The intended exchange recounted above was aborted by the circumstance that my powers of locomotion were limited. In fact, as I made for the door through which Professor Calloway had just disappeared, my cane failed me and I found myself once more seated upon the floor.
As Fortune would have it, Ms. Smith recognized my plight and walked over to me and helped me regain my upright position. I thanked her for her kindness, brushed myself off, and continued toward the door. But Ms. Smith was not one to “let sleeping dogs lie,” as the vulgar say. She continued alongside me, prattling on about this and that (I recall only that she was comparing my slight misfortune with one or another of her own) and making a general nuisance of herself, oblivious to the reason for my haste. When she finally quit my presence, I found myself alone in the vestibule. Professor Calloway was not in sight.
A moment later, however, I heard her cheerful voice from behind a door that I had theretofore not observed. I made my way by slow degree over to that door, behind which was the Office of the Director of the Heartland Retirement Center, occupied by one Kermit Muster. I listened for a brief moment to their discourse—or rather, I attempted to listen, for the sounds I heard were insulated by the intervening door. I was only able to ascertain that the subject of their colloquy was of a light, even frivolous, nature. I did, however, overhear several names being bandied about, the one being “Rusty,” the other, “Barney.” As for other words and phrases I heard, my recollection was limited to “cowboy,” “pretender,” “midget,” and “a strange one”—three of which, in my estimation, referred to Mr. Stubbs.
Discovering that I was not one to eavesdrop, I turned and headed toward my apartment. As I made my way down the hallway, etc., I vowed to rededicate myself to what I had come in one short week to recognize as my hallowed calling: namely, to compose a novel of superior quality.
Before I could begin to fulfill this vow, however, I found myself following what appeared to be an urgent message from my nether regions to my mind, instructing me to ascend my throne of wisdom, the better both to follow my inner urgings and to practice my yogic meditations.
But alas. It appeared that the aforementioned message had lost its urgency, for my nether regions were unable to produce not even a single pebble. Furthermore, my meditations were such that they could produce nothing more than a yawn, a sign that unless I wished to fall from my transcendental perch atop the commode, I must hie myself to my bedroom for my afternoon nap.
Imagined exchange between Professor Calloway and myself
Barney: Pardon me, Professor Calloway.
Prof. Calloway: Yes?
B: May I have a word with you?
PC: Most certainly.
B: Perhaps in private?
PC: Of course. Where would you suggest?
B: My apartment, though of modest dimensions and quality, contains a small study consisting of an excellent array of books, extending from the main systems of both philosophical and religious thought to the finer products of the literary imagination.
PC: That would be excellent!
[Strolling down the hallway toward the designated place of tryst.]
B: I must apologize for the vulgar demeanor of several of my fellow auditors.
PC: It is not your part to apologize for their admittedly boorish behavior. Indeed, I find that in every crowd there are a few who, though considering themselves to be superior in intellect and taste to those they are wont to refer to as “the great unwashed,” are in fact themselves philistines.
B: I have often made that same observation. But if I may paraphrase an oft-used though apt apothegm, one must not let a few rotten apples spoil the bushel.
PC: [Laughing] Very well put. [Serious] But I do not think for one moment that this bushel has been spoiled.
B: Indeed?
PC: I am referring, of course, to yourself. I must confide that I found your presence in my classroom to be the one shining spot in the entire experience. Though you spoke but little, as befits a gentleman of your caliber, your remarks were, I must in all candor report, well-considered, incisive, indeed brilliant. They show an alert mind, one that is well-versed in the intricacies of the main traditions of thought, both Western and Eastern. Your case, I believe, does not give the lie to the common observation that with age comes wisdom.
B: [Bowing modestly; opening door to apartment] Thank you for saying so.
[In my study, after PC inspects library]
PC: Aha. I see that you were not exaggerating when you spoke earlier of your excellent array of books. Most if not all of these tomes are exactly the ones I myself would have selected. In fact, my own library bears a remarkable similarity to yours.
