A lot of my memories of the life of Philip K. Dick are of a personal nature. It’s nothing lurid or sensational (the available biographies cover plenty of that); it’s mostly just day-to-day things.
But a few of those memories did involve warm moments with his children… and whenever I think of what they had to grow up with, dealing with a father who tried so hard but couldn’t get it together, I feel awful to think for a moment that it could have been me. There is no doubt that he was a loving, caring man but he had serious shortcomings.
I still wish I could at least ask them about some of my memories, and let them know that even though I’ll never know for sure if I was their father, if I was I’m sorry.
I guess this one hurts in a different way than John’s life did. Nobody alive remembers poor old John Harris from Somerset; if not for me, his memory might have never come to the attention of anyone. But Phil’s different… nearly everyone important in his life (with a few notable exceptions) is alive and most are doing well (once again, with some notable exceptions). The trouble is, they don’t want to be found and even if I could find them, I doubt they’d give me the time of day.
For all I know, the one person I did speak to may have warned them about me and they made themselves scarce to me shortly thereafter; I’d be worried if a random stranger on the Internet said they might be my dead husband’s reincarnation too, so it would be churlish of me to hold it against her.
Still, I’m hoping by having the memories I can’t confirm yet in a public place I might eventually get someone who could give me the answers I’m looking for to take look. But it’s been so long now… I wonder if they’ll ever find this blog and even if they do, I don’t know if that would be a good thing given the rather incredible claims I’m making. I wonder sometimes if a cease and desist order will be the only thing I ever hear from Phil’s family.