directly.”
“What about reproductive organs?”
“You still have them because you expect to have them. In time, when you understand their lack of purpose, they’ll disappear.”
“That’s weird,” I said.
He shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. “Consider those whose lives depended on those organs,” he said. “Who, even after death, retain the need and use of them because they can’t conceive of existence without them. They’re never satisfied, of course, never fulfilled; it’s only an illusion. But they can’t break free of it and it impedes their progress endlessly. That’s weird, Chris.”
“I can understand that,” I conceded. “Still, part of my relationship with Ann was physical.”
“And there are people here, who love each other, who have sexual relations,” he said, startling me again. “The mind is capable of anything, always remember that. In time, of course, these people usually realize that physical contact isn’t as integral here as it was in life.
“For that matter,” he continued, “we don’t have to use our bodies at all; we only possess them because they’re familiar to us. If we chose, we could perform any function with our minds alone.”
“No hunger,” I said. “No thirst. No fatigue. No pain.” I made a sound of bemusement. “No problems,” I concluded.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Albert told me. “Except for the lack of need for what you’ve mentioned—and the absence of need to earn a living—everything is still the same. Your problems are unchanged. You still have to solve them.”
His words made me think of Ann. It was disturbing to believe that, after all the hardships she’d suffered in life, there’d be no respite for her here. That seemed unjust.
“There’s help, here, as well, remember,” Albert said picking up my thought again. “A good deal more perceptive too.”
“I just wish I could let her know all this,” I told him. “I can’t get rid of this sense of apprehension about her.”
“You’re still picking up her distress,” he replied. “You should let go.”
“Then I’d lose contact completely,” I said.
“It isn’t contact,” he told me. “Ann isn’t aware of it— and it only holds you back. You’re here now, Chris. Your problems lie herein.”
The power of mind
I KNEW HE was right and, in spite of continuing anxiety, tried to put it from my mind. “Is walking your only means of transportation here?” I asked to change the subject.
“By no means,” Albert said. “Each of us possesses our own personal method of rapid transit.”
“What’s that?”
“Since there are no space limitations,” he answered, “travel can be instantaneous. You saw how I came to you when you called my name. I did it by thinking of my house.”
“Does everyone travel that way?” I asked in surprise.
“Those who wish to,” he said, “and can conceive of it.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Everything is mental, Chris,” he told me. “Never forget mat. Those who believe that transportation is confined to cars and bicycles will travel that way. Those who feel that walking is the only way to get around will walk. There’s a vast difference, here, you see, between what people think is necessary and what really is. If you look around enough, you’ll find vehicles, greenhouses, stores, factories, et cetera. None of which are needed, yet all of which exist because someone believes they are needed.”
“Can you teach me to travel by thought?” I asked.
“Certainly. It’s just a matter of imagination. Visualize yourself ten yards ahead of where you are.”
“That’s all?”
He nodded. “Try it.”
I closed my eyes and did. I sensed a feeling of vibration; then, abruptly, felt myself glide forward in a leaning posture. Startled, I opened my eyes and looked around. Albert was about six feet behind me, Katie running to my side, tail wagging.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You stopped yourself,” he said.
“What about reproductive organs?”
“You still have them because you expect to have them. In time, when you understand their lack of purpose, they’ll disappear.”
“That’s weird,” I said.
He shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. “Consider those whose lives depended on those organs,” he said. “Who, even after death, retain the need and use of them because they can’t conceive of existence without them. They’re never satisfied, of course, never fulfilled; it’s only an illusion. But they can’t break free of it and it impedes their progress endlessly. That’s weird, Chris.”
“I can understand that,” I conceded. “Still, part of my relationship with Ann was physical.”
“And there are people here, who love each other, who have sexual relations,” he said, startling me again. “The mind is capable of anything, always remember that. In time, of course, these people usually realize that physical contact isn’t as integral here as it was in life.
“For that matter,” he continued, “we don’t have to use our bodies at all; we only possess them because they’re familiar to us. If we chose, we could perform any function with our minds alone.”
“No hunger,” I said. “No thirst. No fatigue. No pain.” I made a sound of bemusement. “No problems,” I concluded.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Albert told me. “Except for the lack of need for what you’ve mentioned—and the absence of need to earn a living—everything is still the same. Your problems are unchanged. You still have to solve them.”
His words made me think of Ann. It was disturbing to believe that, after all the hardships she’d suffered in life, there’d be no respite for her here. That seemed unjust.
“There’s help, here, as well, remember,” Albert said picking up my thought again. “A good deal more perceptive too.”
“I just wish I could let her know all this,” I told him. “I can’t get rid of this sense of apprehension about her.”
“You’re still picking up her distress,” he replied. “You should let go.”
“Then I’d lose contact completely,” I said.
“It isn’t contact,” he told me. “Ann isn’t aware of it— and it only holds you back. You’re here now, Chris. Your problems lie herein.”
The power of mind
I KNEW HE was right and, in spite of continuing anxiety, tried to put it from my mind. “Is walking your only means of transportation here?” I asked to change the subject.
“By no means,” Albert said. “Each of us possesses our own personal method of rapid transit.”
“What’s that?”
“Since there are no space limitations,” he answered, “travel can be instantaneous. You saw how I came to you when you called my name. I did it by thinking of my house.”
“Does everyone travel that way?” I asked in surprise.
“Those who wish to,” he said, “and can conceive of it.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Everything is mental, Chris,” he told me. “Never forget mat. Those who believe that transportation is confined to cars and bicycles will travel that way. Those who feel that walking is the only way to get around will walk. There’s a vast difference, here, you see, between what people think is necessary and what really is. If you look around enough, you’ll find vehicles, greenhouses, stores, factories, et cetera. None of which are needed, yet all of which exist because someone believes they are needed.”
“Can you teach me to travel by thought?” I asked.
“Certainly. It’s just a matter of imagination. Visualize yourself ten yards ahead of where you are.”
“That’s all?”
He nodded. “Try it.”
I closed my eyes and did. I sensed a feeling of vibration; then, abruptly, felt myself glide forward in a leaning posture. Startled, I opened my eyes and looked around. Albert was about six feet behind me, Katie running to my side, tail wagging.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You stopped yourself,” he said.
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