The Lives of the Dead

Some of the most interesting people I meet are dead…

Laugh, So You Don’t Cry

 

Originally posted October 24, 2014

comedytragedy masks

 

Jo

It’s a good thing parents are biologically programmed to love their children; to believe that even the strangest-looking baby is the most beautiful creature on earth. Otherwise I’m not sure I would have survived. I was not an attractive child. As a toddler, I had the nose of a 90 year old man. People kindly told my parents it was just an awkward phase; surely I’d outgrow it.

Unfortunately, my awkward phase lasted my entire life.

I learned early that being funny was the key to my emotional survival.   It was far better to have people laugh with me at myself, than to laugh at me.   If I made a self-deprecating remark, they were disarmed. If I could laugh with them laughing at me, I was protected from their barbs. If they repeated my observation as an insult, I was able to take it as a compliment. They were using my joke, after all, and that meant they thought I was funny. Or, if they insulted me but not as cleverly as I insulted myself, I won again! Say the worst about yourself and nobody can insult you!

Humor was the path I took to love. There are other paths, but that was mine.   When I made people laugh, they wanted me around. Instead of being ostracized, I was included in their social groups. I was popular, even. Playing the clown was how I negotiated my way through everything. All my life lessons came through this.

I may not have been much to look at, but what did beautiful people offer the world anyway? You have to be a decent human being to be truly beautiful. Still, I was never quite able to let go of the nagging sadness to not have been born lovely. I eventually learned that everyone hurts in their own way. Everyone carries the wounds of childhood well into old age. Maybe forever.

The funniest people (and I have known many) are always outsiders. Sometimes they’re on the outside because of their odd appearance. Or maybe they’re just quirky in some way. Usually, though, they it’s just because their observation post on the world is in an out-of-the-way place where others dare not go. From their unique viewpoint, they see the things in ways that most others cannot.

I’m not saying that it’s only funny people who have unique viewpoints, but if you can make people laugh while they consider your way of seeing things, they are more likely to remember and agree with you and see things as you do. “Speak softly and carry a big shtick.”

The funniest people are also very smart. They can pluck the seed of truth from chaos. They hone in on hypocrisy like heat-seeking missiles. Their lack of respect for authority makes them natural iconoclasts. They are natural empaths, too. They instinctively understand the deepest fears and insecurities of others; they clearly perceive the nature of the ego that drives them.   That’s why comedians make such great actors. They understand the most subtle nuances of emotion, something also absolutely crucial to delivering a good story. Looking at people, they see behind the veil of bluster and into the folds and shadows where self-doubt hides.   Once seen, it cannot be un-seen.

The great funny people are also often the most troubled, the most confused. We all secretly believe we don’t belong. There’s this over-reaching fear that if others saw us as we saw ourselves, they would look at us with the same pity and contempt they regard a sad, desperate, alcoholic clown at a three year old’s birthday party. “Get lost, Bozo! That red nose and big shoes aren’t fooling anyone!”

I developed a thick skin. I took the hits and stood back up again. I had no choice. I won’t say I wasn’t hurt when people said bad things about me – and they did, because I had a sharp tongue. I had no patience for the thin-skinned; for those who could dish it out but couldn’t take it; for those who pointed to the sins of others without considering their own. I pushed the edge, I know. Sometimes I went too far. I often made people cringe. I did try to limit myself to those who I believed could take it. But if they couldn’t? Well, that was their problem, not mine. I wasn’t responsible for the feelings of everyone in the world.  I’d taken my licks and learned my lessons. They had to take and learn theirs.

There were the haters. Lots of them.  I tried to ignore them but when they got under my skin, my salve was to surround myself with people who got me; who could laugh with me at the same stuff; who enjoyed the view from where I stood.   If I could make someone laugh – even one person —   really laugh from the deepest part of themselves; if I could get them to laugh at my truth, I was healed. The rejection of those who didn’t understand me no longer mattered.

To the question of whether a sense of humor is an innate talent or a learned skill, I say it’s a bit of both. Like any talent, most people pursue what they are good at. No normal person pursues a lifetime of failure and humiliation. And the longer you pursue, the better you get. Like an Olympic athlete. It’s natural talent, nurtured. I was the Nadia Comăneci of the Chuckles Olympics.

