting disfigured the music beyond recognition. I doubt if the children on stage knew even half the notes....

The trio solved their problem of bogus musicianship in the second half of the concert by playing a work claiming to be a musical composition by the pianist Rolland Fletcher. Quite clearly the notes were so arbitrary that the distinction between right notes from wrong did not apply. Structure was, for practical purposes, nonexistent. If a group of three-year-olds played at random the result could not have been less felicitous. In fact, that is precisely what we had: three children playing at random. If Rolland Fletcher's work is music, than anything is music....The Orphic Trio is clearly a hoax perpetrated on a gullible audience of music lovers who don't know what they love.

Surely we are witnessing the emergence of three musical geniuses....There is no denying that their interpretation of the Schubert Trio is idiosyncratic. No run-of-the-mill performance for these young people! For the most part, I find their interpretation congruent to the work, one that brings out the underlying tensions in the music and leaves the listener thinking that the bottom has fallen out of one's sense of certainty....

As is often the case with an original work, Rolland Fletcher's Invisible Forests for piano trio is disorienting to the ear. However, it has an emotional appeal that keeps one’s attention riveted to the music. For all of the work's mosaic structure that verges on fragmentation, the piece creates an overall shape that rings with power. There is a dynamism to each musical fragment that, like pulses of electricity, crosses a gap and keeps the whole together. By the end of the long work (ca. 40 minutes) one feels that one has journeyed to a world hitherto unknown to humanity. This world is too different from normal experience for one to articulate it after a first visit, and one suspects that the world is not untroubled, but still, one wishes to return to this strange world once more.

Although the young Rolland Fletcher is so impressive a composer of considerable imagination and originality and a remarkable pianist, we should not overlook the amazing musicianship of his two young colleagues who demonstrate beauty of tone and highly nuanced playing to match Rolland....

When asked about this variance of opinion over his performances and his works, Rolland Fletcher merely said: “Those with ears to hear will hear the music.” This CD album gives you the opportunity to listen and judge for yourself.

I often take a solitary walk after Vespers. It is still strange to me that the “sunlight” or the “moonlight” --- whatever you want to call it --- has nothing to do with the times of day as we used to conceive of them on earth. At least one of the suns is in the sky at all times. Somehow, the temperature is always fairly comfortable. I never need a coat when I'm wearing my habit, and I'm rarely too hot. The climate is as close to non-existent as it can get. The joke about canceling the weather for a day or a week for lack of interest is a reality here. There is no rain, although there is sometimes a mist in the air that moistens the earth slightly. There is no wind of any consequence. At this part of the "afternoon," one of the suns has set and the other one is low over the horizon, thus creating a taste of twilight. It is my favorite time to reflect and pray and ask God: What are you doing to me?

When I can’t stand these questions anymore, I look at the landscape around me. There is something strange about the texture of earth on this planet. It feels firm to the feet, but not as firm as rock. There is no soil that can support the growth of any vegetation as we know it. Only one forest-like patch near the monastery serves as an exception. The white and red petals on the green stems are almost like flowers, but they are not flowers such as we know them. Sister Agnes said she tried to pick a few of them and she swears that the stem of the plant wrestled her to the ground. Who can blame her for having an overwrought imagination in a place like this?

I often get funny feelings about the planet myself. Much of the time I am too busy to pay much heed to that. But when I take a walk, the silence closes in on me and I have to confront these feelings. For a long time I thought I was imagining things when I thought the landscape wasn't quite staying the same. That would be a typical effect of disorientation in a radically new place. But now that I have taken many walks and observed carefully the rising and falling of the ground, I am sure that it really does change, albeit not at a terribly fast rate. There are some distinct shapes that have emerged that I know were not here before. Yet how it happens eludes me. Every now and then, when I am out walking, I trip unaccountably. Each time it happens, I think the earth has done it, but I have never seen the ground move quickly enough to have done it. I know scientists are studying it, but they haven't said anything to me about what they have found, if anything.

However, adjusting to this planet, for all its peculiarities, is small potatoes compared to adjusting to the children God has hoisted on us. I still wonder if I do more harm than good when I hold an infant and cuddle it and try to speak gently to it when my heart is not in it. The children do not run up to me the way they do with Sister Ita, Sister Margaret or most of the other brothers and sisters who share this exile with me. I am relieved when they don't and yet, at the same time, I am hurt by it. These children can't win! How could any green-skinned child win in a world like ours? Especially when all of them have been abandoned by their parents. At least that is what we have been told. Every parent has signed custody of these children over to the Foundation that is pledged to support them and those of us marooned here with them.

