March 26, 2017


Last time I talked about real, and really real, and really, really real. We are going to talk today about really, really real.

Now, this isn't quite where Steve was going with this, but I'm giving it to him this way. This is how I work. I knew, of course, these intimacies between me and Mathew (when Steve was Mathew, for those of you who may be new, in the 1830's). We would play with our identities, you see. I used to do that as a teenager, because I was so confused (and because I wanted to be someone that was worthy of being liked and admired, instead of someone whom everybody shunned because she was different.) But with Matt, we played because it was fun! I was free, with him. He accepted everything about me. It was so freeing! I went from hell to heaven, in that relationship--and we had a Society of Two.

So, anyway, when it came time to answer this buffoon in the paper, who wrote as though he was a great scholar, but didn't know his....well, you know, making us Abolitionists out to be fanatics, and his group out to be the real friends of the slave (they wanted gradual emancipation, you know, the convenient kind for everybody who was making large profits off them), well, we knew we had to respond, in the paper, to that. We tore their arguments to shreds, just as Steve has described me doing at the dinner table on occasion. And we had to adopt pseudonyms, because it was a small town, but we were too young to be worldly-wise. So we made up a fun one, which symbolized each of us. This idiot was writing as "Alpha & Beta"--Steve can't quite get what that means, but suffice it to say he thought he was some pumpkins (one of our favorite expressions), being in college. So we, also, had to adopt Greek letters, but which letters? We settled on "Kappa, Lambda & Mu," because each of them represented something. Steve, seeing this, and recognizing the style of writing, immediately knew to look them up and see what they meant, and I have been over that, before. A "kappa" is a mythological water sprite in Japanese lore. And not just any water sprite--this one you have to be a bit careful about. It is mischievous, and it is perhaps even a bit on the dangerous side. It is a free spirit, no doubt about it. And it is quite apart from humankind. It is entirely at home in the water--it is, in fact, a river sprite.

I grew up on the Merrimack River, in East Haverhill, Mass. And here, I would like for Steve to find a picture of that river. It will only take him a minute, but I will "prompt" him as to which one I like, best.

There, that is the one I want. This will give you an idea. How beautiful!

But I was a good swimmer, and in the water, I was free. I was free from all condemnation, all obligations to socialize, and obviously I was quite competent there. None could catch me. I was alone, I was free with my thoughts and my perceptions, and I didn't have to conform to anybody's expectations. So I was a "river sprite."

Now, some few of you have seen my short stories. But for those of you who haven't, some quick explanation is in order. Steve found, to make a long story short, that as Mathew, he had edited some of my plays and stories for publication, and submitted them about nine years after I died, in late 1849/early 1850. The first one was signed with my maiden initials, "A.P.," meaning, this is what Mathew chose to submit them under. And he really fooled the editor into thinking they were being submitted by a contemporary "A.P.," perhaps even a man. Above the second story, as a lead-in, Mathew placed a stanza from a poem in tribute to me. Not his poem, one he had chosen, because it reminded him of me.

The traditionally religious girls of my hometown thought I was a heretic, and could never be "saved," you see. Mathew knew better. So when he read these lines, they spoke so much of me--the river sprite--that he had to place them here, before my second story, even though the relevance to the story was a bit tenuous. Here are the lines:

"Our father says that what before
We told you was not right;
For God has grace enough in store
To save a Water Sprite."

Steve was busy proofreading last night, and he got to the point where he presents my second story, and this time he is reading all the quotes, you see, as well as the text. When he came to this, and read the words "Water Sprite" at the end of the poem, it all clicked into place. But these experiences of receiving evidence, from me, are just sort of matter-of-fact, for him. "Oh, there it is. Okay." It is only later that the full import of it dawns on him, the full weight.

Because this means we really (really) were writing together as "Kappa" and "Lambda," with our son proudly present as "Mu." It means a whole tapestry of other things Steve has speculated about, and felt from me, are also true--really, really, really true.