Being able to laugh at ourselves and at our tragedies takes the sting out of it. It puts things in perspective; helps us wrestle an unruly life back into our control. Laughing files the sharp edges off the pain.

 

(I know who this is, but we agreed that it would be best if I didn’t say.  😀  Nevertheless, we had a couple of very deep yet funny “conversations.”  I was given some personal messages for others, two of which I was able to deliver. The general message for all is “Be kind to others. Make sure the people you love know it. Do the right thing, follow your conscience, be true to yourself, and if they don’t like you,  f&^% ‘em! That’s their problem!”)

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Another Vivid Dream, This Time, Mine

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The other night at four a.m.,  I awakened from a dream so vivid,  that even after I’d gotten up and gone to the bathroom, and crawled back into bed, I felt myself still in that dream reality. Even now, I can close my eyes and be there again.  Normally, for me,  dreams evaporate quickly upon awakening unless I write them down or tell them to my husband. But not this one.  It’s as if it actually happened.  And dreams usually have that fuzzy quality to them.  Not this one.

The entire thing unfolded from my perspective, viewed through my eyes, with me  feeling the feelings, but it wasn’t actually me.

I am in my apartment in dreamland (which is nothing like my actual apartment.)   In the dream, it was also about four a.m.  I am sleeping I think on a pull-out sofa because I’m close to the door. I hear something outside in the hallway. I look through the keyhole.  My neighbor, a  young man —  younger than me by at least a decade or two —  is sitting with his back against the wall,  caddy-corner to my entrance.  His knees are drawn up to his chest, his arms are wrapped around his legs, his face is resting between his knees. He is absolutely still.

He often goes out in the evenings and comes home late, having partied himself into oblivion.  Tonight, he’s either drunk or high.  I can’t quite tell.  I’m getting no emotional reading from him. He seems completely inert.

He is a veteran and he suffers from PTSD.  In the time that we’ve been neighbors,   I have been kind to him. Occasionally we have had some serious conversations about a variety of things,  but I would not say we are friends. We hardly have anything in common.

He says nothing.  Doesn’t move.  But I know he wants  me to open my door so he can cry on my shoulder, otherwise why would he be sitting there?   But it’s the middle of the night.  I am not his therapist.  His problems are way above my pay grade.  I don’t know how to help him or that I even could. I feel compassion for him but he’s my neighbor,  a virtual stranger.  I am not willing let him become accustomed to leaning on me emotionally.  He’s not my patient, not my child, not my family member.  He needs professional help which I cannot provide.

Through the door, I speak to him sternly but kindly.  “Go home.  It’s late.”

Eventually I hear him shuffling off to his apartment, which is diagonally across from mine.  There are  just two apartments on the landing with a staircase up the middle.

I go back to bed, waiting for the click of his door but I don’t hear it.  I return to the key hole and look again. It’s hard to see his door from mine as the staircase is in the way, but I can see him leaning, with his head against his own door,  standing only from inertia,  not moving. I really do not want to get involved with him now but I cannot let him stand there all night.  I just want him to go into his own apartment and sleep it off.

I open my door and go over to him. He is almost in a fugue state. Barely there.  “Give me your key” I say, and he does.  I open the door for him and push him inside towards his couch.  “Sleep.  You will feel better in the morning.”    I’m doing the bare minimum to keep him safe, without getting sucked into one of his crying jags.   It’s the middle of the night!  I’m not on call! This is not my job.

I close the door after him and go back to  my apartment,  any vague sense of responsibility  assuaged.  I’m just dozing off when I hear his door open again.  I look out through the peep hole and I see him leaving. He is wearing rubber gloves and carrying what appears to be cleaning supplies.  This makes no sense to me.

I am afraid he’s going to get into trouble out there in his condition.  Even for him,  his behavior this evening has been bizarre.

I call the police. Tell them what’s happened.  I ask them to go find him before he hurts himself or someone else. They ask me for the make of his car.  I tell him I have no idea.  I’ve seen him in it a few times; it’s a nondescript midsize vehicle.  I can’t give them any more than that.  They seem to be blowing me off.  I get angry and ask them if they can’t look up the vehicle based on his name and address.  I am seriously concerned that he’s going to do something bad.  While I do not feel  personally responsible for him,  I cannot ignore this.  If he caused an accident or got himself into serious trouble,  I would feel guilty.

