Metaphysics is indeed the mother of all religion, all philosophy, all science, all organized pursuits of the human mind. A religion is a metaphysical system as is any particular philosophy and science, since metaphysics provides the framework through which we approach understanding. The major distinction between a metaphysical system and metaphysics itself is that the system has ceased the exploration of reality itself—has come to terms with some concept of what reality is—and now seeks to frame experience within that system.
Neoplatonism is such a system. It is an evolutionary form of various movements all inspired by the Dialogues of Plato (428-347 b.c.), and it is important to modern man if for no other reason than that this framework of reality has largely shaped Western man's approach to logical thought. It is difficult to generalize Neoplatonism since there are so many diverging branches, but all of these do embrace a certain consensus of thought built up of these basic elements: a) there are many spheres of being, arranged in a hierarchy of descending order, the last and lowest of these comprising the space-time universe of human sense perception; b) each separate sphere is a product of its next superior sphere, deriving its existence through some process outside of time and space; c) each "derived" being (you and me, angels, spirits, eels and microbes) becomes established in its own reality by reflecting back through contemplative desire toward its superior, such reflection being implicit (or inherent) in the original, outgoing creative impulse received from its superior, so that the entire production may be characterized as a double movement of outgoing and return (action/reaction); d) each sphere is a grosser image or expression of the sphere above it; e) degrees of being (individual spheres) are also degrees of unity; that is, the higher the sphere of being, the greater the degree of unity; conversely, the lower the sphere, the greater the multiplicity or separateness of individual beings. The ramifications here, at the lowest possible level, are toward the subatomic individualization of matter in space-time; whereas, f) the supreme sphere, and through it all of existence in any sense, is derived from the ultimate principle itself (science's First Cause or "singularity"), which utterly transcends any conceptualized or conceivable reality to the point that the ultimate principle is said to be "beyond being," without limitation of any kind. Since it has no limitation and cannot be subdivided by attributes or qualifications of any nature, it also really cannot be named but should be called "the One" as an indication of its total simplicity.
Got that? Total simplicity. We descend into the chaos of total individuation and infinite complexity, ascend toward and into the ultimate simplicity where all is one and one is all.
This utter simplicity is the source of all perfections as well as the ultimate goal of return from chaos. The out- and-back double movement constituting the hierarchy of derived reality emanates from the One and returns to the One.
Got it? If the supreme simplicity cannot be determined by reference to any specific traits or attributes, then man's knowledge of it cannot be anything like any other kind of knowledge, since it is not an object (a thing) and nothing known to man can be applied to it; therefore the One can be known only if and when, by its own direct action, it embraces the mind of man in some mystical union with itself, an event which cannot be imagined or described.
Much of Christian theology is derived from this Neo- platonic model of existence. Plotinus himself was not a Christian, but he was taught by Ammonius, who also taught the Christian Origen who became one of the most respected and influential of all early Christian thinkers.
Plotinus saw the goodness and beauty of the material universe as the best possible work of Soul, but man was also a work of Soul—and, as Soul, man in his essence could never be limited or harmed by worldly imperfection because, as souls within bodies, men can exist on any level of the soul's experience and activity.
Did you catch that souls within bodies? Souls always have bodies, whatever the sphere or plane, but each ascending sphere requires and provides an appropriately finer body of expression.
We can also move back and forth along the ladder, falling and rising among the various spheres of being, ascending in spirit to the level of Universal Soul or falling with a crash into the gross vicissitudes of space-time experience encased in flesh.
Plotinus also believed that the soul could travel from the fleshy sphere to commune in the higher spheres without disturbing or interrupting the earthly duties of that soul.
Which brings us, I guess, back to our story.
Who or what was Valentinius de Medici, and what the hell was going on here? Was he fallen angel or pilgrim soul, black magician or enlightened mystic, demonic manifestation or time traveler, con man or confused ghost?
And what was the secret of Pointe House? Who were those people there? What were they trying or hoping to achieve, or were they just hanging out for lack of anything better to do with their time? Or was time relative to whatever it was they were up to?
Was Pointe House a way station between spheres, a warp in space, a wrinkle in time—or was it just a sentimental anachronism like the town itself, fighting for the truth about itself?
What was this weird arrangement with the Sloanes, and how or why had it engulfed them? Why was Gibson involved to the point of extinction, and what was behind the mask of horror that seized them all?
And why, God tell me why, was a beautiful young artist with a master's touch caught up in all this, to the point of a possible split personality and an apparent morbid compulsion to paint an array of ghosts with a common soul. And who after all did she intend to show it to, on a deadline that coincided with that other crisis—or were both the same?
My life is never simple—and I do love a mystery—but I had the definite feeling that the thing was out of hand this time.
I frankly did not know where the hell to go next.