These children are baptized. That makes them inheritors of the Kingdom of God. Surely, if they have been baptized, they are human beings like us. Or have we made a mistake? The court ruling in favor of handing these children over to the Foundation and thus, to our community, seems to hinge on sufficient doubts of the full humanity of these children that their civil rights are not being fully upheld. If a well-programmed computer subtly made to look like a human being came to a church, went through the motions of the RCIA Program and then was baptized, would that make the computer a human being? If Artificial Intelligence ever reaches the stage that some technicians claim is possible, will some cybernetic personalities use free will to convert to Christianity or to Buddhism? Do computers have the potential to become spiritually enlightened? Is it possible for computers to pray with recognizable intentions? And yet if the ancient Augustinian teaching is true, that every human has a natural longing for God, aren't we programmed to seek conversion to God? So, are these children programmed to seek God? It is so hard to tell. I know these children aren’t cleverly designed computers. But if they really are mutants, as these scientists say, then have they mutated into a species that is not human? And if they have, are they eligible for baptism because God saves all rational creatures?

That is the unresolved question some ecologists have posed regarding dolphins, porpoises and whales. Since no dolphin has given public testimony to a conversion to Christ, I am doubtful that such a conversion is possible for them any more than it is for a cat. I don’t know what porpoises would say about theology if they could speak and I don’t know what the children will say when they can speak because they haven’t spoken yet, although many of them are of an age, or beyond the age, when children begin to echo words. By now, some of the children should be babbling in wearisome ways but, according to Sister Ita, all the babbling is musical—if you want to call it music, but with no trace of language at all. It is too soon to gage the intellectual capabilities of these children, but already I am beginning to wonder if their little minds work in a way that has any compatibility with the a human mind like mine or Sister Ita’s.

There are times when the children are so still that they look like natural contemplatives. The EEG ratings taken by Dr. Managle, however, do not indicate the alpha waves that would show up if they really were in a contemplative state. In fact, the graphs show that their brains are highly active at those times when they appear most inactive, but the brain wave activity does not show a rate that is normal for humans. Dr. Managle has started to call them Epsilon waves. Should I take this as an indication that the children are not human? Dr. Managle does not commit himself in the slightest on that question. Do these mysterious brain waves offer clues as to why the children are slow to learn to speak? What will these children be like when they grow a bit older? Will we be able to handle them? Will we be able to communicate with them or they with us?

At these times, I think about the teachings of the ancient monks concerning the passions of the soul. Mostly they wrote about passions such as sexual desire and anger and pride. God knows I struggle with all of these. But what the ancient writers did not cover was the passion of racial prejudice, if that is the applicable problem. If the children really belong to a new species, then my problem may be a prejudice against species other than the human. Whatever passion it is that afflicts me, it overcomes me when I even think of the children, let alone see them. Why is it that when my intellect tells me the children are human, the passions of my heart tell me they are not? Or am I only being realistic in my attitudes while I struggle against scruples formed within me by a rationalistic culture?

I wonder if I let the attitude of the doctors and geneticists influence my attitude. It is not lost on any of us, that no doctor or nurse, save our own nursing sisters, ever stays here. It isn't that there is no chance of our having an emergency in which a doctor would be needed immediately. It is just that no doctor will provide us the security of being so readily available. It doesn’t give me a secure feeling to know that the nearest doctor is on another planet. I also notice that the medics give every indication that they do not want to touch these children any more than they absolutely have to. They leave as much of the testing as they can to Br. Colman who gave up a career as a medical technician to join the order. I wonder if he realized at the time how much his professional skill would be wanted in the new context. He doesn’t seem to be pathologically afraid of the children, but he is about as detached from his work as a human being can be and still accomplish anything.