B: Would you care for a glass of sherry?
PC: That is most thoughtful of you. I would indeed. I find that a sherry in the late afternoon, shared with colleagues of like mind and taste, to be among the most enjoyable experiences that life has to offer.
[Seated.]
B: Cheers.
PC: Cheers. [Sipping] Do tell me about yourself.
B: [Sipping] In truth, there is not much to say . . .
Author’s note to the careful reader
Congratulations. You have caught Barney in a contradiction. It is hard to reconcile (1) what Professor Calloway would have said if this exchange had actually occurred, that Barney’s “remarks were . . . well-considered, incisive, and brilliant,” etc., and (2) the fact that his earlier account contains few if any such remarks. But this contradiction is not between Professor Calloway’s imputed statement and the fact of the matter. It is due to an error of omission in his earlier account. He had failed to record remarks that were precisely as the good professor characterized them. In his defense, I can only remind you that, to quote the great Roman poet and critic, Horace: dormitat Homerus (“Homer nodded”).
Tradition reminds us that Homer was blind. Perhaps it will also remind future generations that Barney suffered from an ailing left hip.
“Barney?” said a voice.
I found myself on the ground, casting about for my cane.
“Are you all right?”
I located the cane.
“Barney?” Professor Calloway was speaking.
With the aid of my cane, I arose and stood in as perpendicular an angle as I could command, as befits a Christian gentleman of the old school.
The others, I noted, were staring at me.
I adjusted my top hat to signify my devil-may-care attitude to their over-concern.
But they kept staring.
To set their minds at rest, I explained. I informed them that I had an ailing hip.
Several of them stared at me with a queer, quizzical look, betokening, as I thought, skepticism.
I sat down once again on the chair I had been occupying.
Professor Calloway appeared heartened by my actions. She returned to her rightful place in front of her disciples and resumed her lecture, though my attention to the unexpected pain I thought that I felt in my left hip prevented me from a full comprehension of the substance of her discourse. And before I could think of a means to request a more expansive explication of the point she was making, she waltzed on to the next subject, the gratitude she experienced from our being such a splendid class. Though I did not have a watch to gauge the time, it gradually became clear to me that she was nearing the end of her lecture. She went on to express the audible hope that our lives had been indeed enriched by the course, a sign, I was quick to discern, that we were nearing the end of the entire set of lectures.
The six of us applauded her presentation, though in different ways: four by standing, one (Ms. Cannon) by nodding vigorously, one by repeatedly striking the tip of his fine cane on the floor. But before I could rise, she had left the room, the smile with which she had greeted us just one short week ago still intact.
Her sudden exit caused in me a familiar discomfort: I was being attacked by my nemesis, panic. This time, however, my reaction was not a sudden desire to escape my apartment, for I was not in it. Nor was my reaction to lower myself into the comfort of a chair, for I was already seated. No. This time my reaction was to rise from my chair and, with the aid of my gilded duck, to follow Professor Calloway and engage her in an enlightened exchange on the subject of her doctoral dissertation.
This discovery wrought in me such an excitement that, though I recall both the magical powers my fellow students requested that Professor Calloway explain and the identity of the curious students, I do not remember anything of her explanations, except that save for one case, they were detailed and abstruse.
Mr. Wright asked—superciliously, in my judgment—for the good professor’s opinion concerning omniscience, Ms. Wright, concerning pure consciousness.
Ms. Smith’s curiosity was piqued by the reference to the knowledge of previous lives.
Ms. Cannon suddenly awoke and, after some gentle prodding by Professor Calloway, requested information about the knowledge of the moment of death.
This latter was a chilling thought. But to her credit, Professor Calloway dispelled this chill by offering the most cursory of explanations, proceeding then to render a splendid explication of the yogin’s power of magical flight. Ordinarily, I can still hear her saying, she was content to follow the received text verbatim. In this case, however, she thought she could improve upon the wording of the translator of an ancient commentator on this most fascinating of magical powers. The translator had written that the yogin enjoyed the ability to walk over water, over a spider’s web, even over the rays of light. In her opinion, continued the professor, that translation would well be emended by substituting, for the phrase walking over, the superior phrase dancing over. In fact, she went on, blushing slightly, that emendation was precisely the title of the doctoral dissertation on which she was working.