The dream ended there, with me trying to get the police to go after him.  But because it was so vivid,  it was  easy to put myself back into the reality of it.  I reran the whole thing in my head a couple of times, trying to determine if there was any meaning to this.   Later,  somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I understand what had actually happened:  He had already killed somebody earlier in the evening and he was going back out to attempt to cover his tracks and/or hide the evidence.   This explained his strange impenetrable mood, his total lack of affect.   That night, he had finally hit bottom, and there would be no climbing back out of it.

 

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

A Selfish Cad

First published October 18, 2014

selfish

 

Na

I was not a good person in my lifetime. I cheated and took advantage of people. I always chose was what best for myself and never fully chose for anyone else. Even when I behaved in an apparently magnanimous way, it was only because it furthered my own needs.   This was true even in my marriage, even with my own children.

But these were not my worst sins. The tragedy of my life was that I was completely oblivious to what a selfish, unenlightened human being, in fact, I was.  I never had a moment’s doubt that my behavior wasn’t righteous and justified.   After all, if I didn’t choose in favor of myself, who would? Others could not be trusted to watch out for my best interests.

There is absolute truth in that. It’s an important lesson; something I’d learned before and brought with me to this last life. But that is only half the lesson. Without the corollary, the real lesson has not been learned.

There is no question that the point of life is to learn to love. All goodness and enlightenment of the spirit spring from accepting this as the absolute truth.   All routes to all lessons pass through love – not only by understanding how best to achieve it, but by confronting all the reasons we run from it; and by examining the ways we comfort ourselves when we don’t have it.

But one cannot love if one cannot trust. Those who cannot trust themselves, cannot love themselves. Of all the kinds of human love, self-love is most important. Without self-love, it is impossible to accept love from others. Without this, one cannot love.

The more we truly love and accept ourselves exactly as we are, the more we are able to love and accept others exactly as they are, and thus, the more loveable we become.

Always behave in ways that foster self-respect. Take the high road not for the sake of others, but for your own benefit.  Release anger and forgive. Expect the best of others thus giving them the opportunity to live up to those expectations still recognizing that if they do not, that is their burden to carry. The misdeeds of others taint us and attach to us only when we respond in kind.

I only know this now, too late to have benefitted anyone in my past life. My punishment, if you want to call it that, for being such a shallow, selfish cad, is to know how much I hurt the ones closest to me, and how much better it would have been for all of us, if I’d be able to see then what I see now.

 

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

 

The Art of Control

First published January  19, 2016

fox.2

 

Wol

I always understood that I was going to have to fight for every advantage, every precious moment of peace, every scrap of comfort. This much was obvious to me, even as a child. Neither my family nor the world was going to give me anything, and so I decided that whatever rules the rest of the world lived by did not apply to me. I never had any fear of or respect for authority. Why should I?   The world only took away; it never gave back.

And so, early on, I learned the art of manipulation. I learned to pit one against the other; while they were arguing, I would move in to steal what was no longer being guarded. I knew how to set others off balance – maybe with a half-truth or perhaps a few well-crafted words to sow the seeds of doubt. Like a hawk, I learned to play with and tire my prey until they lost focus and became confused. And then I would swoop in for the kill.

I was no evil genius. More precisely, I was a feral animal who could sniff out fear and uncertainty, and magnify it,  until I had my opening.

I was very good and very successful at what I did. I gained valuable knowledge about the human heart but at great cost to others. To learn these lessons well, I had to push my hypotheses to the limits. If I hadn’t used my talents to cause a happy couple to divorce or a mother to abandon her child or old friends to turn on each other, how could I examine the edges of human nature? How could I know the breadth of my power?

I held myself apart from other humans, feeling simultaneously superior and inferior. Any relationships I had were superficial, struck only for advantage.   These choices were not a sacrifice.  These lessons greatly advanced my understanding of the world.

 

Note from me:  It seems as if the world is being taken over by these types!

