If I was attempting to proscelytize, I would leave yesterday's Update current for awhile, but I'm not. My article about my Guru sits half-way down my Articles page. People will find it if it is their good fortune to do so. Meanwhile, I continue to feel the urge to write.
There's a new PBS show that has, apparently, replaced the old "Nature Scene" here in South Carolina, in the 7:00 p.m. Wednesday slot, called "Weekends with Yankee." Last night, they featured a lobsterman, originally from Mass., who is also a photographer. He has a very strong eye (and/or, he takes a lot of images); but he was explaining a bit of his personal history. He grew up on the streets and had to be tough, suppressing his artistic side. The only outlet for his feelings, he said, was fighting. He found his element in lobster fishing, and the outlet for his artistic nature--which he described as "very powerful"--in photography. This fascinated me, because his temperament fit my past-life personality, Mathew Franklin Whittier--also a Massachusetts man who relocated "down East" in Portland--like a glove. Remember, I can back up everything I say, here (including what I said in the previous entry). I never "blow smoke." Let me find a comical self-description by one of Mathew's characters, Parseverance W. Spike, to give you some idea...
Trew, I haint egzactly Ethan Spike, but I'm a brother of hisn--leastways--not quite, as we had tew mothers, an' I do n't know haow many fathers. Howsever, I'm a Spike--thar's no daout about that! I feel it in me, as the praoud blood of that anshunt an' supernewmary race sarches an' circumnavigates threw my vanes. I have had a good many literary attacks, but father's most ginerally whopped me aout of 'em--but this that's onto me naow, is the hardest yet. My geenus must have vent, an' I told father so, this morning. Father, says I, it's no use, yer might jest as well try to stop the tongue of aant Jewdy Kyer, when it's fairly sot in for a run--as attempt to stop the bilin' over of raal, omittygated, natyve talent--says I! Father, I will be a litterytoor, says I! "You shan't," says he! I will says I! "Take that," says he--an' he fetched me a crack on the side of my head, that made me see more stars than is put down in the fundament.--But the permethian spark was lit in me. I was bold as a lyon! I clinched the old un--an' though he is paowerful staout--natyve talent was staouter. I licked him! I did n't let the old feller get up, till he promised I might rite one letter to the Musyum. I told Ethan abaout it, an' he says I done jest right.--Says he--"yourn is a case of parseverance under difficulties," says he. Says I--"if you'd sawn me given it to father, you'd a thought it was a case of Parseverance atop of difficulties," says I. "That ere is a pun," says he. "Show!" says I.
Here, Mathew is writing of his own youth, and at the same time, no doubt, of the Yankee character. This lobster-fisherman-photographer has a very, very strong photographic "eye," as I, myself, also have. Let me see if I can find one of his images, and I hope he won't mind me sharing it:
His name is Joel Woods, and his website is http://joelwoods.zenfolio.com/.
Okay, I've said I can back up everything I say, and I've also said I also have a strong photographic eye. Here's one of mine in a somewhat similar style:
So what I wanted to report, is finding yet another song in the 1837 songbook that I recognized. I won't repeat what I wrote on the 13th, but this is from the same book as "The May Fly." In fact, it is the song directly preceding it, but I stumbled upon it searching randomly through the book. I was just looking for any of Mathew and Abby's favorites. As I believe I remarked earlier, most of these strike me as contrived and sappy--almost as though the composer--if one wants to dignify him or her with such a term--was merely "noodling" about on the keyboard. But once in awhile one finds a true melody; and some of these seem deeply familiar. So much so, that last time, I reported actually anticipating the musical phrase.
So, anyway, I found another one. This is called "What Fairy-Like Music," and it is attributed to "J.D. Pinna." What's interesting to me is that it is about a mermaid, and the lines are:
What fairy-like music steals over the sea,
Entrancing the senses with charm'd melody;
What fairy-like music steals over the sea,
Entrancing the senses with charm'd melody;
'Tis the voice of the mermaid, that floats o'er the main, As she mingles her song with the gondolier's strain;
'Tis the voice of the mermaid, that floats o'er the main, As she mingles her song with the gondolier's strain.
Suddenly, dots are connecting all over the place. Never-mind the skeptic who says that I am looking for things that fit my story. Skeptics, meaning, cynics, can't perceive these things because their hearts are "two sizes too small," to quote Dr. Seuss. In the previous entry I touched on the subject of purity of heart. This is what people don't realize--the heart is an instrument, like a musical instrument. If you throw crud on a guitar, how well do you think it will play? So, if people have been watching cheap sex and violence all day, and then they encounter this blog, just how well do you think they will be able to perceive what I'm trying to teach, here? What will their sneering reaction to "What fairy-like music" be? So never-mind these poor people. They are doing it to themselves. They throw crud on their guitar, and then claim, "These things don't work, there is no such thing as music."
But the dots are fascinating, at least, to me.