Musings on the title, Dancing Over the Rays of Light
May I have this dance?
She flushed and lowered her head and cocked it shyly to one side. She peeked up at me and said nothing and then nodded slightly and I could see in her eyes that yes, I could have this dance.
And the one following?
She hesitated, then nodded again.
And the one following that?
She smiled.
I put down my duck-headed cane and placed one hand around her slender waist and, with the other, took her hand and squeezed it slightly and looked down into her expectant upturned eyes and the music began and we were dancing cheek to cheek to the guiding voice of Fred Astaire and when that song ended, we do-si-doed to the sound of frenzied fiddles, oh it was hoedown heaven and oh we could have danced forever and we did, we found ourselves rising above solid earth and then we were whirling and stepping from one cloud to another to the stately count of a Strauss waltz and when we reached the highest mare’s tale, we jitterbugged on the ice crystals and then it was on to a-one-an’-a-twoing to the champagne music of Lawrence Welk, but even that did not last, so we rose to the next level, where we stamped our feet to the bolero and looked down in pity on the brown earth and its sorry taints and it was on and up to the outer fringe and we celebrated our ascent with a set of Chopin mazurkas and by the time we had tired of that repertoire we took a giant leap into another beyond, where we danced the dance of the ghosts and the steady thunder of drums put us in a hypnotic trance, but then we awoke and ascended to a sphere that would have caught the eye of the divine Dante, a place that was not a place because our bodies no longer touched, no longer longed for union, we had become the Real Persons we were always meant to be, we were dancing to the immortal music of the gods, we were Dancing Over the Rays of Light, dancing ourselves into a final and everlasting trance--
I emerged from my ruminations at precisely the moment that Professor Calloway announced the theme of the day’s session. That theme was the magical powers (Sanskrit: the siddhis) possessed by a yogin. An adept yogin she defined as one who has mastered the last three steps toward liberation: concentration, meditation, and trance.
Synopsis of selected magical powers listed in the Yoga Sutras, third chapter
1. Knowledge of past and future;
2. Knowledge of previous lives;
3. Knowledge of other minds;
4. Knowledge of moment of death;
5. Ability to disappear;
6. Friendliness;
7. Attainment of strength of an elephant;
8. Knowledge of astronomy;
9. Knowledge of anatomy;
10. Omniscience;
11. Pure consciousness;
12. Ability to enter another's body;
13. Ability to ascend;
14. Magical flight.
After informing us that had she the time, she could easily spend an entire class session on each of these remarkable powers, Professor Calloway proceeded to ask us each to select one and to submit it for her explication.
Mr. Stubbs immediately raised his hand. When called upon, he requested, with a facetious smile, that she apply her powers of exegesis to Number 12, the ability to enter another’s body. He added, in an equally sad attempt at humor, that in past years, when his wife was still numbered among the living, he had been in possession of that ability.
But to her credit, Professor Calloway refused to “rise to the bait.” Courteously, and with only the slightest hint of a smile, she proceeded to explain what the author of the text on which she was relying had meant by the accomplished yogin’s ability to “enter another’s body.”
I do not recall the details of her explanation, for at precisely that moment I was struck by an idea that led me yet again into profound colloquy. I do, however, recall the gist, which was that the phrase “entering another’s body” has a symbolic, rather than a literal, significance.
Q. Did you notice what I noticed, namely, the magical power called the “knowledge of past and future”?
A. Yes. Especially the first part: “Knowledge of past.”
Q. Do you see its implication for yourself?
A. I do.
Q. Does it not mean that if you become adept at yoga, your putative amnesia will be healed?
A. It does.
Q. So the yoga that was the cause of the disease can become, paradoxically, the cure as well?
A. My thoughts exactly.
Further internal colloquy
Q. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?