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

 

An Oyster, Ostracized

originally published oct 15, 2014

(this story seems particularly apt these days,  given how the current political situation has torn families and even marriages asunder.)

oyster with pearl

 Cha

The pain of my family haunted me all my life.   My parents and siblings were not particularly evil people, but they were small and callous, jealous and petty, insecure and often mean.  The toxic dynamics in my  childhood shaped me as an adult – my needs, desires, fears, insecurities, my ways of interacting with the world.

When friends or acquaintances make us unhappy,  we are free to sever those ties. Family, for better or worse, is forever.  I withdrew as much as possible from mine, but there were inevitably situations where interaction was unavoidable.  Family is genetically and biologically intertwined.

I dreaded the occasions when I had to spend time with them. I always left their company licking my wounds, feeling once again, like a rejected, unwanted child.

No one in my family understood my choices.  At best, I was tolerated but never embraced. I was unwelcome and unaccepted not because of anything I had done, but simply because of who I was and what I believed. My feelings were never taken seriously. My siblings’ own families later learned to mock and mistreat me the same way.

It wasn’t until much later in my adulthood,  when I met other outsiders like myself, that I eventually found love. Because it had taken me so long to find it, I treasured it.  I savored the feeling of being embraced and accepted for exactly who I was.

Even so,  it took me most of my life to shed the pain of being shut out of my family.  I clung to my anger  because it made my pain righteous.  I refused  to let it go until I had from them an apology; an acknowledgement of wrongdoing.  I wanted them to accept responsibility for the misery they had caused me.

Finally,  I understood I would never have that from any of them.  My only release was in forgiveness.

That was the lesson I was born to learn.

We travel and are reborn, again and again, with the same group of souls. But sharing the same journey does not mean we will receive love or understanding from each other.   Some share our paths specifically to aggrieve us, or for us to aggrieve them.  The same soul may take the form of a different kind of  nemesis in each lifetime.

From irritants, an oyster can make a pearl.

The hardest kind of forgiveness is for those who don’t believe they need to be forgiven.

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

 

 

It’s Contagious!!

New!

 

Some strange goings on here at home this week.  I’ve been finding it hard to make the time to meditate and channel and write the stories  — both because (fortunately)   business has been, fortunately, brisk but mainly because I’ve been insanely distracted by politics.  Reading, watching, posting, calling, faxing, etc.   I know it would be good for me to make the time to back away from all that and spend more time in the space in between.  But I am having a hard time.

But twice in the past 5 days, it was my husband, Michael,  who seemed to be channeling the dead. Because they were dreams,  they were not as clear as they are as when channeling awake (when one is lucid enough to ask questions)  but the stories were interesting,  so today I’m cheating and using his! 🙂
His first dream was  of an American Indian woman who worked as a nanny for two young boys.  Their mother was not in the picture (gone/dead, unclear).    Eventually, the father was called away long term on business (perhaps to another country where he could not bring the boys) and left them in the care of the Native woman.   Being that she was their only caretaker for a year or more,  she functioned as a surrogate for their departed mother. She loved them like her own children. In this year, they developed genuine love for each other.  They had grown used to her ways.  They trusted her advice, respected her style of discipline.   When their father returned,  he became jealous and angry at their close relationship.  The children seemed to  love her more than they loved him.  He becomes violent.  (Drunk perhaps?)  He screams at her for stealing away his children’s loyalty and affection. He  calls her terrible names, using ugly racial epithets.  He sends her away.   She is devastated.  End of dream.
Second dream was of a brother and sister somewhere in Iran or Afghanistan.  They are running way together (although  it’s not clear from what or tp where.)    They are eventually caught. While the boy is spared the worst, the punishment for the girl is death.  Her brother is forced to kill her by stoning her in a ditch,  essentially burying her alive.   In the dream, the point of view switches back and forth between each character.   As the girl,  he feels himself in a ditch,  viewing debris raining down on the girl through the holes in her burqa.  Then, he feels himself to be the brother, with his hands on the shovel.  This upsets and startles him so much, in his sleep, it wakes him up.

Michael has long had a connection with the other side.  He used to dream about people just before they died — family members, his high school girl friend.  One night, no long after she committed suicide, she came to him in his room and spoke to him.  He claims he was not sleeping and he saw her clearly.
I have been encouraging him to try to meditate/channel but he’s even busier than I am,  works crazy hours at a very stressful job,  and has so little time,  it’s just  too time-consuming a project for him.  Perhaps when he retires…

Has anyone else given it a shot?  I don’t think it takes any particular skill except the ability to make one’s mind still, and to listen to what comes.

