September 28, 2017

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This is not optimal conditions for channeling, as Steve has been rushed all day, he is tired, and we have limited time. But let us try. He has felt me wanting to talk about this for some time.

The topic is what I was really like, meaning, as a physically-incarnate girl and young woman; how much I want Steve to understand everything, and how much trepidation I feel about him knowing everything. Isn't that true for all close relationships? And isn't that true for "long-distance" relationships? Do you think I am an angel, unaffected by such human considerations? Mathew called me an "angel," but I wasn't, not quite.

Not nearly; and it was a tall order, to live up to that perception! Because I didn't feel worthy. Now I know it was love which made me an angel, meaning, love caused Matt to see the angel in me, as I saw the angel in him.

Just this morning, Steve was typing in a story that Matt had written in January of 1832. It looked harmless enough, but it didn't seem to match Matt's history, or mine. This was very odd, because Steve knew that almost all (if not all) of Matt's stories were autobiographical in some sense. They are about me, or about him, or about us. Something that happened in our past. This was true even after he had remarried, and I would feel guilty about that, except that his family tricked him into that marriage, and he kept right on loving me and grieving for me. What could he do? He couldn't force his heart.

Once he realized he had been tricked, that second marriage was over--because it became, in his eyes, what it always had been.

And this is what happens when people cross over. Do you know the part of the Bible where Jesus answers the question about whether people marry their first wife, or second wife, etc., in heaven after all of them die? That is a phony, added-on part of the Bible. It was heavily edited and changed. What really happens, is that we are like "little children" in our freshness and gaity and zest for life; but we are adults in our minds. We are the same person, only better, more alive. And we do marry! We even have sex, of a kind, a merging of energies and minds and hearts, far superior to physical sex, which relies on physical sensations and nerves.

But when we pass over, on this side, we are to each other what we really always were, on earth. If we were really more like friends, we are friends. If the attraction was primarily physical, well, that is gone. But if we were soul-mates, we fly together and remain together, and build a life together, here.

Now, this story Steve found, explains a great deal. This is the part we don't have time for, which I would ideally like to share--i.e., with some of you. It is very personal. But I will give you one example, in lieu of the whole thing. Is that okay?

In this story, a man ruefully describes his life, from the cradle, being tone-deaf. But that is only the surface story. There is a hidden, deep story, and that is the story of me, as a 14-year-old girl. How I was a "loner"; how I was persecuted by the other girls; how I was forced to attend a class; and how the teacher was a man of low character who plagiarized my poems, selling them to various newspapers under our shared initials; and how he seduced one of the older girls, so that when he got caught, he was forced to flee to the Arkansas territory! But the part we will share, here, has to do with me, before I was made to go to the class. By the way, that teacher never touched me. I was too young to be of interest, but I kept myself aloof in any case, because I had had my eye set on Mathew from childhood, ever since he rescued me from a group of these girls who would torment me. Or so I have given Steve to feel. And by the way, this story confirms some of the things that I told Steve years ago, when we first got together, including this tormenting by the other girls. So he must believe me now, also, when I tell him that that teacher had a greasy beard, and I was repulsed by him!

So this is the part of the story which we will "decode" for you:

After I had escaped from the clutches of my nurse--heaven quiet her sonorous lungs!--the same perversity of ear followed me in the amusements of boyhood. I never, like Franklin when a child, paid too dear for the whistle, for I never purchased one at any price. Nor would I, with other boys, follow in the wake of military companies, listening to the notes of the drum and fife; but would frequently steal away from my companions to the margin of a pond, and bury myself among the rushes to gratify my strange taste for the croaking of frogs. Their discordant noise was the only sound I had any relish for--there was something in it congenial to my feelings. The various kinds of brek-e-ker--as the Greek word for the croaking of frogs admirably expresses it--from the shrill note of the tadpole to the deep intonations of the padd[?] all commingled "in one discordant whole," had more charms for my ear, than the most martial airs played upon the drum, trumpet, horn and fife. If I happened to be caught in such expeditions, as I sometimes would be, I invariably received the admonition--"Aye, aye, the toad loves to hear the croaking, but he has no ear for music."

Thus did my eccentric genius vegetate among the bullrushes, till the circumstances getting to the knowledge of my mother, like the daughter of Pharaoh, she sent her maid to bring home the young Moses, and rescue him from the dangers with which he was surrounded. My life was, indeed, preserved, but whatever of musical taste I might before have possessed, was long since drowned in the strains of the frogs, far beyond the power of resuscitation. But my mother, in order to reclaim her son from his habits, resolved on sending me to a singing school. The road thither lay by the pond, and I gathered a quantity of the rushes, which I carefully wound around my msuic-book, as a charm to preserve me from the machinations of the singing-master. As I lingered about the spot, the croakings of the frogs resounded mournfully in my ears--it was my own dirge, chaunted by the voices I loved most to hear. Rather than proceed, I half determined to drown myself in the pond; but the thought of my mother deterred me from the act--closing my ears, therefore, I hurried away as fast as I could run.

