The phone rang; it was late. Who could be calling at this hour? Her agent’s voice rang in her ear, wanting to know when he could expect another chapter. A violent insomniac. But, that was part of what made him one of the best.

“look, Jerry, i told you, i’m going as fast as i can...” she protested, listening to his squawking insistence’s. It wasn’t all his fault for being such a nag; the research seemed to have spread, taken on a life of its own. But the scholar in her was louder than his threats of abandonment: it wouldn’t let her cut, it wouldn’t let her outline or summarize. Perhaps it had been stupid to attempt such a generalized topic. But historical revisionism was an important phenomena, she thought, possibly one of the most important for the twentieth century.

Reaching a temporary truce, she hung up, returning to the book. It was a kind of early medical text, a precursor to modern psychology. There were many occult references, typical of the time period. The interesting thing was that it dealt with various forms of psychosis. It was one thing for an anthropologist to dig up old, dead bones but another world entirely for the anthropologist of culture. Psychology certainly had a close relationship with historical reclamation movements, especially in the sixties when leading feminists turned to Freud and Jung as methodologists for a quasi-empirical activist reclamation of a historical minority. But the archaic language of this text dealt with astrological terms, and alchemical transformations... it was important not to interpret them too metaphorically. Rubbing her eyes, she glanced at the clock and yawned. Carefully storing the valuable book in her locked drawer, she turned the lights off. Her vision played tricks on her, a ghost image of the room floated in the blackness. She blinked, annoyed, but it wouldn’t go away until she was in the bright hallway. She bid goodnight to the guard and walked out into the cool night air.

The light wind chilled her as she walked, looking for a taxi. She shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her. The words and images of the old Italian tome whirled in her tired brain. She frowned, annoyed. Why couldn’t she find a taxi?? they were usually swarming around... she checked her watch again, she had forgotten how late it was.

She started to walk home, since it was in the direction of one of the main avenues. Even in a city of three million people, there were still side streets which lay deserted and calm, left behind by the main flow of traffic. A strangely dressed man huddled atop a vent, trying to sleep. She increased her pace. Something from the book popped into her mind, one of the passages of alchemical interpretation. She wondered if she had translated it correctly... the distraction of the senses, or was it diffusion?

The idea that historical revisionism could somehow be linked to early theories of mass hallucination rituals was very interesting to her. It might even be a good way to organize the scheme of the book, though she winced, imagining how the critics might also have a field day with it... perhaps it was too risky... if she could track down at least some more relevant material. Damn, she swore to herself, remembering. If Jennifer was this flaky, she’d have to find another intern. She watched the deadline receding into the future. Turning at the corner of Broadway, she came up short with a small yelp.

“Scuse me, ma’am, dint mean to scare ya..” a tall rag-dressed man spoke, sending a cloud of alcohol fumes at her. She said nothing, but calmly moved to step past him, when he moved in front of her, leering with a toothless grin. Damn him, she thought, he was playing with me. Turning, she surveyed the empty streets for any signs of life or cars... nothing.

“I aint gonta hurtcha ma’am, i was jus wonderin if you could spare some change for a poor bum like me, out on the streets on sucha cold night...” he said, making a puppydog face. It looked more like an experiment gone wrong, Jane thought, his crooked, gapped teeth and raw weathered face. She took a step back, searching in her purse. “thank you very much, ma’am,” he bowed as she dropped a quarter in his grimy palm. “it wont be forgotten.” she walked past him, turning to look for cars... but he wasn’t there. Confused, she looked around... the nearest building was a good twenty feet away. Shaking her head, she continued walking, keeping an ear peeled for traffic. It was surprisingly deserted out.

When she was in graduate school, shed volunteered a at a homeless shelter, helping out with the soup and paperwork. It had been an important time in her life, dealing with all the problems of a non-profit organization... large corporations all seemed to have incredibly complex criteria for giving away pennies to charity. And dealing with a group of paranoid, troubled people was no easy task in itself. Each case was different, each person had their own variety of troubles, which seemed to build and coalesce into a living, writhing impenetrable mass. The politics of difference which had arisen had many of the same problems as mid-century existentialist humanism... the difficulty was in getting everyone to work towards a common human goal, while stressing the equal importance of maintaining a variety of such goals. Only in a perfectly organized situation could the task be attempted, and, she smiled wryly to herself, remembering her past, that was playing right into the hands of the very power structures she was working to change.

Lost in her thoughts, she realized she was almost home. There was something nice about walking so late, she thought, although it wasn’t a habit she wanted to keep. It was far too dangerous in the city. Eventually, she made it to her bed, collapsing, welcoming the sleep.