So you go figure it for me, please. Haul out your own metaphysical system as a guide, or use the one I outlined above, and try to make some sense of it.
Just remember that the routine to simplicity is an ascending one and that you and I in present form occupy the sphere of chaos.
So have a go at it, please, and lend me a hand with this mess.
Meanwhile I'm on my way to have another go at the beautiful young painter/sculptress.
Want to know why she does not know what she ought to know. Also want to know why she does what she's doing, and who she's painting/sculpting for.
Ready? Let's go.
Chapter Twenty: Mission Control
I hit the Laguna cliffs again at midafternoon and tried to get a fix on the spot outside the estate where Jim Sloane's abandoned car had been found by the police. Pointe House is situated outside the city limits in a county area. The parking on Pacific Coast Highway is very spotty along that stretch, just a broad shoulder here and there. The entry onto the point occupied one of those broad areas extending a hundred feet or so to either side of the drive, all of which was posted against parking. I took mental note of all that and went on through to the point without pause.
Francesca was in her studio, very expertly applying framing to a large seascape. She looked up with a troubled frown as I entered but quickly returned her attention to the job at hand without greeting me or otherwise acknowledging my presence. So I browsed around for a minute or two, toured the studio looking for the stuff I'd seen in there the night before. It was not there; none of it was there.
So I went to the framing table and asked the petulant lady, "Already crated up your show?"
She replied, "Ha ha, very funny. Not sure I'm going to have a show, at this rate. Please get out of here and leave me alone."
So I took a leap, and told her: "Francesca...you had a show last night. Right here. There were more than forty paintings, and an equal number of sculptures. It was devastating stuff—I'm talking master works, absolutely stunning portraits such as I have never seen before by any painter."
She put down her tools, folded her arms across her chest, fixed me with a penetrating gaze and
asked in a tight little voice, "What are you trying to do to me? You wander in here off the street and just take over the place, follow me around like a puppy dog and stand in my face while I'm trying to work; then you tell outrageous lies to the police and make me look like some kind of jerk—now you're telling me..."
I had to know the truth, so I told her, "You forgot to mention that I also made love to you on the beach."
We had a stare-down over that one. Lasted for, I guess, twenty seconds or so. She had to have seen the truth in my eyes. Finally she dropped the defiant gaze and dropped her shoulders and said very softly, "Damn it."
I asked, "Is it becoming more and more common, these lapses of memory?"
The voice was dulled as she replied, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you do. You suffer memory gaps. You find your
self here, and don't know how you got here; there, and don't recall going there or why. You don't remember screwing my brains out on the beach yesterday afternoon, don't remember dinner and partying last night, don't remember showing me your portrait gallery at midnight, don't remember—"
"Okay, okay, stop it!"
I said, "Something of a nightmare, isn't it."
That broke her. She turned away from me with tears in the eyes and marched to the window; stood there arms folded and staring broodingly out to sea. I went over and hugged her from behind, held onto her, told her, "That's why I'm here, Francesca. Valentinius asked me to come and help you. I want to do that. But you—"
"How could he know?" she asked in the small voice. "I've seen him only twice, and that was...some time ago."
I said, "Yes, but he sees you. Every day."
She shivered in my light embrace, turned her face into my shoulder, whispered, "Who is he?"
I whispered back, "I think he may be your guardian angel."
That lovely head dropped and the shoulders began to quiver. I thought at first that she was crying. But she was laughing. Laughing.
I said, "Is that so funny?"
Francesca extricated herself from my grasp and turned about to look at me as she replied, "I thought I was the crazy one. But—sorry, I have to say this—if one of us is crazy, it is not me, Mr. Ford."
I reminded her, "But a man is dead, you see. In fact,
Miss Amalie, since I arrived here yesterday, three men closely connected to this house have died. If you cannot get your act together enough to offer a coherent account of yourself to the police, then you may be in very real trouble."
She gave me a sober inspection then smiled and replied, "Then let my guardian angel handle it."
I told her, "I'm his proxy." I hauled out the power of attorney, gave it to her.
She quickly scanned it and gave it back, said in a vague voice, "I didn't know angels needed proxies."
"Me neither, but maybe sometimes they do. Look, I don't know who Valentinius is. But I do believe that you could be in more danger already than any cop could throw at you. And I do sincerely believe that is why I am here."
I gave her a brief sketch of my "professional" background, then related my encounter with Valentinius at Malibu. She let me talk, offering no comments and requesting no elaboration beyond what I gave her. When I had given her all that I intended to give, she asked me, "So what kind of danger do you think I'm in?"
So I let her have it, directly and bluntly: "Cohabitation danger, possibly. Or, beyond that, total takeover. You are presently providing bodily expression for two distinct personalities. Both have artistic talent—one just beginning to realize herself, the other no less than a master. I have seen the work of both. The master had her show last night. It was a wow. Better than what I see here today, but that difference is very subtle; the master is present also in the student, and that presence is unmistakable. But you may be moving toward total assimilation. That worries me, and I think we need to work on it."