This is not the male narrator, but me. He had started out "being" the teacher; suddenly he switches, mid-stream, to being me, at age 13-14. It is not that I am tone-deaf--far from it! I am ethereal, psychic, sensitive and spiritual. I escape from the family obligations to seek solitude by one of several ponds, and one in particular (Steve checked, there are several near the site of my family home in East Haverhill, Mass.). I did love the sound of the frogs, and the insects. I loved dragonflies; I loved the bullrushes; I loved the tadpoles, and the birds, and all the creatures (except perhaps the bats, which scared me). But where the narrator is teased about loving the sounds of the frogs, because he can't hear tones in music, I was being teased for being French. That's right, "The little frog, she loves the music of the frogs, hah-hah-hah!" And where the boys threw stones at frogs in the example, these girls threw stones at me--big ones, sometimes, and once I came home with a cut over my eye! But I would go back to my beloved ponds, where I believed there were fairies and sprites waiting for me to talk to them (and there were). But where the narrator jokingly mentions that he "half determined to drown himself in the pond" because of his frustration at being tone-deaf, I actually thought very seriously of drowning myself there, and joining my sprite-friends, so that I could see them.

I was miserable, and alone. Steve knows, from the two mediums he used back in 2010, that I must have gone through some kind of public humiliation. From one of my short stories, it looks as though a local girl may have tricked me into giving a psychic reading for her sister. Being told-upon, I was hauled into court--that's right, court--and harrangued and humiliated. That is what Steve surmises from various bits of evidence he has found. I am giving him the feeling, and we have two poems in which I talk about it (thanking the two loyal people in my life for standing up for me--and they did so in court!); but he doesn't know much more about it. But I was as alone as an eccentric, sensitive, other-worldly girl could be. And these girls had made me feel so ugly (they called me a "frog" because I was French, but a "toad" because they deemed me ugly), that I could no longer believe in myself.

This goes directly to a past life, when I was stripped of my nobility and thrown into slavery. I won't say what kind of slavery. Mathew rescued me in that lifetime. He doesn't know what century or country it was. I have just given him the confirming impression of it. So once again, I am nobility, but I am mocked, and scourged, and I feel like dirt, you see.

And Matt comes along, and he is my friend. He is my older brother's friend already, and he becomes my friend, and at some point he begins spending more time with me than with my brother, even though I am four years his junior. And we are 100% simpatico. We are both spiritual, and sensitive, and too honest for Society to deal with. We are earnest, and deeply sincere, and while no-one else in the world understands us, we understand each other.

Do you know who understood Mathew, after I had gone? It is very, very, very rare to be "grokked" by anyone. It was an elderly British poet named Sam Rogers, whom Matt met when he went over there on a tour in 1851. Steve found an article Matt had written defending him, and talking about visiting with him in his old age, and no sooner had Steve looked up the photograph, than he knew him and remembered him. His deep feeling was, "This man understood me, and loved me for who I was."

Well, we were like that for each other. I have told you that Matt redeemed me. I could not believe I was beautiful; I could not believe that Matt was sincere when he called me an "angel." I had no reason to believe he would lie; and he seemed entirely sincere about everything else; but I was so down on myself, you see, by that time. I was "dirt"--I was a "toad"--how could he see me as beautiful? So once we had become intimate, one time, instead of making love, he began gently kissing every square inch of me. The clean parts and the not-so-clean parts, and everything in-between; and when he had finished, he looked deep into my eyes and told me, "You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen." Or, Steve says, something like that--he can't remember the exact words. (I remember them!)

I was his "dauphine"; I was his "magical girl." Together, we were "stars" in heaven; or, our souls were like two stars in heaven. I had picked them out, you see. (They were very close together in the sky.)

And he was my prince; my prince in the rough, whom I was washing off and cleaning up and bringing out; so that he would be able to do a great work in the world someday. I was giving him everything I had gained in my French tutored education--all the classics--and everything my mother had taught me of metaphysics, as well. I gave him everything. I gave him my body, too, once I was old enough that he didn't feel he was doing something he shouldn't. I was never shy about sex, with him. He climaxed quickly, because he was so powerfully affected by me; but I just figured it out like any puzzle. There were ways to slow him down, and speed me up, just so! And there were books with teachings about Tantra to try, and so much to explore and experiment, and it was a new land to explore with my true love and best friend. I never felt any shame about it. I had no use for shame, after being unfairly and ignorantly shamed by Society. They obviously didn't know what they were talking about, so I threw out all their ideas of shame, and started with my own. Hurting someone's feelings was shameful; lying was shameful. Giving one's word and not keeping it was shameful. Remaining stubbornly ignorant, when one didn't have to, for selfish reasons, was shameful. But exploring sex and pleasure with my beloved, was not shameful--not in the least. Nor was being creative about it.

Mathew exclaimed "vive la French" when I first pleasured him, out on a picnic--Steve thinks I have told him, it was his birthday present! But it wasn't just that I was French. It was that I knew we had been lovers in many, many, many lives. I could see some of them. We were just picking up where we left off. Why should I feel shy about it?