This is not skeptic-shell-busting evidence. And this is not a sledge-hammer, it is more of a Swiss watch. Intricate. So early-on, I "knew" that Mathew would call Abby his "magical girl." I had been told in my first psychic reading (i.e., for this study) that she and Mathew had studied "black-market metaphysical books" together; and that she had been accused of witchcraft. Later, I would find a number of Abby's short stories, almost all of which include an element of the occult, including psychic readings. I also had what seemed to be a memory of her wet in the rain, and how beautiful she was that way. My second psychic reading suggests she was something of a loner, and while being from an upper-class family, was athletic. I knew she lived overlooking a large river (the Merrimack). I knew she may have been rescued by Mathew after falling out of a rowboat on a lake during a picnic outing of some kind; but then, I also knew that she had been trying to get his romantic attention for some time (having been tutoring him, and being four years younger); and that she could scheme quite cleverly when she needed to, and hence, may have fallen out of that boat on purpose to be rescued by him. Which, in turns, means she was probably a pretty good swimmer, so that she wasn't really in any danger.
Then I found her co-authoring brilliant rebuttals with Mathew, in letters to the editor, defending Abolitionism. Her signature was "Kappa," which may have signified, to her and Mathew, that she was a "river sprite." And then I found a nostalgic tribute to her as a river sprite, in Mathew's writing, years after she had passed.
Finally (though not finally, since the dots keep on connecting themselves), I remembered that when Abby was trying to contact Mathew from the astral realm, to warn him about impending disasters in his life (which subsequently did happen), she apparently engineered a sign. Now, Abby has done this with me quite a few times, and some of them stand the proof test. I won't share them, here. But in this case, Mathew is viewing a panorama of the 1851 World's Fair. He had seen it, in person, some months previously in London. The Fair, which was held in the Crystal Palace built especially for the event, was full of sculptures; but apparently Mathew had missed this one. Suddenly he was confronted with the "Nymph of Lurleiberg," a girl sitting, holding a lyre, and looking down dejectedly. The "Nymph of Lurleiberg" is, in fact, a mythical German river sprite. She reminded Mathew very much of Abby; and here, I was able to find the statue of the Nymph, and compare it with the miniature portrait I believed to be of Abby, herself. It's quite a close match.
Writing in comic-yet-serious poetry, Mathew (his writing disguised by a pseudonym, which had to be penetrated and established as his own), reports that he has an experience of Abby's spirit-presence as he first sees the image of the statue; and then, a visitation dream that night. He writes down the content of the dream; and it shows up later in a metaphorical short story Mathew writes for another paper (this one, unsigned). The detective work is quite intricate in my study--but as I've insisted before, I did my homework. So, Abby gave him the image of an old man's daughter taking him safely over a turbulent stream. Here again, we have a magical girl associated with a river.
So from all this, it seems clear enough, to me at least, that in Mathew and Abby's personal life, he did, indeed, think of her as a "magical girl"; and specifically, their private joke was that she was a "river sprite." I also know from various clues that she sang to him; and so, this song about a singing mermaid would be a natural for this couple. Not that they would have adopted it as one of their own, unless the melody were charming--but it is. I just tried playing the melody line--and once again, comes the powerful feeling of recognition: "I know this." Like young Alexis in "Jurassic Park" recognizing the Unix system. Here's a simplified version of it online:
The point is, that my method is revealing how much we are all remembering of our past lives, in our current daily life. How many things that you feel you recognize, in this way, come from a past life? You have no way of knowing. But now, suddenly, through my study, we have a window into this phenomenon. We can see precisely what I am remembering in this way, because it is separated out from what I could reasonably have been exposed to in my present lifetime. This gives us a gauge we've never had, before.
This phenomenon arises continually in past-life therapy--but it can't be isolated from imagination. Here, with my painstaking study of an obscure historical figure, with all the "t's" crossed and the "i's" dotted, you can see the dynamic clearly.
I tried to explain this to the expert I crossed swords with recently--he couldn't get it. I also tried to explain to him that I am, now, demonstrating a past-life skill when I write a competent essay every day or two, for weeks on end. His comment was to brush me aside with something like "Gee, that's a lot of entries!" This, from someone whose theory considers past-life talents as valid evidence. Of course, so far as I know, he never took the time to see just how competent these entries are--any one of them could stand alone as literature, which is something you rarely see except with the work of professional columnists. I don't mean to brag, I'm just stating a fact. I'm good at this, as I am, at photography; I'm also mediocre at music, and I stink at math. The expert should have been able to recognize that this talent considerably increases the odds, because, how many blogs are this well-written? Not counting professional columns? Most blogs I've seen, written every few weeks or months, talk about what their kids did, or who they met at the store, or how we should all be nicer to each other. But the heart can be clogged by professional pride, just as surely as it gets clogged by depictions of sex and violence. And when the heart is so-clogged, the intuitive perception stops working.
My "magical girl" is still magical, being in the astral world since her most-recent passing in 1841. There is a host of readers (and I appear to be getting quite a few) who will immediately chalk this up to magical thinking; and there is a somewhat smaller host who can believe it, because they can suspend disbelief and believe just about anything. I'm looking for the four or five people who remain rigorous in their thinking, and can understand that it may, actually, be literal.
I am not trying to take that first "host" and hit them over the head with an evidence 2x4, so that they become believers. Because why would I want to expose my magical girl to people who have been immersing themselves in tawdry sex and gratuitous violence? Those people can go right on thinking I'm a nutcase. I'd actually prefer not to come to their attention, at all.
Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.
Music opening this page: "Liam/Rain Dance" by The Yellowjackets, from the album, "Greenhouse"