Chapter Three. Part III.

Chapter Three. Part III

We began our journey into the “Ouija world”  exactly three months ago and the surprises were still coming thick and fast. Perhaps my behaviour constituted some kind of addiction in the way I’d spend a large part of my daytime hours thinking only of the sessions that would follow at night. 

Looking through my notes now, from Monday 21st to Monday 28th of February 1994, I can see that we got the board out for no fewer than five of those eight evenings, and these would be sessions that could last up to four, maybe five hours. We wouldn’t get to bed much before 2 a.m., and consequently, though the element of sheer tiredness pervaded my daylight hours, it was easy for me to push that tiredness to one side and let the sense of “journey” carry me. 

As I sift through these early, and often scribbled pages, the difficulty I later had in arranging them into accurate chronological order is apparent; I hadn’t placed a date on some of them (during the sessions), and so later had to try and match things like the colour of ink and the writing characteristics in an effort to locate the correct position amongst the pages that were dated, some of which even had exact day/night times written on them. 

Although this ordering process was ultimately not all that important, it would serve to illustrate–even if only a little–the way in which the topics of conversation gradually developed. 

It wasn’t long though before making a note of the date at the top of each starting page had become part of the routine. This “dating” issue only applies to those first few months, and consequently relates to just a handful of pages in the original one of four folders that sit here on my shelf. These folders contain, collectively, more than four hundred A4 sheets, some of which have been written quite neatly, but that mostly have the appearance of a grammatical bomb site. 

I’ve never been the neatest hand-writer, but with so many things taking place simultaneously–trying to keep the right hand resting on a glass which was often moving at speed; a left hand writing down whatever Carol spoke (or more often-than-not shouted at me); my eyes trying their futile best to watch everything that was going on; a brain which compulsively pre-empted the outcome of every sentence; pondering the meaning of everything that was being spelt out; and finally, thinking of what question I would ask next – neatness was not going to happen unless by accident. 

Actually, it wasn’t always so frantic, there was the fair share of contacts whose energy seemed low, and whose words were laboured. When the glass moves at such a slow speed, for any onlooker it would be an easy and natural assumption to make that the entire process was being deliberately orchestrated by us - the mortals taking part. 

Yes, it’s a natural thing to think, but believe me - and I’m speaking as a born sceptic - I assure you, it’s not at all that straightforward, and I will explain why.

TBC ...