If, as I suspect, the doctors are not sure that handling the children is safe, then the question arises as to whether or not our order has been sacrificed both by the scientific community and the church. Are we the guinea pigs in an experiment to find out if dealing directly with the children hurts us in any way? Will my skin turn green one of these years the way Father Damien's skin turned numb with leprosy from living too long on Molokai? Somehow I don't fear that. If I have no chance of getting back to my world, what do I have to lose if I turn green? Presumably I won’t be shunned by my fellows monks and nuns who are used to tending to children with green skin. And if we all end up in the same boat, than we are in the same boat.

Even so, any hint of doubt on the part of doctors and geneticists regarding the humanity of the children gets under my skin whether I will it or not. These children play with toys the same way other children do. They throw open their arms for love the way other children do. They sing—well they don't sing the way other children do. That is different. They sing like birds who have been trained by masters for twenty years. I don't know what to make of it. They squabble—well they don't squabble in the way you would expect. They sort of sing to one another, they push one another, but they don't seem to interact in ways small children usually do when given freedom to make their own connections. At least, that is what Sister Margaret says, and I think she may be right.

All of these children are withdrawn. They don’t show any interest in any of us who care for them. I suspect that their withdrawal tempts me, and probably others, to retain some repulsion for these children rather than take the chance of feeling affection for them only to be rebuffed by them. For that matter, the children don’t come across as having any personal interest in each other. They are almost always together in small groups, and yet each member of the group appears to be isolated. You could say they sing together, but the result is quite anarchic, as if their agreement was that each would sing his or her own thing and let the devil enjoy the result. They play together, but in a way that gives the impression that they are each playing alone in the proximity of the others.

The interaction between the children and the green rock surface of the desert is quite interesting. When they are outside, many of the children stroke some lump on the ground as if it were their favorite doll or toy. I wonder if they would do this if the Foundation sent us any toys for the children, but we are told there is hardly enough money to feed and clothe them and so they will have to do without toys. They sing lullabies to these lumps of rock as if they were budding parents. And over days and weeks and months—whatever these units mean in this place—the lumps grow a bit larger and then a bit larger still. We have reached the point where there are, in effect, little sculptures emerging from the ground. They look like natural growths, but they only seem to occur when the children mold them. The children mold them with their hands and they throw away tools angrily whenever they are offered. Nobody in the community can do anything of the kind. The ground may feel strangely vibrant to the touch, but it does not respond to us in any noticeable way. Again, this artwork is mostly solitary. The children hardly ever work together on a project, even if a sister encourages it. In the few instances where two or more children have been observed working on the same “sculpture,” they still appear so self-absorbed that one would think that each child was creating his or her own work and the overlap was pure coincidence. Sister Radegunde has told me that, to her disappointment, the children seem not to care what others think of their work. Praising their accomplishments elicits no reaction at all. For that matter, I hear that when Father Malachy tells the children that their work is rubbish, they don’t react to his opinion either. Do the children understand anything we say to them? Do the children care about the shapes they mold out of the earth? Do they care about each other? Do they care about us? Do they care about themselves?

I think there is a chance that the shock of these children with their strange ways would be bearable if there were any quality to our community life. Maybe that will happen some day after we have been settled for a while and can face the implications of being stuck here and needing to live together. However, although it is hard to judge how much time has really elapsed since coming here, it seems to me that we have had the time to get over the initial shock and rally to each other. Unfortunately, this has not even begun to happen. We have no difficulty worshiping together in the church, and that is something, but we seem unable to relate to each other in any other context. It doesn’t help that I was appointed superior before I even knew who some of the monks and nuns were. It also doesn’t help that some of them have, like me, been bamboozled in some way into joining the order and coming here when otherwise they would rather have been anywhere else.

Father Malachy is a particularly big cause of concern. He carries a huge amount of anger which probably has to do with the way he feels he was treated by his own church. He seems to have been at odds with everything the Episcopal Church was doing or threatening to do and his bishop came up with an ingenious way of getting rid of him. In any case, Fr. Malachy feels that his bishop suggested he join our community as an ecumenical member under false pretenses. He thought he was joining an order in the true Catholic Church only to find himself in a community that has embraced a half-baked New Age ideology which betrays everything he stands for. Father Malachy was hustled to the temporary convent in Greville only the day before we all were bussed to this planet. He was clothed a novice and only then was he shown the children to whom he would minister. Brother Colman told me that Father Malachy tried to escape the night before departure to this planet, but was stopped by a couple of well-built young men who, apparently, were set up as guards against that very possibility. Who can blame him for hating everybody here? So far, he avoids the children as if they were carriers of a plague and if any of them get under foot, his rage is frightening.