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

Who You Callin’ Primitive?

Originally published Oct 12, 2014

 

 

…Continued from August 27

[note: When I go into my trance the next night, I look for Ipo again. This time, he shows me around his old forest home. We are sitting on the ground, under some trees, talking. I ask him what his prized possession was.]

That’s easy. My bow. It took me many, many days to make it; to find just the right materials and to shape it just so. It was a very good instrument and others admired the fine workmanship.

“And what is your favorite possession?” he asks in return.

 I couldn’t think of an answer, which I suppose is good. I guess it means I’m not that attached to material things. I thought about it for a long time afterward, and now I would say it’s my collection of journals, dating back to college.

 As we are sitting and talking, I am feeling a bit nervous. As beautiful as it is in this place which feels so alive, I recognize that it is also full of unseen dangers. Ipo reminds me that there is no danger to us here. We are merely astral forms.

With that, Ipo casually and reflexively grabs his slingshot, and in a single motion, loads a stone into it and brings down a snake inches from my head.

 “I thought you said there was no danger!?” I said, frightened and a bit annoyed.

“There isn’t,” he replied.

I just wanted to demonstrate something to you. Even if we were not in our astral bodies, but were in human form, you still would not have been in any danger. I would have seen that snake long before you were even aware of it; and it would have been dead before you’d even registered danger.

Notice, however, that when you realized what had just happened, what close a call you’d just had, you were terrified after the fact. If that had happened in your real life, that fear memory would have remained with you for a long, long time. Perhaps the rest of your life.   Even though the danger was only conceptual.

Now, imagine me as primitive man visiting you in New York. Our situation is reversed. My surroundings are completely unfamiliar and terrifying to me. There are unknown, unseen dangers all around. We are standing on the street corner, waiting to cross. I am about to step into the street without looking or thinking. You, however, are unconsciously aware of the traffic light and the flow of the cars. Before I can step off the curb, you instinctively put your arm out across my chest to prevent me from moving forward. At that very moment, a bus whooshes right past me.

To you, the act of reaching out and stopping me would be pure instinct, honed from your years of living in the city. It is a non-event for you. It’s the kind of thing you would forget almost immediately after it happened. I, on the other hand, would be terrified by what had almost happened to me. And that fear would likely remain with me for a long, long time. Perhaps the rest of my life. Even though the danger was only conceptual.

My point is that all danger is conceptual, and thus, so is fear.

We fear what we believe we cannot control.

But we cannot overcome fear by controlling everything, because that is impossible. If that is the goal, it can never be achieved, and thus fear can never be conquered.

Fear can only be overcome by relinquishing the need to control; by understanding that life is going to unspool in exactly the way it was wound up – by you, when you were here, before you breathed into life.

What do you have to fear? All obstacles have been put in your path by your very self, to help you understand and ascend. Vanquish fear by searching for the lessons in the very situations which you, yourself, have provided to yourself. Use the unknown to learn something new – about yourself, about others, about the universe – and fear evaporates. Accept that it will be as it should be.

People with understanding and faith in this truth are peaceful.

But blind faith can be worse than no faith at all.

You must work, always, for your own enlightenment. You must not accept facile answers. Everything you need to know is within you, if you look deep enough.

And if you go down far enough into your soul, you will find a door. That door opens into the universe.

 

[There is much more from Ipo. He’s quite the philosophical and chatty fellow! And I’m finding him very interesting.  But in the interest of the blog,  to keep it from becoming too “one note”,  I’ll be posting some narratives by others who’ve come to me during the same period.   I will get back to Ipo’s wisdom and insights soon enough.

I find it difficult to understand his concepts sometimes — it’s a lot to process — so I imagine it would be even more difficult for many readers.  I think we can all use some time to digest.)

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.


If a Tree Falls in the Forest….

Originally posted October 9, 2015

(This was my first contact with Ipo, who as my regular readers now know, has become my “spiritual guide”in a way.  He is the wisest entity of all I have encountered.)