Well, Steve hasn't even finished his glass of prune juice (a necessity at age 63), no less the small glass of red wine for heart health, which was to have followed! And he must now start the exhausting routine of making dinner, feeding his aged mother, getting her ready for bed, and so-on, which goes non-stop from now (5:00 p.m.) until 8:30 p.m., when he drags and pulls himself up the stairs, utterly exhausted, and talks to me for awhile before bed. I give him instructions, via impression, to retain his health during this terribly stressful trial in his life. He follows them, and so far he has needed neither the doctor nor the hospital. I am permitted to give him such advice as his spouse, and his spirit guide.

That is all we have time for, today...

Oh, one thing Steve forgot, which I wanted to share. Do any of you remember me saying, that when Steve comes here, I will have a little wooden house ready for him, situated on a lake with a wooden floating dock? And that Nature will serenade us? Now you see that Steve got this right--but when he channeled that, or rather reported to you all that I had given him that impression, he had not found this story talking about how I loved to sit by the pond. So you see, our channeling is real, after all.

Love to each and all,
Abby

P.S. Steve wants to add something that Matt wrote in 1835 (the year before we married). Ostensibly it is a satire on overusing the word "exquisite" in the literature of the day--actually, it hearkens back to this very time that I've told you about. Of course he had to be clownish and coy about it. The last two paragraphs are just silly--but he has given me his own nose! (which had a bulb on the end, and which he was always quite embarrassed over). This article is also apropos of Mathew's penchant for praising me, and my constantly protesting and demurring... I should also mention that Steve has figured out, that "Juliana" was one of the names I adopted for myself, as a teenager, when I desperately wanted to be someone other than "Abby," someone elegant and beautiful (and it's true, I was short...). Okay, okay, Steve can use it--but I am embarrassed, myself... :-)

Exquisitely Exquisite..--Among all the verbal materials, used by the later novelists in the manufacture of their heroines, none perhaps have been more exquistely employed than the adjective exquisite, and its derivative adverb exquisitely. These novelists seem to have thought it impossible to describe their principal female characters, so as to render them in any wise passable, without using one or the other, or both the above words, some half a dozen times on the same page.

But this is moderate, and shows the prudent management of the writers, in not wishing to wear out a favorite word by a too frequent and common use. For our part, such is our exquisite admiration of the very free use of these terms, that we intend, in describing the heroine of a novel which we shall publish shortly, to employe them so exquisitely, that there shall be no part about her, from the crown of her foot to the sole of her head--we mean what we say--but what shall be exquisitely exquisite. For example:

Miss E. Juliana Stubshort was, at the time our story commences, just at that exquisitely interesting age, when the girl is just beginning to blossom into the full perfection of womanhood. Her exquisitely modelled form was of such exquisite finish, that an angel might have been exquisitely modelled after her. We now speak in general terms; but to come to particulars: her exquisitely small little toe was most exquisitely shaped, and adorned at the end, farthest from her heel, with an exquisitely transparent nail, which was pared and rounded into the most exquisite shape. The neighboring toes, which tapered off towards the large one like the Pandean pipes, were arranged with the most exquisite harmony; and seemed evidently to vie with one another, as well as with the little toe, in the exquisite transparency of their exquisitely pared and adjusted nails.

Her exquisitely turned ankle, which was covered with a stocking of an exquisitely azure hue, that fitted in the most exquisite manner, peeped out from beneath her exquisitely short dress, so as to exhibit its exquisite contour in the most exquisitely admirable manner. Her exquisitely rounded waist, which was most exquisitely compressed beneath the seven-horse power of exquisitely fitting corsets, was as exquisitely near being cut in two as the most exquisitely cut cutwasp, that you will meet with, rolling up mortar in a mudpuddle, on an exquisite summer's day.

Her exquisitely formed neck, which was exquisitely set just equidistant from her two exquisitely rounded shoulders, was, to judge by its exquisite whiteness and semi-transparency, the most exquisite exquisite imitation of the most exquisite alabaster that ever was wrought by the exquisite chisel of a Phidias or a Praxitiles.

Her exquisitely rounded head, that sat with exquisite grace exactly on the top of her exquisitely perfect neck, was not inferior in shape to the most exquisitely turned pumpkin that ever adorned the exquisitely-in-pumpkins fertile fields of Connecticut. Her exquisitely wide mouth opened exquisitely from ear to ear, exhibiting two exquisitely even rows of exquisite pearls, which were too exquisitely beautiful to be cast before the exquisite swine that can be found exquisitely promenading the streets of New York along with their fellow exquisites.

Her exquisitely ambitious nose, that surmounted and set off in the most exquisite manner her exquisitely ruby lips, was rounded at the end into a knob as exquisitely sloped as ever adorned the most exquisite mahogany door, that ever turned on its exquisitely musical hinges to welcome in the most exquisitely perfumed exquisite that ever trod the exquisite pavements of Broadway. Her exquisitely exquisite--but why need we enlarge? The above is sufficient to give our readers a short, but we trust, an exquisitely delightful taste of the exquisite perfections of our exquisitely angelic heroine, Miss E. Juliana Stubshort.