April 30, 2017

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Steve has turned, once again, to editing his novelette on our life together in the early 19th century. He is waiting for microfilm of the newspaper we contributed to, then, to be digitized, which may take a week or two.

This is quite emotional for him, although the emotions sneak up on him unawares, after he has been writing. I, of course, remember everything, looking over his shoulder; and I prompt him inwardly with insights. For example, he knew that one day, when he was at the printer's office working on his short-lived newspaper, I was worried about him. It was getting late, I had our dinner prepared (what little we had at that time), but no Mathew. When he arrived, he told me he had been detained by "bores." Steve knows this much from a parody Mathew wrote of the event years later, in play form. But as Steve was editing this portion, and looking back over the wording of the play, it came to him suddenly that the "bore" had been trying to convince Matt to sell him a share of the paper. That would have made it financially viable; but Matt would have had to run the fellow's business ads for free. Worse yet, he would want editorial control over the paper, which was the real point of the offer. He would dampen down Mathew's anti-slavery fervor, if he had that collar on him.

Matt dismissed the offer out-of-hand. He would never sell out to anyone. And this is precisely the way Steve is, today. He will not sell out one inch; and this is why our work isn't financially viable, just the same as in the 1800's.

I (or Steve) could go on about this at length, but that is enough. Let those with ears to hear, hear.

So, having suddenly been confronted with three people he admired, turning on him, as it were--refusing to believe him (which is the same thing)--Steve is feeling a little down. But I have told him--and you--that our work will be properly appreciated by a future generation. Only if some prominent figure took Steve's part now, publicly, could he have a brief burst of notoriety. But such a person would have to have a vested interest in it. He, or she, would have to personally gain from it, somehow, in order to take such a risk. But see what I have done to him--if anyone supports Steve's rigorous study of reincarnation, they find themselves supporting a person who claims to have an invisible wife of seven years! No-one wants to come directly into the "line of fire" like that. I have done it to him, again. I was a liability for his business in the 1830's, and I have become a liability for him, now.

But this is what he wants. He refuses to be ashamed of me. And thus he honors me as few men have honored their woman, on earth.

That means this work we are doing has power, and continues to build power. Remember that there is potential energy, and kinetic energy. Potential energy is power; kinetic energy is dissipation. Potential power is far less impressive to onlookers, than it is in the active phase. The vast, still lake holds power--but one doesn't see it, until it cascades down the mountain-side.

That is it--that is all I am giving Steve to write. Poor Steve, he is now left feeling that we should wrap this up!

There is one more thing I could add--tomorrow is May Day. Early on, through telepathic impressions, I gave him to understand that he proposed to me--or in that day, one would "declare" one's love--on May Day, 1836, three months before we eloped. I gave him an impression of the circumstances, and he filled in the rest--a moonlight proposal on the banks of the wide Merrimack River. Later, he checked to see if there was moonlight on May 1, 1836--it was a full moon. It even showed up in one of Steve's regression sessions--the hypnotist asked him what were the two happiest events of that lifetime, and one of them was "When my wife accepted my proposal" (the other being when something big was published). He remembered feeling astonished; he said he had his "That's okay, I understand" speech all prepared, but he was speechless when I accepted, because he wasn't prepared for that! (I, meanwhile, had had my heart fixed on him since I started tutoring him, when I was 14 and he was 18. So he needn't have been so surprised, even if he hadn't been able to make his fortune in the world, which was supposed to have been a parental condition of his asking me.)

Still later, Steve found a humorous poem Matherw had written about this experience some years after I passed. Was the ending the way it really happened? Don't expect strict literalism from Mathew! But I am saying, yes...sort of... After some initial reluctance, Steve also decided there must have been something like that, which Mathew duly exaggerated for his poem, and so he has written it in to the novelette, as well (minus the toad, the extreme accident, and correcting the omission of my accepting his proposal!). Do you like to see the things Matt wrote about us? We'll end with this--if poetry or "old writing" is not to your taste, you can stop reading, here. I won't mind...I know people of this era have short attention spans ;-).

Did you ever, kind friend, on a mid-summer’s night,
When the full harvest moon shone forth clearly and bright,
And the sun his head laid on the rich gorgeous breast
Of a bright western cloud had sunk slowly to rest,
And the moon had her face with a fleecy cloud wiped
When nightengales chorussed, and big bull-frogs piped,
And the bright Borealis her gleams had set forth,
And balanced and chassied across the blue north,
And giddily o’er the “empyrean” danced,
While crickets chirped faintly, and fire flies glanced.
And the water bugs’ buzzing arose from the brook,
And each constellation his wonted place took,
In the star spangled firmament glowing above,
While musical cats warbled soft lays of love,
And all nature seemed hushed in the depths of repose,
Like a sleeping dorbug in a large cabbage-rose.—
Did you ever, I say, on a night like to this,
Sally forth for a walk with some beautiful Miss,
That is, some particular fair one, I mean,
In your eyes the most lovely, that ever was seen,
Some maiden, whom you’d give your eye-teeth to woo,
Whom you think about, dream of and write verses to,
Whose image now haunts you, in action grotesque,
Peers from under the ledger, or over the desk,
Makes you err in your footings, miscalculate bills,
And your poor helpless mind with queer fantasies fills,
Makes you sign business letters, “Sophia,” or “Sue,”
And perpetrate all those absurdities, too,
Which weak love-sick youths are so apt to commit,
In short, makes your brains for the least thing unfit;—
Did you e’er, I repeat, for the third time at least,
While you suffered your eyes on her beauties to feast,
Resolved, as you traversed the side of a ditch,
Your courage screwed up to the highest safe pitch,
That in one short moment your fate you would know,
And learn from those fair lips, your weal or your woe.
Did you e’er, I say for the last time, I declare,
As you ‘gan for your terrific task to prepare,
And collecting your energies, came to a stop,
Resolved the momentous inquiry to pop,
And screwing your face twixt a sneeze and a pout,
When just as you blundered your love story out,
Feeling, looking and acting as green as can be,
And gracefully backing, to fall on your knee,
While the feeling of love seemed your senses to fuddle,
Step slap on a toad, and fall splash in a puddle,
Stain your visage with filth, your probosis with blood,
And your hat in the gutter, your cane in the mud,
And more than all this, to behold on that face,
Where lately you saw every possible grace,
On those lips, where you hoped love’s rich draughts to quaff
First a smile, then a giggle and lastly a laugh,
Which no sense of propriety e’er could keep down,
No good breeding stifle, or etiquette frown.
Into decent observance of usual rules,
But maintained their positions as stiffly as mules?
If in such a position you e’er chance to be,
You can sympathise, then, gentle reader with me.

Love to each and all,
Abby