 

 Ipo

[This was channeled over several days.  As  I mentioned in the previous post, I’m learning that I can “call” for an entity with whom I’ve previously communicated, which means I can revisit those I find interesting; hear more details of their story, ask questions if I have them.  I imagine I will be exploring this more as I continue.]

Work is what we do to survive. Everything else is play.

Our jobs change as we go through life. It is a baby’s job to suckle and grow, and learn to walk. As a child, his job is to learn how to function and survive in the world.

A child needs to learn what to drink when he is thirsty and what is good to eat when he is hungry. He must learn what is edible, what will make him sick, and what might kill him. He must learn which creatures are harmless and which can cut a grown man down alive. He needs to learn which insects and reptiles are harmless, which are merely annoying, and which can kill with a bite or a sting.   He needs to learn to always keep an eye out for good, round stones of the right shape and heft for a slingshot. He must learn to climb a tree like a monkey, which is not something so easy to do. He must learn which are the best kind of feathers to fletch an arrow and how to gather what is necessary to make poison for the tip.

Children must be able to survive on their own as early as possible. The sick and infirm are not attended to very much. If a mother were to spend all her time nursing a sick child, she would not have time to hunt for food or do any of the other chores she needs to survive. And then, they would both die. Perhaps her other children, too.

There is no room for the weak.

This is not from lack of compassion. This is a necessity of survival for all.

In my life before this one, I lived as a successful, urban man in a busy city. In that life, I had no peace.  When I read about or heard about so-called primitive tribes, I wrote them off them as some curious vestige of the Stone Age. They had no part in the modern world and so were easily dismissed as unimportant.   If a culture, a society couldn’t keep up with the times, they would perish; become extinct. Pure Darwinism. That’s just the way life goes. Why should I care?

But I can tell you now, from here, that such people are the soul of the human race.   If they die, the human race loses its way to redemption.

Modern man, for all his technology, is completely disconnected from his roots. He doesn’t grow or kill what he eats. He doesn’t tread lightly upon the earth, taking only what he needs and leaving little trace of himself when he is gone.

Unlike the modern man, the “primitive” does not consume more than he gives back. He does not destroy his home but instead lives in symbiosis with it. He is acutely in tune with nature; aware of seasons by the stars in the sky. He tells time by the sun. He trusts his instincts. He can know every corner of a new place by smell. He can walk and make no sound.   He can focus for hours on the smallest task. He feels no outside stress or existential angst. He needs no money. His wealth is in his ability to live in harmony with his environment.

He belongs to a small group of humans who have no choice but to get along with each other. Together, they obey rules of civil conduct and etiquette, assuring smooth relations all around. For the same reason, they are tolerant of differences in each other. They work together as a community, codependent upon each other, like a single living organism. There is no choosing to walk away from this. To abandon your tribe (or be abandoned by it) is to die.

These are all the things which are missing from the lives of modern humans, and which they yearn for.   They feel the pull of it. They know the rightness of it. They try, in their small way, to find it. And yet, they are prisoners of their own technology. It’s too late for them to go back.

If a huge electromagnetic pulse or invasive computer virus wiped out all the trappings of modern life, modern man would be completely helpless. Like a child who has not learned his lessons, he would not survive; that’s how unable he is to live without all his conveniences, which have become necessities.

But those primitive tribes, isolated and living deep in the forests, they would survive as if nothing had happened. They would provide the seeds for a new human race.

That is why they are the soul, the very essence of the human race. They must not be allowed to perish. When they die, humans lose their connection to where they began and who they really are. This connection to our primal childhood must not be severed.

[Before we part, he wants to show me something. In an instant, we are floating down a river in a small boat. The last rays of the sun are passing through the leaves of the high treetops. It’s a spectacular sight!

 I feel he has more to say to me, and I am enjoying his company, but it’s late and I want to sleep.  

…to be continued

 

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

No Mercy

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Cruelty in perfection (Plate III), William Hogarth, 1751

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I was cruel!  Marvelously, exquisitely, gloriously, unapologetically cruel.  I loved to see that wince of pain in the eye, the tear of defeat rolling down a cheek, a fallen face in the instant of betrayal,  the collapse of posture as the soul shattered within.  These things made me feel powerful, invincible.