A. I am reconsidering my position on the subject of my amnesia.
Q. Have you come to any new conclusions?
A. I think it was caused by a yogic trance I experienced while taking this Life Enrichment course on yoga, taught by Professor Chlöe Calloway.
Q. How, then, do you avoid the fact that, according to her course outline, today is the first time she has even mentioned the subject of trance?
A. Let us be precise. Today is the first time I remember her mentioning the subject of trance.
Q. I stand corrected.
A. From this it follows that she may well have mentioned the subject, though I do not remember it, being an amnesiac.
Q. So far, so good.
A. And if she may well have mentioned it, she probably did, having both interest and expertise in the subject of trance.
Q. Well--
A. Besides, how else would you explain the fact that she knows my name?
Q. Which is . . . ?
A. It starts with a B.
Q. By which you mean Barney?
A. Exactly.
Q. But what about your earlier theory, that you and Professor Calloway once had an . . .
A. It is quite consistent with my present theory.
Q. How so?
A. We had an af____, which she is trying to cover up by placing me in an amnesiac state by means of yogic trance.
Q. A plausible theory.
A. Thank you. It is also coherent and thus, according to the coherence theory of truth (i.e., that a statement is true if and only if it is consistent with other relevant true statements), it must be true.
Q. One further question. According to the coherence theory of truth, would not Professor Calloway once have had an af___ with any of your classmates?
A. No.
Q. Who so?
A. I have five classmates: Mr. Stubbs, Ms. Smith, Mr. and Ms. Wright, and Ms. Cannon. Is this not so?
Q. It is.
A. Professor Calloway did not know Mr. Stubbs’ name.
Q. True.
A. Therefore, he is new to the course.
Q. Or was, last week.
A. I stand corrected. Mss. Smith, Wright, and Cannon are women. Professor Calloway is heterosexual. Therefore, she has not had an af____ with any of them.
Q. A fine syllogism. But how do you know Professor Calloway is heterosexual?
A. Because she had an af____ with me. I am a man. Therefore, she is heterosexual.
Q. Another fine syllogism. That leaves Mr. Wright. What about him?
A. Reginald Wright and Chlöe Calloway? I cannot imagine it. Can you?
Q. Not really. But neither can I imagine you and Professor Calloway.
A. I can.
Q. Do you?
Pause.
A. At times.
Q. At what times?
Pause.
A. Morning . . .
Q. And?
Pause.
A. noon . . .
Q. And?
Pause.
A. night.
Q. But what about other persons? Is it not possible, logically speaking, for Professor Calloway to have had an af____ with some other male student, perhaps in some other setting? In fact, is it not probable?
A. That is a line of thought I do not wish to pursue.
3
Exactly one week after Professor Calloway had aroused my (presumably) longstanding interest in the mysteries of yoga, the class met in the same room. The same students were present, save for the late intruders the deteriorations of whose bone masses had prevented their full participation in the yogic regimen. Again Professor Calloway appeared, smiling. Again she requested that Mr. Stubbs turn off the television set, this time with success. Again she distributed sheets of paper.
She began with the reminder that this session was to be our last. She had enjoyed it, she said in apparent sincerity, and hoped that we had shared her enjoyment. Members of the class responded in the affirmative, all in a way peculiar to their personalities. Mr. Stubbs shouted, “Hear, hear.” Ms. Smith arose and clapped enthusiastically. The Wrights nodded gravely. Ms. Cannon smiled. I chose to rap the tip of my cane on the floor and doff my top hat.
Professor Calloway then directed our attention to the sheet of paper she had only just then distributed.
Synopsis of the first two of the four chapters of the Yoga Sutras, etc., continued: an enumeration of the last three of the eight steps to the discovery of the Real Person Within
6. Concentration.
7. Meditation.
8. Trance.
Professor Calloway gave a cursory explication of each of these steps. She apologized for the perfunctory nature of her exegesis and explained that to the layperson, the three final steps were difficult to distinguish. With two exceptions, the class accepted this explanation without qualm.
