July 10, 2017

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Today is the day that followers of our Guru would normally keep silence all day, in commemoration of his having kept silence most of his life. But this is hardly practical for Steve, as a caretaker for someone with severe dementia; and it isn't practical for me in any case, since we don't talk, except through telepathy. That doesn't take effort, so it's not something we can stop doing. We can stop listening, which we do as a matter of politeness. Steve was asking me the other day, "If everything there is made through thought, and it does, in fact, exist for other people to see and encounter for however long it lasts, then do other people undo what you've done?" I gave him the impression that this, also, is a matter of etiquette, or just common-sense respect. It's hard to explain, in terms of just how literally you can take the idea of "geography," and transplant it to the astral realm. Do you know how, in a dream, you have a setting that things take place it, but it is all relative to the dream? Well, it's a little like that, here, except that like-minded people can dream together, by agreement, as it were. Since like-minded people find themselves together, being "on the same wavelength," they find little difficulty in co-creating their environs. But it is still subjective for each person.

I gave Steve a funny example, once. We all, in my area, like the 1800's as a time-period, and we like small towns. So we have a small town, and as all small towns must have a town square, so we too thought it would be fitting to have one. And since all town squares (or many of them) have a clock tower, we, also--or several of us--wanted a clock tower. But here, there is only subjective time; so while there was a clock tower for everyone, it showed a different time for each resident! Finally, those who wanted it saw the light and agreed the idea wasn't really working, here.

Now, I gave Steve that fleeting impression--did he get it right, or did he make it up? You be the judge.

But I have shared with him, intimately, as husband and wife, that there are some funny, quirky things about this place. It may be heaven, as they say, but it is not exactly perfect. Sometimes (I am giving Steve the impression) you have to bang on the set to get it to work right; and this is mostly because of the difficulty in getting everybody to agree, even people in your own region. Another quirky thing I told him about the astral world, is that you can't get a large number of people to all agree to show up to a public event at the same time. Or, you can, but it often fails. People take as long as they need or want to, absorbing themselves in whatever matter is at hand. The only way to get a large crowd of people for a talk or a concert, here, is by mass mutual interest of the same degree. Otherwise, if it is not so much of importance to these people, as it is to those people, then, these people are likely to get absorbed in something more important to them, and not show. Many a big planned event, which was very important to those people, has been a dud for this reason ;-)

Have you ever heard such things? Steve hasn't read them anywhere, and it makes him wonder if he's making it up. But, we proceed.

Now, Steve has found enough clues about our earthly relationship--mostly, poetry, some of it from our earliest years--to have formed a pretty accurate idea of what it was really like. That means, the good with the bad, including our spats! And my quirks. He had in mind for me to share these things; but why would I do that??? Seriously, I am a bit shy about sharing these things, because Mathew may have sincerely seen me as a "dauphine" and a "magical girl," but I am telling him, I had quirks. And he is starting to see these, and his own quirks, and what an interesting couple we would have made, together, in these clues and early poems.

Where to begin...well, we were opposite as we could be, and yet, we were the only ones in the whole world who really understood each other. We were birds of a feather, and yet opposite. He was tall, I was short. His family was poor, mine was rich. His was Quaker, mine was French Catholic (or so Steve surmises). I was cultured (if iconoclastic, privately); he was rustic. I was deeply and rather self-consciously spiritual; he was a "bad boy," meaning, a mischievous fellow with a heart of gold, who was often led astray by hanging out with the wrong friends. I never did anything wrong; he was always doing something wrong. He was always making jokes of everything; I was serious. I ate properly, with knife and fork, from china; he held his pewter plate in his lap, and if any crumbs fell on his shirt, he would pick them off and eat them! Oh, did I have my work cut out for me (and so did he).

Mostly, he was boyish, and brilliant, and enthusiastic, and irreverent--everything I secretly wished I could be (except we were both brilliant). I was a tomboy and elegant at the same time (I had both sides, being a Gemini); I was eccentric, and yet cultured; and in his eyes, I was beautiful. But when I first started tutoring him, I was too young. We were impossible for each other. He could never hope to win an upper-class girl like me, and besides, I was too young for it to be decent to have such thoughts about me. Because he really was a decent fellow. He was the town clown, beloved by all; always cutting up, telling stories, and such. I was a wallflower (being petite, I wanted to avoid too much attention, because I was picked on by the hefty local farm girls). How could I ever hope to catch his eye?

But I did, I did. Once I came of age, at 16, and had my "coming out" party, I--Steve wants to say, "pulled out all the stops," but he can feel that I want him to write a different expression. What is it...now, this is where Steve's training in trying to recapture his dreams, when he first wakes up in the morning, should pay off, but it isn't, not this time. It should pop into his mind, the phrase I want him to use...it's not something that is used so much, today, so it's harder for him to get.

I went whole hog! I used every device known to (proper) womanhood, to snare him. Still, he seemed unaffected--but he was plenty affected! He just didn't think he had any right to "presume," as e.e. cummings wrote as "J. Alfred Prufrock." I bared my shoulders; I went barefoot, which I could get away with because I was young (a big deal in that era, to see the feet and ankles of one's beloved); I allowed myself to be rescued, when "drowning" after "accidentally" falling from a rowboat in a little pond (ridiculous, since I regularly swam in the wide Merrimack River--but men aren't too smart when it comes to these things); I made "sheep's eyes," I invited him to sit up with me in the gazebo swing. And do you know what Steve remembers of that? We have Mathew's writing of the sounds of the crickets, and birds, and the beautiful river--but what Steve remembers is just how close my right breast was to him, as I sat on his left--"so close, and yet so far"!

