But Seven was horrified. “I didn’t understand that at all,” he said angrily. “And certainly Lydia and Will didn’t. I didn’t believe that the gods, as mortals understand them, had anything to do with running the universe, but … I don’t know what I thought,” he cried.

There was a small pause. Then Cyprus said gently, “You did understand that you create your own reality?”

“But the gods’ reality is something else again,” Seven exclaimed. “How did such a misunderstanding take place? And if there are real gods behind the gods I’ve met, then how do you find them? If they’re always camouflaged by people’s beliefs about them, how can anyone find them? You and I know that the universe is safe, and that All That Is is hidden in us, and in everything else as well. But Lydia doesn’t know that. And Will thinks he does, only he has some crazy idea that desire is somehow opposed to being. And I don’t like Lydia being born again by default, if that’s what’s behind her decision. If she is born as Tweety, I have to give her something, some clues, to help her in her new life; some idea that frees her from—” Seven broke off, really upset. “I hardly know what to think myself,” he said. “And what about Will? He was still talking about suicide.”

“Which reminds me,” Cyprus said. “It’s time to give Jeffery a rest, so he can write his own notes. I imagine he might be just a bit upset himself.”

Chapter Twenty

Jeffery’s Notes and Some Upsetting Realizations

Now I must confess my concern over what is certainly a rather unique predicament, for this manuscript has included events from my own life as a part of its narrative. Imagine my horror as I found myself automatically writing down (but not from my viewpoint) the entire happenings that occurred during my last visit to Ram-Ram. I was, in fact, more than halfway through the description before I realized this odd turn of events, for when I am embarked upon writing the book, it’s impossible to tell where my mind is. A psychological absence falls upon me. That is the only way I can describe it. There is no amnesia. I know my fingers are working the typewriter keys, and I am aware of my environment, yet I am lost to myself in a way difficult to describe or decipher. When I finally realized that a portion of my own life was appearing as part of this unwelcome book, I was appalled, but my fingers typed on, and some part of me remained strangely neutral and unconcerned. A maddening situation.