Chapter One Tasting the White Water (standard:Psychological fiction, 1594 words)
Author: Joe E.	Added: Apr 14 2004	Views/Reads: 3350/2182	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Chapter One is the first chapter of Tasting the White Water and is an introduction to the main characters Jack and Alex and thier quest to reach a higher level of consciousness.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

is removing bandages from my arms. I have the feeling that some world 
wide catastrophic disaster has taken place, that the world will never 
be the same again. I'm one of millions who have been injured or killed, 
I'm telling myself as the doctor completes his examination. 

"He tells me I'm free to reenter society and asks if I intend to
continue my career in education. 'No, I got to get out'a teaching. It's 
not the same any more. It's not any fun,' I answer feeling a great 
sense of relief at my decision. 

"Then, the scene shifts. I'm in some kind of large factory. It's my
first night on the new job. I'm tightening a clamp that connects two 
big black hoses. I can see this white creamy milk flowing inside the 
hoses. A trickle spills on the sleeve of my white work shirt. As I turn 
the wrench, I wonder just what my job is, and what I should do next." 

"Wow, that's a big dream," Alex exclaimed nodding his head. 

"Yea, I had a strong feeling for several days after that another
disaster like the one in Chernobyl might occur.That it's a prophetic 
dream. From the collective." 

"No, that's not a collective dream. That dream isn't about mankind. It's
about you. Some kind of disaster within your personal unconscious. 
Though, of course, there are connections with the collective. What was 
there, milk flowing through pipes? I'm sure that's from the 
collective." 

"Yea, I thought of my new job as connecting the lines where the milk is
flowing. But, I felt so strongly that hundreds of thousands of people 
were involved. That's why I think it may be some kind of premonition." 

"No, if it was from the prospective function, you would be able to pin
point specific details. There are those kind of prophetic dreams. Jung 
describes several. But, they're always in terms of the specific facts 
they predict. Your disaster is inner. You know, if you have centers 
that are developing consciousness, that would seem catastrophic to 
sleeping psychological forces. There are complexes within our 
unconscious that don't want to come to light. 

"It's a big dream, though. One you ought to work on. You know, I really
find that Fritz Perls has the best method of looking at dreams. 
Remember, he says that everything in your dream is you, some 
psychological force in your unconscious. The doctor is you, the 
stethoscope, even the pipe where the milk is flowing." Alex said as we 
returned to the truck. 

When we crossed the La Grange Bridge, Alex explained that we could put
in there, behind the narrow wooden bridge, and raft all the way to 
Waterford. Remembering that we had talked about doing just that for 
several years, I suggested that we set a definite date. "What about in 
two weeks?" 

"Sounds good to me. I have a patient who has a two-man canoe. I think he
might just let me borrow it. I'd just as soon go down in a canoe." 

"I'd rather take a canoe," I noted, picturing a couple trappers on the
Delaware. 

"You know, that's about the only way I haven't seen the Tuolumne, from a
canoe. Its really played a major part in my life the last ten years. 
Even before that, when we were still in the Bay Area, I started to fish 
her. I've covered every foot, from her source in the high Sierra all 
the way down to Modesto. Only fifty years ago they were taking salmon 
out that weighed forty pounds. One of the top rated trout rivers in the 
world before they built the dams." Alex told me. 

He suggested that I check around to see if I could borrow a canoe also,
just in case. We decided that if we came up empty handed, we'd rent 
one. 

Back then; I didn't argue with Alex's contention that the important
question is really what is it that a man can be in life. But, today, 
some ten years later, as I question the worth of my writing for the 
millionth time, I wonder. There is a very fine line between being a 
writer and wanting to be a writer. For years, I was a "wanna be 
writer." I dreamed about being a writer, and never wrote a word. The 
act of writing is in the present moment. It is a doing, an act of 
transcribing words. When one is in the act of writing, is one a writer, 
then? Does doing lead to being? And, when one discontinues the act of 
writing, is one a non-writer? Of course, Henry Miller said that when 
the muse was in, he never stopped writing. At the dinner table, making 
love, riding his bike, he was writing. The act of writing is more than 
putting words to paper isn't it? 

Even back then, I realized how difficult the question. What is it that a
man is sent down from a star to do? It is so easy to be carried away by 
illusion, by Imaginary I. And yet, if we don't follow our bliss, our 
life is meaningless, and empty. Just to be a conscious man? Is that all 
God asks of one? Instead of being a writer, just being a more conscious 
man? 


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