Well, it went on like that for awhile, but not too long, because Matt wrote me a "do you or do you not?" poem--quite touching. And we couldn't stop "touching" after that :-).

And we got caught, and Matt had to go prove himself worthy of me (a ploy by my father to get us apart, so that I would presumably forget him, which didn't work), and so-on. Steve has pretty-much pieced together the whole story. But what were our spats about?

He went to New York to pursue his career, both in the shoe manufacturing business (he was a salesman there for his rich partner in our home town, his best friend--and not a very good influence, I might add), and he also began reporting for a newspaper there, which turned out to be his real career. I was not thrilled about him living in New York City. I knew how wild he was, and he was too easily-influenced, and very naive despite his grown-up ways. This was going to be trouble, I felt, but I prayed and I hung on. Finally, after over a year, he came home for my birthday! And I thought he had come to stay, but his friend made him an official partner in the business, to trick him into continuing to work for him (it was mostly in name, only--Steve hadn't entirely figured all this out yet, that I am telling you, here). So he went back, and I was very angry and upset about it--so much so, that I tried to make an ultimatum out of it. He went anyway--but this gave me the opportunity to see just how much he cared, because he wrote me the following poem:

FROM A SENTIMENTAL SWAIN TO A FICKLE MISTRESS.

Oh do not turn thy face away,
Sweet lady, dear from me:
Soon, soon, alas! must end my day
If I thy phiz don't see.

In thy soft beams I live alive,
From them I draw my light,
And whist they brightly on me shone,
As seem'd that all was bright.

But now a dismal cloud appears
To darken o'er my sky;
My bosom heaves with restless fears—
Oh my! oh my! oh my!

(We will insert it later--I want him to keep channeling, while he has a strong connection.)

You see, Matt was clueless. I could tell he really didn't get it. He was clueless about women, and he was clueless about what had made me angry. So I had to forgive him, of course. He meant no harm. He had swallowed his friend's "bait" hook, line and sinker--being now, as he thought, a full partner, he would be able to ask for my hand. I realized that that was why he insisted on returning. And had it been a real offer, a real square partnership, he would have been right about it, I suppose.

The second spat we have on record, was fashioned by Mathew into a parody of a play, showing, ostensibly, how not to write them. But he embedded a real, actual, serious event from our life together--this is years after I had passed--into it. And then, a brief reference to my death and funeral, at the end. But the spat itself, was over some breakfast catfish.

That's right, catfish. You see, I had grown up privileged. But I was trying very, very, very hard to be a good wife to a merchant, who was struggling in the city of Portland, Maine. I didn't like big cities (though Portland was charming, as cities go). I wasn't accustomed to being poor. And it was wearing on me, so one day I sweetly asked Matt--not telling him, of course, what it signified, to me--would he please forgo the cheap perch for tomorrow's breakfast, and splurge for some catfish, instead? He casually promised, and my mouth watered all day in anticipation of my treat. My housework was much easier that day!

Well, the next morning he brought perch, as usual. Steve doesn't know why--probably, Mathew simply forgot about it and did what he was accustomed to doing, being a creature of habit (as his mind was occupied elsewhere). But I hit the ceiling. In the mock play, Mathew has me immediately swooning and dying! But then he goes to my funeral--my real funeral--even though the audience thinks it is all in jest, still. That was how Mathew dealt with grief--he applied his best emotional defense, humor, to it. This is what you see in the poem, "The Raven," which is falsely attributed to Edgar Allan Poe. That poem was written for me.*

Anyway, those were the two spats that Steve has found evidence for. That, and jealousy, but perhaps we won't get into that, today. We were both jealous-natured, but we had no intention of ever cheating on each other. What would happen, as I've shared before, is that Matt liked to try out his comic material on anyone who would listen, and unfortunately, that included pretty girls who were more interested in his looks than in his humor. I could see it clearly, but he was too naive; and he would pooh-pooh my objections (knowing that he was being faithful). I would get so jealous, that I couldn't stand it, and I would find a way to make him jealous to get his attentions back on me. Then he would get really jealous, thinking he had a genuine cause--which in a way he did, but in a way he didn't--because I never did anything except make him think something might be going on, or more likely, just give signals to some man I had no interest in whatever, so he would pay me enough attention to make Matt jealous.

What can I say--we were both young, and foolish. We would have ironed all that nonsense out if I had lived long enough for us to both mature a little.

Matt lived there in New York City for over a year, with us not being allowed to even correspond--all he had was my picture--and he was never unfaithful, once. I, of course, had no interest in anyone, as I was waiting for him. I eagerly looked for his writing in the newspaper he worked for, as he would sometimes embed something in it for my eyes. For a year this went on. And when he returned for my birthday, and we finally saw each other, he was going to go back again??? Sigh...

Thus it is when someone means the world to you...

Love to each and all,
Abby

*He was young when he dashed off the poem I've copied, above.