When I was about eight or nine, one of my friends had a crush on a girl in our class.  He was too shy to even speak to her, but he would go all-moony eyed whenever she crossed his line of sight.   One day, she glanced in his direction, noticed him staring, and nodded back at him.  He was as ecstatic as a boy of that age could be.

But I could not let this stand. His happiness irritated me.  I could not bear for him to have something which gave him such joy, such hope,  while I had nothing.  So I told him confidentially  that I’d overheard her saying  mean and insulting things about him; that she called him fat and stupid; that she mocked him among her friends.

He had no reason to think I was lying. I was his friend, after all.

He was devastated.

I feigned sympathy for his pain but that lie, that ability to destroy his happiness with just a few well-chosen words,  filled me with a sense of ecstatic power which until that moment,  nothing else ever had.

I did not forget it.  A year or so later, I wrangled up a handful of boys to sneak into the teachers’ ladies’ room.  We hid quietly in one stall,  standing on the toilet seat, and waited for our prey.   One of the younger, newer teachers came in and went into the other stall.  While she was doing her business, we jumped  up and looked over the top.

She cried out then shrank back into herself in abject mortification.  There were tears, I am sure of it.

A couple of the boys felt bad about it afterwards, but I found myself sexually aroused at her vulnerability and humiliation.  It was a fantasy that I replayed in my head many times during my life.

My taste for the pain of others only increased over time.  I became adept at playing a sympathetic character, one who others trusted.  It made the betrayal so much sweeter.

Occasionally, I would arrange things to hurt another incognito, so they had no idea that I was the cause of their disappointment or heartbreak or catastrophe.  Perhaps an anonymous letter to a wife about an errant, or even faithful, husband.  A complaint to a manager about an underling who had not afforded me the proper respect, in order to get them fired.  A nasty rumor planted and nurtured until its tentacles attached themselves to my victim and strangled the ease from their life.

While these acts of cruelty were certainly satisfying, nothing satisfied so much as being face to face when the knife went in.  I loved to seduce a woman, make love to her, and afterwards,  just as she was relaxing in languor, cocooned in a satisfied glow, I would leave her bed with an insult carefully crafted to cut wherever it hurt most, depending upon her particular insecurity.  I might tell her she was too fat, too old,  to stupid, to consider seriously.

I would often contract for services,  allowing my victim to negotiate a very good price for themselves.  I chose people who were somewhat new to their game; too naïve and trusting;  who believed that getting my business would be a turning point for them.  Yes, I was demanding.  I forced them to put aside all their other clients to accommodate me. But they did so happily,   because they believed it was worth all the money I’d pay them in the end;  that this deal was a lucky break that would final help them fulfill their  dreams or climb back into the black.   And then,  in the end,  they would submit their bill – in person — and I would tell them that I was not going to pay.  It wasn’t about the money.  No, my game was seeing that devastation and ineffectual anger.

I took particular pleasure in publicly humiliating of a person of import within my circle. It might be a dirty secret made public.  An insult or epithet spoken loudly enough for others to hear.  The damage was best done when they were in the public eye — perhaps when they were about to receive an honor, or on the cusp of making a great business deal,   or maybe while running for public office.

Nobody was allowed to have joy without my permission,  and I rarely gave it.

My reputation preceded me. I had no true friends, only acquaintances and associates with whom I shared a common and usually temporary goal.  Even my so-called intimate relationships were transactional.

I could be charming when it served my purpose.  But those who knew enough of me, kept their distance, making sure they never exposed their most vulnerable selves to me.

And this is how I lived,  to the end of my days.  Envious of the joy of others; finding my own happiness only in destroying theirs; never learning any other way to soothe or pleasure myself.

 

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

Playing Chicken with the Afterlife

Originally published Oct 6, 2014

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…continued from previous post, August 18

 

The following evening, I went right back into my deep meditative trance (which gets easier to slip into the more I do it) and “called” for the spirit I’d been speaking to the previous night.

I don’t know if it was him playing games,  another entity entirely, another entity using him as a vehicle,  or perhaps my own unconscious,  but instead of seeing anyone who might be Kenneth (or Peter Dinklage), I was flooded with images of demons, devils and wild animals. They were really “in my face” and I sensed they were trying to scare me.

