These entries are sort of like sand paintings--except I keep a picture of them. Which makes me think of a time when the Tibetan monks put on a display of sand painting at a nearby Unity church. People typically would rush in for five minutes, snap a photograph (which perchance they would never look at closely), and leave. I decided to stay, and meditate on the emerging painting as they were doing. I don't know how long I stayed--maybe half an hour? Maybe it only seemed that long. I won't say I had any particular experience--I just wanted to see it on their own terms. I did come to understand that the "gates" probably symbolized gates of perception.
Last entry, I described running across a piece of evidence which proved conclusively, to me, personally, that as I had first written in this blog in 2006, I was, in fact, involved in writing the original of "A Christmas Carol." In fact, I was the co-author with my then-wife, Abby. There is no need to try to convince anyone else, here, nor to go back over the evidence. It's all in my book; but you would have to read the entire work, cover-to-cover, to understand just how solid this is.
The point, now, is, how does this affect me, today? I feel that I have quietly regained my power. That's the best I could describe it. It just hit me, today, when I chanced to think about it. It isn't even a feeling of being vindicated. I'm trying to come up with the best analogy...
I'm avoiding the analogy of a weapon, so, suppose you built a car from scratch, from found materials. Everyone told you it would never run, and because the opinion of naysayers is so powerful, no matter how you tried to dismiss it, you half-believed them. But two days ago, you turned the key and it started up, full-throated, and ran. No-one was there, no-one saw it, and no-one would even take you seriously enough to come over for the demonstration, if you asked them. So you are the only one who knows.
What do you feel? Quietly empowered. You don't need to prove it to anyone else, now. It would be nice if you could, but you wouldn't be able to bring them for the demonstration. And if you could, you have a sneaking suspicion that they would accuse you of having staged it somehow, with an audio system and smoke and something that generated vibrations in the floor and the walls. They would never give you the satisfaction, in other words.
But you know.
Then the question arises, why do I want to write it in this blog? Well, it is a blog, after all.
I noticed that a person who has commercialized a supposed method for contacting loved ones after their passing, has established her own radio show, now.* This method is unnecessary--and there is no justification, that I can see, for packaging it and attempting to make money off it (either by selling it directly to sufferers, or selling it as a course to practitioners). But this person gets all the attention, while nobody pays attention to my presentation. Most of my material is free--my little e-book on my cross-dimensional relationships is $7.00. In my (free) online interview, I explain that no method worked for me; I simply had to learn how to recognize what was already there right in front of me. It's really a matter of faith. People are getting communications from their loved ones on the other side. What is needed is the faith to believe it and not to question it so heavily. Be rigorous--but don't be cynical.
For this faith, people pay I don't know how much money to someone who is making a career out of the unnecessary.
I noticed, also, that Dr. Jim Tucker, successor to Dr. Ian Stevenson, is doing a presentation in Massachusetts alongside the father of James Leininger. Dr. Tucker presented the Leininger case in his book--but unless I am very much mistaken, that was originally Carol Bowman's case. I see no mention of this by Dr. Tucker; and in my opinion, he should mention it, under those circumstances. Really-speaking, it should be Carol who is presenting it. But if she isn't presenting it, she should at least be credited. (Maybe she is, and I missed it, as I only got the information second-hand in a Facebook post.)
Meanwhile, my own belt remains "J.C. Penney, $3.98."
Oh, I remember something I'd wanted to share. On "E Channel," yesterday, I saw young medium Tyler Henry read a celebrity (I forget which one). After the main portion of the reading, she decides to test him. She asks if she can give him a photograph, face down per usual, to see whether he can get anything from it. He holds the photograph, concentrates, and says, "Babies, babies, babies." She asks him to turn it over, and it's an ultra-sound of her unborn child, which pregnancy was unannounced.
Okay, guys, it's over. I mean, the entire skeptical thing is over at that point. Give it up, Randi--give it up, NOVA. It's over. Remember the White Crow principle: "The existence of one white crow proves that not all crows are black."
Since I have been sharing some of my work for the New York "Constellation" of 1830, here is one I just now finished keying, which I feel I was especially amused by, in the day, from the December 4, 1830 edition. This is one of many editions of this weekly paper where Mathew, at age 18, appears to have taken the reins of the editorial page, as substitute editor. The article seems somehow apropos to the above rambling discussion:
Mistake of the Press. An importing house in this city had occasion to advertise for sale a quantity of Brass Hoppers, such as are used in coffee mills. But instead of Brass Hoppers, the newspaper read Grasshoppers. In a short time the merchant's counting room was thronged with inquirers respecting this new article of merchandize.
"Good morning, Mr. Invoice; how do you sell grasshoppers?" said a fat merchant. "What are they worth a hogshead?"
The importer was astonished, but before he had time to reply, in came a druggist, who being bent on speculation, determined to purchase the whole lot, provided he could get them low. Taking the importer aside for fear of being overheard by the merchant, he asked him how he sold his grasshoppers; if they were prime [?ity]; and whether they were to be used in medicine. The importer was about opening his mouth to reply in an angry manner to what he began to suspect was a conspiracy to torment him, when a doctor entered, smelling at his cane and looking wondrous wise.
"Mr. Invoice," said he, "ahem! will you be good enough to show me a specimen of your grasshoppers?"
"Grasshoppers! grasshoppers!" exclaimed the importer, as soon as he had a chance to speak--"what in the d----l's name, gentlemen, do you mean by grasshoppers?"
"Mean!" said the merchant; why, I perceive you have advertised the article for sale."
"Certainly," said the druggist, "and when a man advertises an article, it is natural for him to expect inquiries relating to the price and quality of the thing."
"Nothing in the world more natural," said the doctor. "As for myself I have at present a number of cases on hand in which I thought the article might be serviceable--but since you are so--ahem! so uncivil--why I must look out elsewhere and my patients"--
"You are your patience go to the d----l! interrupted the importer; "mine is fairly worn out, and if you don't explain yourselves, gentlemen, I'll lay this poker over your infernal heads."
To save their heads, the advertisement was now referred to, when the importer found out the cause of his vexations by reading the following: "Just landed and for sale by Invoice & Co. ten hogsheads prime Grasshoppers."
Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.
*When she first came out with this "product," I wrote very politely expressing my opinion. I didn't receive the courtesy of a response, but I did, apparently, get put on her mailing list.
Music opening this page: "Baba O'Riley" by The Who, from the album, Who's Next