As if the discontented Fr. Malachy were not enough, we have just received Bishop George Hemingway, another exile sent by the Vatican. When we were still on earth, he was one of few bishops who took our part and defended our Order. I should have known that he was as strong as a reed in the desert. How could he help us when the Vatican could strip him of authority at any time? Just before he showed up here, he suggested in a publicized sermon that the Catholic Church give careful, public scrutiny to the theological implications of ordaining women to holy orders. As a result, he now lives in an outpost of the Catholic Church where he can ordain all the women he wants and the cardinals won’t know the difference and the faithful will not be scandalized. All that is well and good, but the man is a bishop and, for all the deference he shows me, he often speaks as if he were the one in charge of this monastery. But then, the same could be said of many of the monks and nuns who are theoretically under my authority.

It is hard for a community to come together when we are all under such stress. For all its steady climate, the planet itself is proving to be unpredictable and unfathomable. A few “nights” ago, we had the distinct feeling that there was an earthquake. All the children cried out in tremendous agony and continued to cry long after the quaking stopped. It could be that the children were afraid of the earthquake, but there was something uncanny about the sound of their crying. Then again, a few days later, right in the middle of a class where Sister Radegunde was trying to teach the children to play with blocks, they suddenly cried out in much the same way and it took us hours to settle them down again. Since none of the children talk as yet, we have no way of knowing what the problem is.

When I retrace my steps and head back to the monastery, I have to look at the buildings the Foundation built for us. It was nice of them to give us some Celtic trimmings, like the Celtic cross over the front of the church. But a set of pre-fab units? What a horrible touch of home to give us after making us forsake the planet of our birth!

Many thanks for the news about the accident. Normal news sources are mum, as one would expect. It will be most interesting to find out who was in the car that was embraced by these “vines” in so inconvenient a manner. I will research police reports and hospital registers and will let you know what I find. Your info, re: Rob Franklin and Mark Terrell is most interesting. I will search school records for Rob Franklin in the hope of coming up with more leads for you to follow. Meanwhile, get a load of this file that I have just filched from the doctor who should not be named. Louise.

Felt great apprehension when patient came in for today’s consultation. The puzzling and potentially dangerous events of last visit do not help my state of mind. But I must be ready for anything with this patient and keep the upper hand somehow. Major breakthrough in psychic and physical science possible if cool is not lost.

Mocking look on patient’s face when he comes in is not reassuring. First thing he asks me is: “Are you afraid I’ll take you on another trip?” My face must have betrayed anxiety. Patient smirks. I must do better than that. Told patient that trips to fantasy land are his problem, not mine. My problem is to cure him of fantasy projections. Patient gives look of haughty disrespect. Smart aleck thinks he’s an adolescent already. I choose to ignore attitude and settle down to collect more data if I can draw it out.

Patient tells me he is going to a new church. This is still a Catholic Church so he has not forsaken church of upbringing. Patient admits church not fully accepted by Rome, so attending it allows outlet for rebellious motives. Better still, parents don’t go to unauthorized church. New home turf for patient over/against problematic parents. Church is run by members of a new religious order. Religious order is not fully accepted by Rome, of course. Patient says he attends mass, which uses old Irish liturgy and has interesting Irish music. Patient attends Bible study led by a sister. Patient also has conferences with a priest of the order. I ask Patient if he is contemplating a vocation to priesthood or to religious order. Patient says he is. I ask Patient if he has confided visions to this priest. Answer is No, but he is thinking of doing that. I caution patient against that course of action. Could lead to confusion. Would mean that two men are treating him for same symptoms instead of one. Priest would not understand visions, and might not believe them. Priest might think Patient is crazy and so will encourage him to enter psych. ward rather than priesthood. Patient then asks me if I think he is crazy. I answer Patient that he is not crazy but he has some problems that need working out.

I then focus on family issues. Patient tells me his family continues to fall apart. Father still drinks too much and mother yells at Father to no effect. When yelling at Father does not help, Mother yells at kids. I suggest to patient that church is home away from home for Patient. Patient admits that might be true, but what is wrong with finding a home if you don’t have one at home? I ask patient if priest he talks to is a father figure for him. Answer is Yes.