Identification of exceptions; their qualm; its cause
Mr. Reginald and Ms. Regina Wright; being placed in the category of layperson. (They are holders of baccalaureate degrees from a prestigious East Coast university.)
2
The ensuing week was one of small discoveries in my quest to learn more about myself. Indeed, my discoveries were so modest that I need instance only one. During that week I became adept at ascending the commode, where I both attempted to perform the acts commonly associated with that device and practiced the first five steps toward the liberation of my “Real Self Within,” or, as I preferred, the Sanskrit term Purusa.
That week I also began to settle into a routine that was both congruent with the general schedule of the Heartland Retirement Center and compatible with my own gifts and aspirations.
Daily regime
6:00. Awaken to sound of alarm clock. Plan day. Contemplate the wonders of God’s creation, w/ special attention to Ms. April & Prof. Calloway.
7:00. Reach about the floor for my cane. Rise. Make way to kitchen, while reflecting on topics philosophical, religious, literary.
7:45. Fix breakfast. Menu: see earlier description.
8:00. Make way to bathroom. Insert teeth in lower part of face.
8:15: Return to kitchen. Eat breakfast.
9:00. Make way back to bathroom. Assume throne, etc. Shave. Take bath.
10:45. Make way to study. Consider ideas for novel.
10:50. Subdue panic attack by sallying forth into the world.
10:52. Return to apartment. Apply Old Spice deodorant. Dress.
11:30. Sally forth again. Explore hallways in search of adventure.
12:15. Proceed to dining hall. Partake of meal with fellow inmates. Audit colloquy concerning quality of food compared to quality of food in restaurants in both Heartland and the greater world beyond—New York, Vienna, Paris, Rome, Athens, etc. Audit descriptions of common lot of geriatric maladies: year of onset, degree of severity, physician’s prognosis, prescriptions prescribed, etc. Audit (embellished) accounts of feats of strength, skill, mental acuity, performed in former years.
1:00. Return to apartment. Perch atop commode. Practice yogic posture and breathing.
2:00. Return to bedroom. Take siesta.
4:00. Awaken. Sally forth. Explore hallways.
5:30. Return to apartment. Prepare evening repast.
6:45. Eat. Menu: ham sandwich; can of soup; glass of wine.
7:30. Make way to study. Read selected passages from encyclopedias, 18th and 19th c. British novels.
9:00. Return to bathroom. Perch upon throne while consulting literature on techniques of writing successful novel.
9:45. Dismount throne. Remove teeth, place in water glass.
10:00. Retire to bedroom. Remove clothes. Set alarm clock. Place cane on floor within easy reach. Recline on bed. Contemplate image of Professor Calloway in her yogic posture.
10:45 (approx.). Fall asleep.
Exception to daily regimen
Sunday. Same as above, except for attendance at morning service (10:00 a.m.) at local house of worship (evangelical Protestant), at invitation of fellow inmate (Ms. Smith).
Barney’s note on subsequent change in schedule
Thereafter I chose to adopt the weekday regimen on Sundays.
Reason for choice
My attendance at the local church had revived my memory concerning another reason my Christianity, presumably once firm, had assumed the backslidden form: I found few points on which I could agree with the system of thought assumed by the minister’s sermon, which contained an excessive use of the first person singular.
Additional reason.
The unexampled pedagogy of Prof. Calloway had awakened in me an appreciation of the ancient wisdom of the Indian subcontinent.
4. Breathing.
Having satisfied herself that those of her students who had joined in “the fun” were comfortable and well-postured, Professor Calloway called their attention to the second of the physical preliminaries to the deeper reaches of yoga. Correct breathing, she took pains to emphasize, was the gateway to what she referred to as “the really good stuff.”
Next she produced a candle from somewhere on her person; then a match. She placed the lighted candle directly before her face. The flame first quivered; after a period of some moments, it became perfectly still.
