d. 11/22/1963

extract from short story included in positional vertigo - d. 11/22/1963 An aging body lies in a wrinkled bed. A slow blink and the ghost of a sigh. A tree sways outside the window, parts with a leaf. A scrawled note in a shaky hand. Are you sure, Aldous? Another slow blink. The sheet is pulled back revealing a wrinkled arm, the arm that wrote the books that would outlive him. The arm that fed him throughout his life could now barely move. The plan had been in his mind for a while. A high dose of lysergic acid was to be administered on his deathbed to secure his transition into a higher state of consciousness and aid his passage into the next life. The experiences he had on mescaline had already shown Aldous transcendent beauty in this life and he was eager to open that door one last time, to breathe in the ineffable truth of the Logos as he breathed out his last lungful of oxygen. To meet finally the sea of mind that the separation from which had pained and taunted him. At last an end to the decay and hurt of the physical body. At last an end to this dimness, the limits of the corporeal. At last, the freedom of oneness. Laura firmly holds the needle and it slips into her father’s arm muscle. The narcotic liquid flows in, a small air bubble with it. No matter. He is definitely dying. Any longer and it might be too late. The doctor fusses across the room, but no matter. This is the right thing. This is what he wanted. He knows what he is doing. It will help him. Crossed fingers, gritted teeth. The drug can take several hours to kick in fully and Aldous had asked that he would be in the peak of his trip as his brain shuts down. He had stressed that this was important, and that he must not be disturbed when making his final journey...