Goodnight, Horselover Fat

An unfortunately one-sided relationship,

Isn’t it?

to read an author’s work.

I was halfway through his book when it happened;

a golden beam shot from between the valley of the pages,

striking my forehead.

Following the path hewn by the beam, I drifted,

into the deepest reaches of his mind;

finding characters who lived in him, were a

part of him. He shared these shards,

With me!

though he didn’t know who I was,

we hadn’t met, not in a police station, or while

brokering a deal for a new identity.

It was as if I’d boarded a bus, and sat down next to him

by chance, and he’d leaned over and started talking

telling me;

that we don’t know what’s real, that our senses

might be lying to us. He said a pink beam, reflected

from an Ichthys necklace, had imparted wisdom

onto him. He said that nothing could exist without

god, and then leaned in to add that he wasn’t sure

he even believed in god.

But it wasn’t on a cacophonous bus; it was in a book.

Written on the page was his heart and his soul, and I needn’t have any

compunctions against looking in.

I wanted to meet this man, to shake his hand and to say thank you. And,

I wanted to chip away a piece of myself, to show something of mine, like he

had shown a piece of himself to me.

So I started my computer;

listened to the hum as wires tsk-

tsked and the disk drive spun;

online, I found his books that I’d read; followed the link

with his name, me being excited enough at this point

to look up any book signing tours to find out when

I could just tell him

if nothing else

that I loved his books. I discovered his name,

which was not Horselover Fat, although he called himself that once.

His name was Philip Kindred Dick, and he was

born in 1928, and he

died in 1982.