. My physical
surroundings are duplicated exactly in all my portraits, just as Aunt
Matilda's are in the portrait of her that hangs on my study wall. She is
the invariant of each of her iconic Mantrams and her surroundings are
the variables that enter and leave the screen. I am the invariant in my
own portraits, wherever they are. So, except for the slight _twist_ in
my mind that takes place when I _shift_, that I have learned to
recognize from practice in front of my "mirror" each morning when I
shave, and except for the portrait of Aunt Matilda, I would never be
able to suspect what happens.

If Lana had taken my picture without my knowing it and I had never seen
one of her collection of portraits, nor ever heard of an iconic Mantram,
I would have absolutely nothing to go on to suspect the truth that I
know. Except for one thing.

I don't quite know how to explain it, except that I must actually
transfer to one of my portraits, and, transferring, I am more real
than--what shall I call it?--the photographic reproduction of my real
surroundings. Then, sometimes, the photographic reproduction, the iconic
illusion, that is my environment when I am _in_ one of the portraits of
me, fades just enough so that I can look "out" into the reality where my
portrait hangs, and see, and even hear the _watchers_, as ghosts in my
solid "reality."

* * * * *

Quite often I can only hear them, and then they are voices out of
nowhere, sometimes addressing me directly, just as often talking to one
another and ignoring my _presence_. But when I can see them too, they
appear as ghostly but sharply clear visions that seem to be present in
my solid-looking environment. There, but somewhat transparent.

I have often seen and talked to Lana in this manner, in her far-off
world, where I am part of her private collection. In fact, I can almost
always tell when I _shift_ to my portrait in her gallery, because I am
suddenly exhilarated and remain so until I shift back, or to some other
portrait. That is so even when she is not there but out on one of her
many photographic expeditions.

When she is there, and is watching me, and my thoughts are quiet and my
mind receptive, she becomes visible. A ghost in my study, or the lab
where I work, or--if I am asleep--in my dreams. Like an angel, or a
goddess. And we talk.

* * * * *

Back in the physical reality, of course, no one else c