The purpose of this demonstration, she then explained, was to show the fineness of breath necessary for the achievement of a quietude of body that, in turn, was necessary for the next in the series of the eight steps toward liberation. She did not, however, produce from anywhere on her person any candles for the use of her students, perhaps because she had none, perhaps because it suddenly became evident that the breathing of one of our number, Ms. Cannon, had assumed the form of a snore.
5. Withdrawal.
The next in the series of steps toward the discovery of the Real Person Within, Professor Calloway explained, could not be observed. Withdrawal was “psychological,” as were the last three steps. It referred to the mental act of recalling one’s senses from their attention to the world of objects. . . .
Here a confession must be tendered. I did not follow the ensuing dispute. This was not because it transgressed the limits of my mental abilities. Oh no. It was because I was watching the three elderly persons essay their own withdrawal. The
wheelchair-ridden lady whispered some intelligence to her apparent husband, who reached behind his ear and adjusted his hearing aid; she then whispered again; he nodded; he rose, still listing heavily to starboard; he shuffled to a place behind her wheelchair and, with some effort, began to push her toward the door, followed by the second lady who, I then noticed, also had the use of a cane, which I judged to be inferior, etc.
As this trio of senior citizens vanished from my field of vision, I withdrew my attention from their departure and fixed it on the person of Professor Calloway, who was closely perusing her watch. Whatever she discovered prompted an announcement that the full hour had passed and that next week, “same time, same station,” she would return for another and final class. And so, bidding the class adieu, she retrieved her personal effects from atop the desk on which she had placed them and, her initial smile somewhat abated, left the room, leaving us to reflect on the wisdom of the ancient yogins.
Synopsis of the first two of the four chapters of the Yoga Sutras, etc., continued: an enumeration of the eight steps to the discovery of the Real Person Within, excising irrelevant comments by certain inmates of the Heartland Retirement Center.
1. Abstinences.
Professor Calloway proceeded to explain that abstinence from evildoing—theft being her sole example—was but one of the first two moral preliminaries, albeit necessary ones, to the succeeding and more important steps toward true wisdom.
2. Observances.
The professor explained that observances were the “do’s” of the Hindu religion generally, just as abstinences were the “don’ts.”
3. Posture.
Professor Calloway seated herself atop a nearby table and demonstrated with her lithe, slender body the seating position recommended by the holy sages of ancient India. From this position she explained that the intent of the recommendation was that, just as the abstinences and observances were moral preliminaries to the practice of yoga, so correct posture was the first of the two physical preliminaries to same.
At this point she summoned us to be more than mere auditors; she encouraged us to be actual pilgrims on this road to the discovery of the True Self, from which vantage point “the slings and arrows” (her words) of life’s afflictions (my words) could do no harm.
With one significant exception, the members of the audience removed themselves from their chairs and began to array themselves on the floor at her feet. Some did so with enthusiasm (Mr. Stubbs, Ms. Smith), some reluctantly (the Wright twins), one in mechanical fashion (Ms. Cannon). I alone declined her invitation, explaining that I was the unfortunate possessor of an injured hip. The professor accepted this explanation in good faith.
Hardly had the class attained the recommended posture than three more senior citizens (two women; one man) entered the room. I immediately recognized the ladies as the ones I had inadvertently affronted in the hall; the man was apparently the husband of the one who was confined to the wheelchair. These three arrayed themselves at some distance from the center of yogic power, not on the floor but on two chairs and the wheelchair. When called upon by Professor Calloway to join in what she facetiously referred to as “the fun,” the three declined, each pleading non possumus (referring, according to the venerable Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary, to an “inability to do something”). Though none were specific as to the causes of their inability, an acute observer of this scene could easily guess them: the two ladies were both encumbered by a dowager’s hump; the gentleman listed severely to starboard, a state of discomfort that was assuaged by a cane, which I judged to be inferior in both workmanship and substance to my own.
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