The practicality that had grounded me that morning had just pixilated into a haze of electrons—actually, they were still sparkling in myriad flecks suspended in a sunbeam in my dining room—and what was I doing?
I was numbly sitting in my kitchen, still reeling from the shock.
I had made contact with Blythe's spirit and now was overwhelmed by the experience.
I felt I was in a fog and had to get away, so I drove downtown and met Stella for lunch at Sassafraz, hoping the bustle and lively pulse of the upscale eatery would take my mind off Blythe for a while.
As I sat there, I was tempted to confide in her, but ultimately decided against it—she’d think me certifiably mad. To tell the truth, I was beginning to suspect that myself.
After she returned to her office, I deliberately stayed out the whole afternoon trying to recover some sense of normalcy.
Finally, exhausted and numb, I drove home in stop and go traffic, and could feel the boring weight of everydayness seeping back into my pores.
As it was, I still hesitated opening my front door, and nervously peered about before deciding it was safe to enter my own house.
I definitely had an approach-avoidance attitude to the whole business—on the one hand, being drawn to Blythe, but on the other, fearing I might be losing my mind.
I waited several days before boredom and curiosity again enticed me to pick up Blythe’s poems and peruse her Segues.
I had to admit the whole experience of communicating with the dead had disturbed me, but what upset me most was my lack of understanding about the whole thing.
I just didn’t get it—and it was damned infuriating.
Blythe acted totally shocked and surprised when she saw me—that was real. But, on the other hand, if she wrote The Segues as paths so I could find her, why was she surprised when I did?
The thought occurred to me that perhaps Blythe didn’t write The Segues herself—maybe she copied them into the margins of the book for safekeeping.
But if she didn’t author them, who did—and why did she copy them at all?
If for no other reason than settling my mind and clearing up these obsessing questions—I wanted to meet her —had to meet her again...but how?
I could go back and look at her Segues and try another path, but why not repeat the pattern that brought me to her the last time?
I looked out the rain-streaked window at the gardens. It was a misty dull day and somber—quite unlike the afternoon I walked the maze. I wasn’t sure if I needed the right atmospheric conditions to repeat the passage, but I’d soon find out.
I decided to forego the glass of lemonade as well, figuring I didn’t have to worry about being fetishistic and setting just the right mood.
And seeing I was in that mindset, I put on my North Face waterproof hoodie over my sweater and jeans, smiling inwardly as I thought that maybe a less ‘curious’ appearance might persuade the lady that I was not an eccentric.
As I stepped out the door onto the patio, the rain began coming down heavier, and by the time I made my way down the slippery grassy slope to the maze, it was pelting down.
Great—just great! I was going to meet a beautiful woman looking like a drowned rat. Then, it occurred to me—I actually cared what I looked like, and more importantly, what Blythe thought about me.
That was a shock and told me a lot about my inner feelings that I invariably try to repress, although generally unsuccessfully.
Truth was, I was heading down a slippery slope alright, and it was precarious in more ways than one.