I looked at them directly and said (in my head), “Hey!  I’m not intimidated by anything in real life. I’m certainly not going to be intimidated or frightened by something that’s in my own head! So piss off!”

 It was kind of comical, actually.  There I was, mentally yelling at demons in my head, perfectly, logically, intellectually aware of how insane it was.  I couldn’t say for sure if I was completely imagining them or if they were “really there” in the astral plane.  For certain, I was not dreaming. I was absolutely awake.

 They kept coming for maybe thirty seconds more, but I kept ignoring them and brushing them away,  and eventually they dissipated and left me alone.  This was perfectly in keeping with my personality. I have been known to “go medieval” when someone  purposely tries to intimidate or scare me, as happens from time to time on the subway or the street. Bullies have literally backed away from me, cowering…as well they should!

 I sensed Kenneth was there, somewhere, even though I couldn’t see him, and I said, “I was really looking forward to hearing more about your life, but not if you’re going to try to f&*@ with my head.”   (I wasn’t about to take flak from what was possibly merely a figment of my own imagination!)

I wasn’t sure if he was trying to get through to me, get past all these tricksters, or if he was in cahoots with them, but I wasn’t willing to stick around to find out.

I moved my focus to other things and soon I was so deep in trance and I felt as if I were flying.

It’s hard to explain what came next.

A colorful, changing fractal design totally filled my vision. But it wasn’t so much what I was seeing as what I was feeling. It was as if I were in an alternate reality; as if I’d somehow transcended my body;  as if my consciousness had escaped the confines of my brain and was spreading out into the universe.  (Sounds so trite, I know!!! But I’m telling it as I experienced it.  Readers can make of the information what they will.)

I cannot imagine that an acid or mushroom trip could be more intense. (I’ve never done either drug.)  And yet, I felt totally safe and in control. I knew I could “awaken” myself at any time and be perfectly lucid.

Now, I imagine some of you readers will think I’ve gone off the deep end. Maybe this is all too “woo woo” for you. Believe me, it’s even more “woo-woo” to me!   I’ve been struggling with this trajectory, myself, since this whole business started.

This is a very deep rabbit hole I’m heading into. Perhaps, ultimately, it will lead to greater understanding of the universe. Or perhaps I will lose my mind completely. I honestly don’t know,  and I do worry about it.  What if I become confused, and stray from the path to enlightenment and accidentally take some detour to La-La Land? How will I know I’m NOT in the right place?   I’m pretty sure that if  I ever DO find myself in such place,  I will be convinced that I am experiencing reality and have discovered Truth. 

What is insanity anyway?  “Normal” only means your reality jibes with everyone else’s version. But who’s to say that the guy wearing the tin foil hat isn’t perceiving a truer reality (or at least another valid but alternate version of reality) than the rest of us;  a reality to which we are completely oblivious?

Who decides who’s crazy?  Maybe insanity isn’t some kind of absolute mental defect, but rather only an alternate perception of reality which is only considered pathological when it’s completely at odds with the main of society.

In his lifetime, Galileo was regarded as crazy.

So was John Nash (“A Beautiful Mind”)

 And David Koresh (of the Branch Dividians/Waco, TX)

Not to mention Ted Kaczynski   (Unibomber)

They all believed they were totally sane.

I am not one who believes without proof.  So far, I don’t really have any (except the names I received initially — see first posts.)   Kenneth was probably right. Maybe I’m afraid to ask for proof for fear I won’t get it. Or perhaps I’m afraid that I will get it which would draw me deeper into exploration of the rabbit hole.  I (a most level-headed, logical person) worry that I will be regarded as a woo-woo nut job.  For the time, being,  I prefer to stand back a bit and  refrain from committing myself into a new reality.

And yet, I don’t want to stop. It feels good going to that place. It feels right. What I’m seeing explains a lot of things.

I am very much enjoying this process, this listening to and writing the stories.  Even if  it does mean I’m crazy, I am willing to walk that path.

Which reminds me of the old joke:

A man says to a psychiatrist, “Doc, my wife is crazy. She thinks she’s a chicken.”

The shrink says, “Bring her to me. I can cure her.”

The man says, “I would… but we need the eggs.”

These stories are the eggs.  I’m the chicken.  Cluck, cluck.

 

*****

  “Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.”                                                     -Rumi      

 

 

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

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