I suggest patient will need to become conscious of motives for seeking priesthood. Patient says that priest says the same. I then suggest to patient that God might be surrogate father as well. Patient asks me if I think God is fantasy projection like fantasy projection I saw last session. I tell patient that God for him might be fantasy projection. Whether God is projection like last session’s projection, I will not say.

Patient closes his eyes. I wait for him to say something and keep track of time in case he wastes too much valuable time for which dysfunctional parents pay me heavy fees. Before time is “up,” I experience myself floating on a green sea. It was sort of like floating on a raft, only I’m on the surface of the “sea” itself. No warning this time. Caught in fantasy projection once again. Should have known this would happen if defenses not kept up at all times. Green sea flows out of my computer. Silver rivers flow through green waves. I had made sure computer was off before session, but still could not prevent use of computer for patient’s fantasy projection. Above, I see greenish sun as in last fantasy projection. Patient has eyes open and wicked smile on his face.

Patient’s smile becomes more wicked still. I think I hear music, but it seems not to come from anything outside, in the air. Seems to sound from inside my ear. I don’t like the sound of it.

“Right this second here isn’t the same as right this second back in your office,” replies impudent patient, obviously relishing control he thinks he has over me.

Patient rests back on wave as if sunbathing in Bahamas. Music grows louder inside ears. Feels like waves supporting me are making sounds by rubbing against each other, like crickets chirping with their legs. Voices invade my mind again, like last time.

“I didn’t say anything,” says smug patient. “I’m just enjoying myself. Aren’t you?”

Answer to that is obvious and patient knows it. Voices repeat themselves. They ask me if I think planet is moving too much, if planet is too unstable.

“I’ll bet I’m more stable than you right now,” says insufferable mocking patient.

Meanwhile, voices that asked me question about stability express satisfaction. They makes me feel I have friends in projected fantasy world that patient does not have.

Patient closes eyes for a moment, surface stops rocking and I find myself back in my office. No more green waves flowing from computer. Computer is off, as it should be.

“What do you think is really happening?” I asked patient, as I tighten my wits about me.

“I think I’ve gotten hooked by a space/time warp that takes me to that planet instantaneously,” patient replies. “The warp, or the beings on the planet, seem to use music and computers to work the space/time warp.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I know how to appreciate music that people like you don’t.”

Actually, I feel privileged that somebody inside the planet seems to like me better than the patient. If his own fantasy projection is divided against him, it can only help me regain control over the situation.

“So, you are using your fantasy projection to convince yourself that you are superior to your psychotherapist? That is a good way to prevent your ever being cured of your psychological difficulties.”

“Why should I want to be cured of my ability to travel to this planet and enjoy its fellowship and its music?” Patient asks.

“Now, look! Maybe right now, while your are immature and have few responsibilities in life, the idea of living irresponsibly for the rest of your life is appealing. But one of these days, you either have to learn to live in the real world or you will spend your days in a mental institution, locked in your own fantasies.”

“Now look!” patient retorts, mimicking me. “What you call fantasy is the real world as far as I am concerned. I know this stinking office of yours is part of the real world, too. Even you are real, unfortunately. You are a real person who just doesn’t know how to live in certain worlds that are just as real as this office that stinks up to high heaven.”

“Insulting your therapist will not help you get better,” I tell patient in my cold and collected tone of voice.

“I thought transference was supposed to be a stage in getting better,” said patient. “I transfer my hatred for my father to you and treat you like I treat my father. Then I get it out of my neurosis and I feel better.”

“You are too young to read about psychology,” I tell patient, struggling all the more to keep my cool.

“Is there a law that says you have to be eighteen before reading Introduction to Psychology?”

“There should be,” I tell him. “Reading books before you are ready for them can do a lot of harm. You don’t know how many patients have gotten messed up by reading psych. books when they can’t understand them.”

“However, we are getting sidetracked from the problem of your fantasy projections.”

“No, we are getting sidetracked from your problem of not believing reality, even when you see it and feel it. Why not get an astro-physicist to come to our next session and let him study what happens?”

I did not like the patient’s suggestion at the time, but upon reflection, thought it might be a good idea. Perhaps astro-physicist can help convince Patient of unreality of his fantasy. If ever fantasy is real, then I might need someone to help me gain control of it.