The lady was plainly frightened. "What does that mean: total assimilation?"
I explained, "Permanent loss of the student."
"You mean... "
"Uh huh. She's taking you over, kid."
It was not a total buy. Francesca was scared, yes— wouldn't you be?—but after all I am not certified for medical diagnoses and the lady hardly knew me. I can be persuasive though when I need to be—so at least I had her attention to the extent that she was not willing to simply shrug the whole thing off and walk away. She admitted to the lapses of memory and told me that indeed they seemed to be occurring more and more frequently.
She also talked of her background—born and raised in California, Austrian ancestry, studied at CalArts but left without graduating—couldn't bend herself to the will of her instructors—worked briefly at a day-care center, then as a cocktail waitress while studying days under a private art teacher, gravitated to Laguna along the art trail.
She had talked a local restaurateur into hanging several of her paintings on his walls, and one day a man came to see her about commissioning a portrait. The man was Valentinius. One thing led to another—weird things—and she found herself "transported bag and baggage" to Pointe House. She had not seen her benefactor since.
Instead of being fired up over this apparent leap of fortune, Francesca had at first found it difficult to concentrate on her work at Pointe House. She'd taken to long sojourns on the beach, idle daydreaming, killing time. Then she became interested in yoga, shortly thereafter discovering a video tape on postures and breathing exercises, and Hai Tsu began instructing her in various Taoist disciplines.
The daydreaming evolved into meditation techniques and yogic purifications. There were periods of confusion with out of body experiences and dreamlike trance states. And she began to disremember, a purification technique that came to her in a dream, through which she encouraged replacement of real memories by "dream-stuff."
But Francesca had not thought of herself as being in trouble. She realized that she had become different but she greeted the change as growth and self-realization. The memory lapses were only vaguely troubling; she dismissed them as preoccupation, which was easy to do once she again became fired up over her work and was spending long hours in the studio.
Four weeks before my arrival at Pointe House, Valentinius contacted her by telephone and told her that he'd arranged an "important" exhibition of her work, that she had six weeks to prepare for it. She did not at that time have a single work that she considered worthy of exhibition, so she threw herself into the challenge with renewed vigor—often working eighteen to twenty hours a day in her studio—usually so lost in the work that day blended unnoticeably into night and, frequently, consciousness into unconsciousness in baffling patterns that found her waking up while walking across the room or strolling along the beach.
It was a classic pattern, in my freaky world.
And the more Francesca talked, the more convinced I became that she was definitely in trouble.
I guess she could read my reactions because also the more she talked the more troubled she became.
We ended up by taking the elevator to the beach where she could "let the salt air cool my brain" while we walked and talked. She showed me a wind cave in the rocks, accessible only at low tide, through which we intended to gain access to the open far side of the point, but we did not get that far.
That wind cave provided access to more than the other side of the promontory. A narrow crevice in there was bringing wind from a third direction; it caught my attention and I paused for a closer inspection; discovered a bend just inside the crevice and an opening large enough to admit a person of my size and agility—faint light just beyond and a sound like wind chimes inviting me to enter.
I looked at Francesca and Francesca looked at me. I asked her, "Shall we?"—and she replied, "Why not?"—so we accepted the invitation.
And found not my dream-state mission control center—but instead perhaps, paradise itself.
It was paradise to me, pal.
I believe it was paradise for Francesc
a too if I can take her at her word.
We made love again, this time slow and sweet and sa- vorous—and this was definitely Francesca I, the girl next door. We did it on the rocks, surrounded by sparkling tidal pools filled with life and purpose, in a high-domed chamber lit by three converging shafts of light from some
where high above—and she deliriously told me several times, "Surely I would have remembered this."
For myself, I could never forget it.
But more was involved here than she and me.
Dream state or whatever, I had been inside that chamber before... and I believed that she had too. We had been there together, in precisely the same way and with the same overpowering feeling for each other.
But I knew that we would never, ever, be there together again. Don't ask how I knew; I just knew. And I knew too that Francesca Amalie—by whatever name—was the mate that God had made for me.
Paradise, yeah; I'd found it...only to lose it perhaps forever—this time around for sure. But I did not know that yet.
Chapter Twenty-One: Contemporaries
I guess we both lost awareness of time until natural forces reimpressed it upon our romantic idyll. The cold Pacific was advancing upon us and the light from above was somewhat more muted when Francesca stirred in my arms then sat bolt upright with a concerned cry. The tide had risen and was beginning to fill the chamber with closely successive surges; already the narrow opening was under water even during the recessive ebb of the waves.
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