"Bruce Holland Rogers - The Krishman Cube" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rogers Bruce Holland)

madness. The first, with a local postmark and a picture of a saguaro silhouetted in the sunset, read:
"Searching for a Doña Juana. See Castaneda's works but as you read him, keep in mind the fact that
women always make better necromancers than men do."
 The next card came ten days later, from Brazil. The picture was of a fierce Jivaro, his spear raised
menacingly. "Guess what I'm doing on the Amazon?" she wrote. "They don't really cut off their right
breast, but they are tough mamas. I'm picking up a few rites of purification."
The last card was on plain white cardboard. It had been canceled in China, but read: "I'm in Nepal
illegally. Having a wonderful time, wish you were here, etc. I have found the gates to the golden pavilion.
Now if I can just find a hairpin and pick the lock...."
On the day that I was going to move back into my own reconstructed office, I saw Krishman for what
I assumed would be the last time. I was walking across the parking lot when I happened to glance up and
see the light was on in the office.
And, then, I thought I saw Krishman. Her back was to me, and she sat in what I now know is the
lotus asana. She appeared to be floating several feet above the floor. Of course, by the time I had dashed
across the parking lot and up two flights of stairs, I realized that, no, that couldn't have been what I had
seen. Perhaps she had been sitting on top of that huge desk of hers. I had been up late the night before,
grading comparison/contrast papers. So perhaps the illusion had been brought on by fatigue. By the time
my hand was on the doorknob, I had caught my breath and convinced myself that what I had seen must
have indeed been Krishman sitting on her desk. That was the only sound explanation I could muster, but
it seemed quite reasonable. I opened the door.
"Well, hi," Krishman said. Her arms were full of books. She was standing in the middle of the room,
where her oak desk used to be. I must have paled a bit, because she asked me, "What's wrong?"
"Where's your desk?"
"Out in the pickup truck, with half of my books. Why?" And she grinned like a Cheshire cat.
I didn't mention what I had seen. At the time, I believed that some of her worst traits had rubbed off
on me, that I was going a little crazy myself. She had come to retrieve her books and furniture, so I
helped her carry them out to the truck she had borrowed. Neither of us spoke. She seemed very tired,
and I was preoccupied with watching myself for further signs of psychosis.
We came back to the office for one last load, and I picked up the books she had handed to me on
that first day when she had tried to explain zero-point energy to me; they had lain on my desk all that
time. She told me to put them down.
"I want you to keep those, and a few others that I'll have sent to you."
"Why?" I said, but she didn't answer. Instead, she set a stack of her scribbled notes on my desk
beside the books.
"Everything essential is right there. Provided I can goad you into looking in the first place, you won't
have to search as far as I did. You'll have to learn to think a little less rigidly, a little more in step with the
moon."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, but she was already on her way out of the room. A week later,
a courier service delivered about fifty books to my office. I stacked them, still sealed in their boxes, out
of the way in a corner.
And that was that.
Well, not quite.
No one who was awake during the Spinshift, I am sure, will ever forget what they were doing when it
happened. In my case, it was late afternoon, close to sunset. I was grading some composition papers and
was about halfway through my second peanut butter sandwich when my head was filled with an annoying
buzz and I jolted forward onto my desk. As I peeled the sandwich from my nose, I had a strange
intimation of nausea that told me, somehow, that what I had just experienced had been no ordinary
earthquake.
The fellow who works in the office across from mine, Wayne Tremblay, appeared in my doorway.
Now, Wayne is a poet, so I wasn't sure how to react when he said, "God is either pissed or having some