So Steve has been pestering me for realness, i.e., for tangible contact. But it isn't that easy. The best way I can work, is not to physically manifest to him, but by signs. Steve is getting this all jumbled, out of order, but last night he asked me, "In what sense are you with me? Is it like telepathic contact, where you are a long way away, but our minds are connected, like a telephone? Or are you actually geographically present in this room with me? I indicated the latter, and then I gave him the thought-impression, that it is like light on a higher frequency than can be perceived by the human eye. It is there, alright, but because you can't perceive that frequency, you don't see it.

And then, as sometimes happens, while Steve is petting his cat, Gwendolyn, leaning back in his recliner, the cat gazes up over his head for quite some time. There is nothing there, dears. No pictures, no bugs--only me, at a frequency which the cat can just make out. Just an outline, or a shimmering, like heat waves bouncing off a hot car hood, is all she sees. But enough to catch her interest. So Steve asks me, "Is it true that you float around? I think I would find that a bit unnerving, at first." And I gave him the thought-impression, that it is like the astronauts in space, who have no use for gravity and get along quite fine without it, so that floating becomes natural, to them.

Steve is thinking, now, that those psychics who claim to be able to see "dead people" have never, to his recollection, mentioned that they are not always on the ground! Steve has felt, perhaps from me, that someone who is psychic, i.e., professionally, may be reading, or may have read, this journal. So for them, I ask you--when you see us, are we always "bound to the ground"? Why should we do that? They don't insist that the astronauts in the international space station wear magnetic sole boots so as to always "look normal," do they? Why should we? But, you see, I am a rebel now, just as I was when I was "kappa." People who appear to you, on earth, don't want to startle you. They know that it might make you a bit nervous if we were floating around, so they make an effort to figure out where horizontal is, and conform to that. I'm giving Steve to feel that it is an effort--kind of like combing your hair in the mirror, or patting your head and rubbing your belly simultaneously. But we'll (speaking of all of us) do that for you. As for us, we prefer to be free.

So, since Steve can't see me, I float around him when I'm with him. Often, over his shoulder. And this is why the cat stares there.

It is all real. There is very, very little that Steve has made up. Even he would be shocked to realize just how accurate his perceptions have been. This is real channeling. I really do have the deep affection and concern for you, my readers, that I appear to have in these journal letters. I really am trying to help you overcome the monster, grief, which turns out to be a simple mistake. Your loved one didn't die. That is really, really, really true, just as I said it. He or she just shed their skin, that's all. Don't weep. That isn't real. This is. The one you love is quite alive, thank-you-very-much! Just, now, on a frequency you can't so easily see, touch, taste, hear or feel. But the heart can perceive the heart where love is the sacred "water" flowing between them. (Steve is trying to get my words.) The heart can be raised to the pitch where communication is possible. And this communication, in the heart, can be articulate. I stress this. Learn that language. This is not flowery poetic talk. This is literal. Learn the language that, from time immemorial, has preceded words. Learn the language that words only approximate, second-hand. Learn the original language.

You and your lover are sitting up, making love, slowly, tantric style (we did this). You are feeling the swelling waves of energy, and you look deep into each other's eyes. Do you need words? Well, do you? And is something being conveyed, there, something real? Don't be shocked at me. I am a kappa, after all! But, answer me this--was real communication happening there? Or was it just "serotonin" and imagination?

Bosh! on serotonin and imagination... I am telling you this, that you can still do this, now. You can still reach out, heart-to-heart, and communicate, every bit as tangibly, if you raise your vibration rate. And what is the royal method, the simple and natural method, of raising the vibration rate? Love. This is where mothers, and soul-mates, both have the edge on everybody else, you see. A mother's love for her child, and a soul-mate's love for her mate, is so pure, that it can easily raise to that level where real heart-to-heart communication can take place.

This is real. This is just for you, who can understand it. Don't weep, dear. The best is yet to come.

My love and encouragement specifically to the one for whom this is meant,

P.S. I must open this up again, on a very different note. I am with Steve, during the day, sometimes, when he doesn't know it. (I have his express permission.) So he happened to catch a bit of the movie, "Back to the Future"; and he could feel just how much, when he was Mathew, he would have appreciated Christopher Lloyd's characterization of a "mad scientist"--the wild look of distraction, when a thought of genuis has suddenly occurred to him. I could just see Mathew's praise of this comic, had he been of his time. But we must close with an image of Lloyd, in tribute: