Thursday, September 22, 2011

Part VII

22 May 01: I called Paul this morning and I told him that I was going to send him a CD: Mass In C Major.  He asked me: “you know what Mass is for, don’t you?” I said Well no, not really-I only know that 9 times out of 10 I probably ain’t interested in it.” He said, “It’s music for death-music to die by”, he replied.

22 May: I am talking to mother and I mentioned Paul’s remark to her.  “I don’t know why he put it like that.  Actually, Mass is music in celebration of the Crucifixion, and Christ’s demonstration of victory over death”, she explained.  “That sounds much better”, I said.


Oct 01 I currently reside 3255 Mathews Road.  A sign on a religious sanctuary I pass going to and from work, on Ray Thorington Road off of Vaughn Road, now and then has a message which changes from time to time.  Currently it reads: “God sets us free from the need to have to wear a mask.”  I currently house sit for two friends, Jim and Carol Miller, who were deployed to Washington for a year this past July.  Carol just had the house built a year before.  She and Jim had married about the same time that both had been promoted to full bird rank; Jim, 6 months after Carol being promoted.  Now that they had “Vultures” status, they were world-wide deployable and no longer had any say so on where and when they were to go.  Actually, Carol had planned to retire early this year, but General Lance Lord told her she could not-they needed her for another assignment. Interestingly enough, Jim was also assigned to that area too.  Not knowing how to resolve the sudden crisis of either having to sell or have someone look after their farm and house, they said they immediately thought of me.

So, I agreed, and moved in July 02, since my oldest brother said that he wanted to sell the house anyway.  The house where I was before, when the experiences I describe in this recounting of the events took place, about 6 months when everything calmed down.  Everything, except the fact that the mail box they have up seems to keep getting knocked down (on purpose).

One day, just recently, I was coming home early before sunset about this time, and I noticed a plain black mailbox put up in place of the one I finally took down for good and stored away.  I asked the kind people at the mail station down the road if they had put it up.  They said no, they were not allowed to put up mail boxes since they are personal property.  I emailed Carol and Jim and asked if they had it put up.  They said no, maybe one of the neighbors did so.  I asked the neighbor next door and they said they had nothing to do with it.  I got the mail out of it for the next two evenings.  The third evening I pulled up, rolled down the window, and reached for the lid of the box.  I couldn’t find it so I turned on my dome light.  The mailbox had vanished without a trace as mysteriously as it had been placed.  I decided that was enough jokes, so I opened a mailbox down at the station.

Aug 2003  I don’t see nor hear from Paul anymore.  The last time I saw him, he flew out to San Jose, California, and drove with me back to Alabama.  When almost home, we’d gotten on each other’s nerves, I think for the last time.  It went downhill from there, to make a long explanation short – I won’t go into it as it’s a re-hash of the same stuff.  It just wasn’t ever going to work, associating with each other.  So when we got to my home, that was the end of the road for both of us, and we knew it for certain that time.  I wish him well, but I don’t ever hope nor expect to see him again.

I drove up to Jasmine Hill Gardens, the following week he’d left.  I wanted to buy some of the tall lovely alabaster pedestals that I used to admire so much.  A sign at the entrance stated that Jasmine Hill is closed to the public, with regret.  The gate, however, is open and I drive up onto the property.  The gift shop-every graceful piece of Greek statuary that filled it’s now stark empty space-gone.  A man on a riding mower sees me in front of the Parthenon building looking in and approaches me.  “Can I help you?” he asked, as if I had no right to be there.  I told him who I was, that “this garden used to be my back yard and I know every corner and hiding place in it.”  I asked who he was.  He was a friend of the recent owners.  He loosened up a bit and told me that the gardens were closed mainly due to lack of interest from the local public.  I am given to understand it will not open again-maybe one day, it will.

The absolute end.

End of log.  Nothing follows! xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

My thoughts that have resulted from all of this:



My gosh: all of this over one letter!  For all the energy spent on the subject matter in respect to this commotion I do feel obliged to do a little critiquing of my own.  I got up feeling like a whole different person-who is thoroughly acquaintance with someone I’ve never met.  The author who wrote the book, “Beethoven: A Man Of His Word, with a no holds barred attack on the publication “Beethoven”, naturally advertised it to me and raised my curiosity to the point that I just had to find out what she was so inflamed over.  So the next time I went to the bookstore it was specifically for this.  I got what I went there for; it was readily available then whereas it wasn’t there before.  I found some very informative stuff not mentioned in her book that perhaps should have been for making a better account of Beethoven’s character.


What I found in the other book is work based on an objective, not emotional and vindictive, view.  A vaster, more satisfying material for the reader, I thought.  Referring to the little book I had shelved earlier on twin flames and soul mates-I cross-referenced the two main publications at war with one another and this mission required me to consult again on the web concerning Beethoven’s temperament and reason behind his seeming madness.  I learned further that in respect to the Twin Flames, that there is ancient Greek knowledge tying in with his understanding of the nature of the self and that how his “writing style” for the “seemingly undecipherable letter”.

First off: Everyone is still scratching their heads over whose is the pencil he refers to in the letter.  The universally accepted logical presumption is that he got it from her.  Here’s my “illogical” take: very possible that the pencil he used is the one he’d always already had in his possession-but refers to it as hers “your” pencil – my pencil-it’s all the same as far as he is concerned.  In a letter to someone else, he states, “I keep a pencil and paper with me at all times so that if something comes to me I can write it down, else I am afraid that I might forget it.  I keep these things near my bed as well.  Even when I am sleeping, if an idea comes to me, I wake up and write it down immediately.”  Very possible then that what was his he referred to as hers as well.

That the letter-is considered “cryptic” I thought so too when I first laid eyes on it - as I was “sheeping” right along with the other viewpoints offered-not understanding differently.  But these past weeks have taught me a lot in that it is important to look at things differently than I otherwise did.  No going back now to change anything-the only thing to do is accept and deal with the change.  So, I tend to look at this letter from a “spiritually charged” point of view.  I got the thought that it would help if I wrote the letter, myself, word, for word, and using a pencil-put myself in his shoes.  “The way to understanding is to look beyond the surface of what ‘looks like’, but isn’t.”  As I did the work, I thought, “As above, so below”.  “As within, so without.”

Interesting, that never associated or acquainted herself with the man, himself, that she knows exactly what he meant when he wrote what he did.  She says, “If we were wholly united you would feel the pain of it as little as I”, he meant to say, “If we were legally married”.  Not necessarily, if I understand things differently now and that is  he simply said, “If we were wholly united”.  After all, that is not what he wrote, plainly and simply?  We don’t become “wholly united” through our own will and ritualistic practice of religious ceremony.  Comparing the two publications, I found from reading “Beethoven” by Solomon, that he “preferred self-self education through voracious reading n everything from Greek and Roman literature to esoteric writings on theology and science….” (and so forth), this is “critical information”, something she failed to mention in her book.  Very interesting, since she says she’s been a student of Beethoven’s life for nearly thirty years-that tells me a lot about her seeing how I’ve been a student of his life for only two months, and I was able to see that!

“ When each of us separated into our male and female halves long ago, the soul knew (and still knows) that the rejoining of its incomplete self would inevitably take place... it was part of the divine plan. After that agonizing and painful division took place a deep seated yearning for oneness began to linger within each of us and the desire for reunion and  completeness has endured over the ages. Only one other in all the universe can satisfy it.

“…..Plato is not the only individual who has given us insights into twin soul relationships. Spiritual writings from the Sufis 800 years ago say that...“Out of the original unity of being there is a fragmentation and dispersal of beings, the last stage being the splitting  of one soul into two. And consequently, love is the search by each half for the other half on earth or in heaven...As twin souls are so alike to begin with, it seems necessary for them to go their separate ways before they can complete each other.  Identity and complimentarity are the two driving forces and axes of love... For the complete being there must be a blending of the two…..”

It is very rare for twin flames to be embodied on the planet at the same time and to get together in intimate relationship (and stay together). Often it doesn’t happen until both are in their last incarnation, if then. It is the most intense relationship there is, and the two beings must be highly evolved and have completed a lot of clearing work within themselves to be fully ready for such a reunion.

Twin flames usually haven't been together all that often during their series of lives on the planet, and so their backgrounds may be different. Yet, there is a closeness and similarities of spirit that are almost uncanny, noticed in many ways, such as looking back at yourself when you look at your mate, and a remembering of the distant past when you first split up. Guidance is strong with these relationships, and usually one or both have a good channel for communication with Spirit. Their connection is telepathic, and hugging each other is like coming home for nourishment. Twins only come together when they have service work to do together on the planet.

She probably should have expanded her resources a little further-she’s had more time to do so than I have on account of the subject matter.  Historians have done their job well enough to let us know about these two people's interpersonal relationship to one another.  Proof: where do modern biographers get their information other than from the efforts of those who have gone before them?  The only other two possible places are out of their own heads, or out of thin air (sometimes that is one and the same), neither of which there is hard evidence (Beethoven’s written guidance) to support theories.  Apparently many biographers and scholars earn their own place in history just by doing the things that they do.  Hats off then, to the historians!  If one is going to write about someone, then go to that person for guidance, not everywhere and everyone else!

It doesn’t matter to me who he wrote it to-what matters here to me is that a professed student of Beethoven’s life 30 years culmination along with 20 years experience means that must be plenty of time to eventually get her reasoning twisted and distorted because she is angry at the rest of the world for their interpretations of what they think about Beethoven, writes a book spewing everyone out of her mouth that went before her to provide theories from their points of view, increases her own wealth and status as a result, but in the process, muddies the waters of understanding for those who want to avail themselves to resources hoping to increase their clarity of the truth.

She goes back and forth, challenging the words of Beethoven, to challenging the validity of historical record statements by another deceased’ individual: I discovered why she made such a huge issue out of the “crucial entry” of fanny Giannatasio’s diary and attacked it so viciously. Because it discredits the very foundation upon which she builds her “facts” for her book.  What Fanny freely wrote, of her own accord a moment of private reflection none of us are at liberty to challenge.  If Fanny was like the rest of us human beings are, it is highly unlikely that she ever considered the notion in the heat of that moment of recording, that future generations would be researching and critiquing her private collection of thoughts.

Ms Altman states: “The fact is, there is no woman whom Beethoven had met in or around 1811 who could possible be the beloved”.  I say for her to know that absolutely, she would have had to been there, herself with the subject, 25 hours a day, eight days a week for the entirety of that vear to state a fact.  She’s here-not there.  Go figure.  Even to historians Beethoven's life was not an open book, as folks back then had better advantage of knowing so much about him that he took to the grave without that knowledge ever hitting the Book Mart, first.

The jury is obviously out on the whole subject-but not on her fallacies surrounding it.

Fanny recorded in her own diary that “'Five years ago he met someone”.  She states that what Beethoven meant was that he “met someone again.”  That is not what the “man of his word” said, according to the only woman who was there to know what he said!  So now Beethoven, while he is very text conscious, needs help from a modern biographer to get it over to the rest of us proper translation of this statement because he cannot talk straight?

A man of his word, who does not condone what he knows that God condemns-lying in any degree at any angle-can’t be honest, himself, even if the Giannatasios are simply mere acquaintances.  There is nowhere that indicates that the Schoolmaster’s graciousness (the father of this young lady) in offering his Garden House to Beethoven to roost had anything to do with “alterial motives”.

She maintains Beethoven is a man of his word, that Beethoven was not stupid, nor was he a liar, nor was he a fool.  But at the same time, according to her understanding, Beethoven, as smart he is, knowing himself so much better than anyone else did, according to her, “most likely” doesn’t know what he meant when he said what he said.  He just can’t possibly comprehend the meaning of his own statement and it isn’t due to the fact that he can’t “hear” himself talk.  Usually the problem is that a person cannot understand the genius (which I do not doubt is the case with this author). So, now we have switched from the concept that Beethoven can’t comprehend his own statements, to the idea that he can’t measure, (through feeling that he is known for having some very strong ones indeed) one moment in time, in comparison with the next and is in trouble with determining lengths of time”-from one point to another-which means this guy is just clumsier than history has recorded him as being-but somehow he survived, in spite of himself.

So I decided to dig up some background info on her and I discovered this site in the process (which only tangled me up further in the process of forming an argument in “making a case.”


“The biographers immediately sharpened their minds, subtracted 5 from 1816, and came up with Beethoven meeting his beloved in 1811. The biographers, however, were much better at math than Beethoven ever was. Barry Cooper in his The Beethoven Compendium states,

“His (Beethoven’s) capacity for figures, however, was severely limited, as he readily acknowledged: ‘I am really an incompetent business man who is bad at arithmetic.’ Many simple calculations survive in his handwriting, and his bad arithmetic is often in evidence. On one occasion he wanted to know the sum of eleven halves; not being able to multiply even whole numbers (let alone fractions), he wrote the figure 1/2 eleven times in a column, added it up and wrote down his answer, 10 1/2.

So one is asked to believe that Beethoven who could not even add eleven half’s on paper is supposed to have mentally subtracted 1811 from 1816, or even 11 from 16, and come up quickly with the answer of five.…….Too much credence has been put in Beethoven’ math and this date for it to be carved in stone by God.”

This is a flimsy base for a “sound” rebuttal: “One is asked to believe that Beethoven could not even add eleven halves on paper, is supposed to have mentally subtracted 1811 from 1816 or even 11 from 16 and come up quickly with the answer of five.”

Why do I find this so ignorant?  For one thing, I noticed right away that the writer is “sheeping right along” with Ms Altman’s distortion of thinking, instead thinking for himself in trying to work this out.  Maybe I’m a little ‘text conscious’ too and this is may be what prevents me from being in her corner from the start?  Just because he was bad at “the mechanics of figuring” doesn’t mean that he had a problem mentally comprehending measures of “time”.  “I am really an incompetent business man who is bad at arithmetic.”  If I comprehend this more accurately, I would think that he never said he was an incompetent musician and lacked the capacity for calculating in his head–he stated that he was not a business man whereas the mechanics of writing was required of him in support of his intellectual faculties”.  “I do everything badly except compose.”

He was not known for his writing ability either-yet, he is reputed to have been “very text conscious” which is clearly indicative of his capacity to comprehend.  Historically recorded, simple easy to comprehend statements from Beethoven and his contemporaries from his program of time, not modern day.  That Beethoven’s known capacity for stubbornness made up for his lack for his capacity of figures is indicative of the observation that if he really wanted to learn math-he most certainly did have the capacity inasmuch as the rest of us do.  Why?  Because geniuses are “whole brain thinkers”, not one-sided, and indicative that this particular genius clearly understood himself; thus purposefully intended a one-pointed concentration that is responsible for the enormous amount of work he is known for.  Musical geniuses are also mathematical geniuses, music and math having mirror twin properties of one another.

Referencing a statement in one of his letters to the countess, “We mortals with immortal minds are only born for suffering and joy”, is one of her over looked evidential points that this is who he wrote the letter to, but again, this is a general statement and is not evidence enough that he refers specifically to the Countess and himself within the scope of their communication, else he would have most likely (since I have demonstrated he did know how to count, after all) stated, we two mortals” or something else just as specific.  Beethoven, let’s not forget, was “very text conscious”.  Why should he not be reasonable then in assessing the fact all people suffered in varying degrees to “get understanding”; that like himself and the countess, everyone possessed within themselves immortality?  He knew about people in general, because he didn’t lead much of a sheltered life-as she was not the only person in the world that he communicated with, obviously from observing his track record.  From historical bookkeeping we may rely on, the number of different lodgings he occupied was very indicative of the fact that boy oh boy, did he ever get around!

Beethoven’s statement was to her father, not Fanny, (page 244) “.......... so that when he said to Fanny, ‘five years ago, he met someone,’ he was thinking about the time when he had ‘met someone again”.  Fanny’s diary states that she overheard the conversation between Beethoven and her father.  Therefore he did not make that statement to Fanny, (an obviously overlooked typo in this publication), for the primary purpose of discouraging that young lady.  On page 241, She states, “Thus when her father indelicately inquired about his love life, he knew that she was listening for his answer”.

How can she know about Beethoven’s awareness level during the situation since she was not there during the occasion?  I would think that if Beethoven, being the sort of man having a fierce sense of personal responsibility and hold over his own affairs-if nothing else-that history documents him as having, a man with a backbone, did not want this young woman’s father to know anything, he would certainly have cut to the quick and put him squarely in his place and -or told him nothing at all.  Beethoven was a God-fearing man.  A man who fears God has no need to fear man.

A man who fears man is more prone to lie and verify-and Beethoven was not known characteristically as such.  Beethoven didn’t bend so easily as she indicates, because this “man of his word” can be counted on: someone cracked to him how difficult it was to play a composition that Beethoven had fashioned, and he asked the man, “Do you think I considered your puny little fiddle when I wrote this?  No, I didn’t.”  Really , now: does this (or any of his other known comments) indicate a man who is prone to fold like a cheap tent when asked  fair question and where there is no real pressure for him to have to dodge the issue?  Therefore, that “Beethoven was not being completely honest with Fanny’s father” is unreliable.

She might as well called “this man of his word” a liar-which she practically did without being obvious about it on page 242.  Since Beethoven made it plain that he didn’t like liars, why would he put his reputation on the line in a moment of weakness to “deceive” another man just to spare his feelings?  “She says, on page 241:....... if Beethoven was so reluctant to express deeply felt emotions with long term friends, why would he suddenly confide in near strangers, opening his heart and giving them such intimate details about his love life?”

My answer to that is: according to historical accounts of those who knew him best Beethoven didn’t spare the feelings of his closest acquaintances many times, so why should smart folks presume he’d fold like a cheap tent with someone of a mere acquaintance?  She says that a close friend, Dolezalek, who knew him more than 20 years, claimed “he never showed he was in love”.  This is a reliable source for her to stack her theory on?  Imagine what a man like Beethoven might say in reply to such a suggestion, “Well, I certainly hope for both our sakes that Dolezalek was doing something else other than trying to figure me out on that account.”  Men don’t communicate over stuff of this nature as anally as women do.  This is not stated to detract from the other gender.  Hurting people’s feelings wasn’t the extent nor the intent of Beethoven’s capacity, but people who knew him best that didn’t want to bear testimony to that fact that he was quite capable understood where to draw the line with this “wild man”.  Having been a close friend, surely Dolezalek must be credited for knowing where limits and boundaries existed with his friend.

She states that “Beethoven was aware that Fanny had feelings for him and that only a man with the sensitivity of a lump of clay would have been oblivious to such open adoration”.  Well, Beethoven, was respected by her father as well-was he oblivious to that?  That their reception was pretty much intact indicates that he was well aware of what a great many people felt for him.  So then, if he has any sensitivity at all, then he was not a one-sided person either, in that he could make comparisons as to what was a deeply personal subject, and a general question that no one truly regards as a sensitive question, such as Mr. Giannatassio asking Beethoven if he knew of anyone whom he would consider in respect to the conditions that the father referred to.  There’s no reason to lie to someone or pretend when they have an answer to give someone.  The way I see it is that he satisfied the man’s question directly, and the man, who obviously also was in the educational field, same as the author, very well may have comprehended the answer without further pursuit (“Next time then, please”).  Neither of these two men were desperate for brains.

That the year 1811 was very significant to him because of the fact that no one else knew or had seen this woman doesn’t indicate that it was of no importance just because of lack of proof to anyone else.  Just because no one is able to link any woman Beethoven knew to the year 1811 is no grounds to eliminate consideration of that year for the subject matter discussed.  Why is it so hard to accept aside from the fact that her diary entry explodes theories and suppositions that various individuals have worked so painstakingly to develop and establish-I guess that would be sort of frustrating, wouldn’t it?

In the book Beethoven, he states that “Beethoven required tranquility and solitude for his creativity”.  On the other hand, she tells a story of a stormy relationship between Beethoven and Erdody.  If what her counterpart author states is closer to the truth-also indicative of the high output from Beethoven’s productivity then his most creative accomplishments along with other works of honorable mention would have been closer to impossible while bitching and bickering back and forth constantly with someone like Erdody.  Taking into consideration that Beethoven was a sick man (physically) as well, this sort of friction would not have helped him along towards the staggering amount of fruits yielded from his efforts.  So, do unproductive acts increase productivity?  Hardly.

So as far as I can tell this case she makes is as strong as a dried mud pie when one picks it up from its mold to test it cohesiveness and the only thing I feel that this author has going for her right now is that “Fanny G” along with the whole cast of characters is deceased and therefore not subject for recall to the witness stand in their own defense.  If they were here it could be pretty entertaining.

The moral of my rebuttal to her publication is simple: There is a snazzy little tone: "Already Gone", by a group called The Eagles:.........just remember this my girl, when you look up in the sky, you can see the stars and still not see the light.......

Was Beethoven a man of his word?  Without a doubt, she says.  But I can never really be certain getting it from this author's point of view.  There are too many booby traps to trip on, too much stick stuff varnishing over the road for the traveler on her path.


September 2001.  Nothing follows, yeah yeah yeah.  I was down at Mom's house again, cleaning in the den area, raking stuff out from under her couch.  Lo and behold, guess who's lurking under the seat....

 
 
I get the message.  Beethoven.  Time Travel.  True story. I get it.  But, not really.  Guess I'll never really 'get it'.  But it is what it is and that's all it is.  Something I just can't run from.


Part VI

Evening, Saturday.  I feel negative.  The itineraries are only halfway constructed for my boss, whose patience is unusually long for me, thankfully. But I feel like this will catch up with me sooner than later.  I read something earlier concerning this series of incidences of late that seemed to justify what I had been countering and I felt tied up in knots all over again.  One thing leads to another.  I wind up in tears.  I get in bed and order so-and-so away if so-and-so happens to be there and “leave me alone!”  “Go back and re-read it-it isn’t what it looks like-you’re not seeing it in the right light”.  “No!  Get out!  I'm confused and tired and I don’t care anymore about it, because I can’t get to the bottom of it to see an end to it!” I yelled.  “God, I want to hurry up and be out of my misery!  Please!”  I waited for a response, and dreaded it at the same time.

I slept restlessly.  I awoke, staring in darkness, trying to “see” something.  What happened next was, I suppose what I might as well go ahead, despite my reservations and say that it was like witnessing a blob of fog, that seemed to dissipate and thin out.  I stretched my eyes wide open and pushed my head upward towards the ceiling to make sure I was awake.  It seems, out of my “peripheral” vision to the right of my head, a small patch of lighted scenery, like early morning-almost like a dream scene, seemed to open up to reveal a person standing several yards from me.  The person was looking at me was if (whoever it was) couldn’t figure out what that person was seeing.  Either that, or couldn’t comprehend what was being seen. 

The eyes, along with the mouth that had a “gaping” frightful look.  I could not resist looking at that the person because of the way the person was looking at me.  At the same instance, the fixated expression of the person looking at me was garish to behold.  My right eye felt as though a “glare” was in the right side of my face, and I put my right hand up to that side of my face to shut out the glaring feeling.

Then it was gone.  I thought about what I had “seen”.  The person’s face, inasmuch as I could discern that I allowed myself to see, appeared rounded, full, and, as if whoever it was, might be suffering from a case of rubella, and loose, dark, “matted” hair.  I got the impression that this person just looked “lost” or alone.  Whoever this was, was holding a rectangular object in the right hand-clutching it to the chest, it seemed.  The expression on that face also gave a distorted appearance to it.  It lasted only momentarily, but left me with a sense of disquiet in that dark room by myself, because I knew I was not asleep.  I can still see that face and somehow find it hard to dismiss.  Next thing I know, I woke up to sunlight peeping through the sheers, creating pretty lace patterns of “light” on the wall.

        Sunday 22 April.  I got up feeling guilty.  Last night before I went to bed I got angry and wadded up the papers of the document log I had worked on as time progressed, and the other stuff that went with it, intending to burn it this morning-and later at the computer, hit “delete” and make everything on the disk disappear.  I just wanted to put it all behind me and start over clean today.  As the fire died down in the old wheel barrow I was using to burn it, my thoughts were turning back to the green environment I was in-it was beautiful, soothing to the eyes that were weary from lack of rest.  I stirred the ashes with a pitchfork to ensure there was no more fire and to cool the charred material before leaving it to find that there were some pages that still smoked red and caught fire again.

“The flames may be gone, but the embers still smolder-it is not ‘done’, as you think”, a soft bass voice seemed to whisper.  I could almost sense compassion in it.  I felt my eyes beginning to leak tears, and I was ready to succumb to them.

That I was “hearing” a voice in my mind, no longer surprised me, “Yeah, I know that”, I whispered back at it.

“You know it, but you don’t want to believe it.”

“I don’t feel like it is ever going to end.  I complained.  Then the water from my eyes began to flow.

“Well, that is because you still have something to discover”.

“Like what?”

“The truth.”

“I thought I had done that already.”

“If you had, you should be happy, shouldn’t you?”

“Yeah”, I said slowly, looking around warily, the “exchange” giving me the spooky feel that if I turned around I might see someone.

“Well?”

“So, what do I need to do now?”

“You should continue on, as indeed, there’s more smoldering underneath than what appears on the surface.  All you need to do is take action and uncover it.  Then you will experience happiness.  It’s up to you.”

28 April Saturday: I am down at Mom’s house.  I commence to cleaning up her house (while she is out, that is; she forbids anyone to mess with anything in her house without her being there.)  I clean around the den part, where she sits a lot.  The den is where the TV is, it’s her sun and fun room because, well, it’s the sunny side of the house in the afternoon especially., so she putters here a lot.  As I clean up, papers, and such, I begin raking my hands under the sofa.  A lot of scary stuff comes out from under there, to include, combs, rollers, paper where the rats have dragged stuff under and made a nest, and then, there is this interesting curio of discovery:

More shit on time travel with Beethoven!  Of course, everything is in theory, but it kinda puts goose bumps up and down my back because it’s just another step in the all too familiar sequence of events of late: time travel, Beethoven, parallel stuff, etc etc

I am amused…and resigned to the writing on the wall (or was that the floor this time??)  Whatever…I am too tired to be anything else right now….I’m just drifting with the flow of the current tempo of it all by now…

04 May - 04:00 AM: MIGRANE!  I am awake and in intense pain and cannot go back to sleep.  I get up and cannot find my ice bag so I get “enteric coated” which has invariably proven to do NO wonders for me at all.  I go to work feeling bad, can’t seem to get anything done, and eventually in the afternoon, I call it quits early.  Around 3:30 PM I go to the store for aspirin and something to eat.  From Winn Dixie in Wetumpka, I wind my way slowly down Jasmine Hill back to the house.  As I approach Jasmine Hill Gardens, I get a feeling to “swing in”, why I don’t know really - I figure that maybe I’d like to go this weekend if I feel better.

I roll down the window as a youngster is walking out of the main building, and I asked what are the “hours of operation tomorrow”.  He responds cheerfully, “9 to 5”.  “Okay- I will see y’all then,” I said, thinking, “What a little cutie!”  I start to roll up the window and he sprints over closer to my car and says, “You should really come out tonight for our moonlight stroll.” “Oh, it’s tonight? I asked, remembering seeing the wooden sign posted on the tree by the entrance “Moonlight Strolls”.  “How do you have it?”  “Each month on the night of the full moon.  It’s between 5 and 10.  Please come out-we will have a cheese and wine gala in the Olympia Building.” Boy, that kid was charming!!!  He talked me into it.  “Thank you for the invitation!”

I smiled a big smile for the first time that day.  His friendly disposition seemed to alleviate my pain.  “All right, sounds good, if I feel better” I thought as I drove the rest of the way home.  “Oh man, I bet it’s eerie looking at night.  Hmm.  I think I’ll go!”  My enthusiasm started to mount, then.  I decided that since I never have occasion to dress up anymore except for work, I would put on something nice.  Suddenly my enthusiasm mounted-I had something to look forward to.  I chose the long midnight blue dress with the white “moonflower” designs, scoop neck and the off-white long chiffon scarf, took a nice relaxing bath, ate spinach salad and baked chicken, washed it down with ice tea, curled my hair.  I felt like “ME” wanted to feel for a change!  I looked in the mirror, smiled and said to myself, “I will see you there!”

By 8:30 PM I was on my way back there.  I went into the main building into the gift shop and while waiting on the hostess to take my money for my pass, I decided to have a look at the miniature statues for sale.  “Oh, they’re beautiful!” I thought, looking at the pristine white material they were made from.  “They’re……” My smile faded as I saw a very familiar face-though I wasn’t absolutely sure.  I wanted someone else to clarify for me the identity in case I got it wrong.  I picked it up and carried it to the desk.  “W-who is this?” I asked.  I knew who I wanted to say, but I could be wrong.  The woman looked at it a long moment.  “Beethoven”.  I looked at it again.  “Oh!” I let out a laugh.  “I just knew I’d seen you somewhere before!” I said as I looked up at the woman-who was looking at me curiously.  I was used to that by now.

“Why do you have Beethoven in your Greek Statue Collection?  Isn’t this supposed to be exclusive collections of Greek paraphernalia?” I asked.  She said, thoughtfully, frowning, regarding the statuette I had in hand, “You know, I don’t know how Beethoven wound up in that shipment batch.  They come in from Greece.” I looked it over and said, “What’s it made out of?  “Alabaster.”  Pure white.  I bought it.  I almost waltzed out the door into the garden - and the first thing I wanted to see was “Winged Victory”-the most graceful and beautiful of all the figures in the garden.  I wasn’t interested really in anything else.  I had never been here at night-in fact, I had not been here since back in 96-when Paul persuaded me to drive up with him-when we did get there.  I am totally alone this time and can come and go as I please!  The warm, soft silvery spun breeze of this summer night gently caressed me in an intoxicating mix of floral scents, though I felt that I didn’t deserve such, but I did appreciate it very much.  I tried to avoid others sitting in groups as they talked which would no doubt spoil the meditative state of mind I wanted to maintain, and so I made a quick turn down another walk, unsure of where I was, really.

I turned around and walked the other way to avoid having to have any encounter with them, walking on the moon-illumined path I saw the huge white lion that struck initial fright in me when I first encountered it as a teenager.  Suddenly no one around caused a twinge of apprehension of not being able to see clearly ahead brought back that eerie feel I’d gotten before from it.  The first time I came here was many years ago my mother and a friend of hers.  I was 18, high school senior, and had rode up to this garden with my mom and a friend of hers.  I had been walking alone too, back then, in the daylight, and had gotten farther away from them than I had thought.  I spied a strange man looking my way, standing still on the same path as I, and I tried to conceal my panic.  I turned cautiously and walked the other way, which eventually broke into a run to where I could find more people, anyone else, perhaps.  I ran up and down the maze of rock paths trying to find my way back to where I’d wandered off.  I was looking down to watch out for my footing as I ran, to prevent falling on the jagged stone, and when I had hit a dead end I looked up and saw this ferocious looking huge statue with it’s teeth bared.  I was so startled that I let out a loud yell that echoed throughout the gardens.  It was a long time before I had a desire to go back to the garden.

Someone was approaching-couldn't tell if it was a man or woman, but as we got closer to each other on the path, I could see it was a woman.  She was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a shirt with a logo that belonged to the Gardens.  I greeted her, “hello”.  She said “hello” back as I was about to get past her.  She suddenly in front of me and bent down towards something growing, “Pitcher Plants, I think”.  “What?” I asked walking slower now, wondering why she said that to me.  “They’re still here, yes!” She stood straight up, looked at me and smiled.  “My name is Janice”.  She extended her hand to me.  I then asked, “Do you work here?”  She said, “I’m a volunteer.  I come here all the time.  “Oh, really?  Then you can tell me where I might find Winged Victory.  I haven’t been here in a while and haven’t gotten my bearings here in the dark.”  “Oh yes, I’ll be glad to walk you over to it”

She seemed really nice and lacking anything else to say to her, feeling the weight of the little figurine in my hand, I said, “Do you know why this statue got shipped with the gods and goddess figures?  He seems the odd man out of the mix.”  “No”, she smiled, then hesitantly, said, “Before I take you over to Nike, I want to show you something”, she said.  “What?” I couldn’t help smiling, my curiosity mounting.  “Something that very few people know is here.  We don’t advertise it because we don’t like to draw attention to it.”  Well, then, why was she showing it to me?

We turned the left comer and stepped down one, then turned to the left again.  “Right under here”, she said, pointing under the pruned hedge at a large round stone, fluted all the way around and less than two feet in height.  “So, what is it?”  “It’s a piece of one of the pillars of the ancient temple ruins of ”, she said with a hint of pride in her voice.  “It’s over 3000 years old.”  “Three thousand .... that’s-that’s older than…..” I couldn’t spit it out because it was practically in my own back yard….  “Older than Christ”, she said nodding, finishing off my statement.  “Wow” I laughed.  “Go ahead, feel it”, she encouraged me.  I did.  I felt a sense of awe realizing I had my hands on an ancient artifact for the first time.  This was turning out to be an interesting “Moonlight Walk”, more so than I’d anticipated-I was having a good time: as of tonight I now own a statue I’d never have thought, now this-a real surprise!  Janice, who knew nothing of me, an instant liking to me and I to her-she had a trace of peculiarity about her personality-which reminded me of Wanda in a way -the older lady I stayed with in Arizona-I liked her.  I was feeling happy!  “Why don’t you want people to know about it?”  “Because people have taken chips of it and damaged it so we figure if we don’t draw attention to it, we can better preserve it.  But I did want you to see it.”

We walked down toward a moonlit pond with statues around it.  The bass and tenor bullfrogs were croaking a very rhythmic song.  “There’s quite a concert going here!” I told her, laughing.  “Oh, yes!” she agreed.  She then took me on another path and we walked until we got to another square body of ‘liquid silver’ illumined water.  “There she is” pointing to the statue of my interest.  “Oh, that is pretty”, I said.  “Well, I’m going the other way now,” she said.  “But, let me give you some advice.  When you go the statues, really look at them and put your hand on them-feel the marble stones and get a sense for them – you’ll better appreciate them.  And go over there and sit down on the marble bench.  If you see it in the daylight sometime, on the back of it is a “picture history” of it.  I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her.  I wanted to know more about “my guide” now, and I asked her, “How long have you been here?”  “A long time, honey.  I’m really to busy to be a docent, so I come up here all the time to hang out and read and relax”.  “What’s a docent?” I wanted to know.  “A tour guide.  Well, enjoy the gardens!” She was nice!

I went up to Winged Victory and did what she said.  Then I went and sat down on the bench.  I tried to focus on the reason why I had decided to come, but kept looking at the miniature bust of Beethoven in my hand.  I looked and there was the name of the statuette right there in front of me!  Plain as day!  “Had I had looked a little better for myself instead of asking someone else I would have answered my own question!  Duh!” I thought.  I said out loud, looking at this little piece of carefully chiseled art, “It doesn’t matter where I go nowadays, there you pop up!  And it hasn’t always been like this for me, or could it be that I always been walking around with shutters on my eyes?  Filtering out one thing for the sake of another?  What has happened to my once upright, secure sense of my world?”  Then came to mind a passage out of the book reissued book by Solomon 1998, where he stated that “Beethoven preferred self-education through voracious reading in everything from Greek and Roman literature to esoteric writings on theology and science...” among other things he listed.

“Okay” I said to myself, staring at the beautiful Winged Victory, then thought about something else that someone else had pointed out about this person, that Beethoven was described to be more of the resemblance of a Mediterranean descent-darker complexioned than the average of his culture.  “So, there’s the connection…” I thought, something in my brain clicking as two synapses working in perfect synchronization.  As I sat thinking of the twists and turns I’d experienced lately, in respect to the subject, a thought came, “Well, you needed to know.  And here you are.  But this isn’t the end of the road.  As you have seen, being on this path has put you back on the one that you belong as it better suits your needs.”  Understanding that, I thought back over everything from start to finish and realized something really significant: Listening to music”: while drawn into the act of listening to all that music, I didn’t consider at the time that this music could actually have been the thoughts of Beethoven, himself-and being “in tune” with that disembodied intelligence-oh, my!-could that be what happened?

Is that possible that the medium of this particular wave of thoughts in the form of music was what was turning me inside out?  If not, then I have to wonder, how did I get from there to arrive here in this time/space that seems to involve that particular intellect?  As I sat there, I journeyed right into the heart of myself on the vehicle of an awareness level I had not been to with me before.  Then I remembered a quote from a book, “Unearthing Atlantis: An Archeological Anthology”, by Charles Pelligrino: “It’s all connected….Even a leaf in the palm of our hand is anthology of the universe…..(The three pound time machine): your mind is a time machine of sorts: of the countless million forebears whose DNA runs in your veins, you are the first to live outside the present…..the electrons coursing through your brain are billions of years old.  Compared to them a million years is a very short time”.  “The voice of wisdom for sure.  This is why I came here”.

I tallied as long as I could, the statue in my hand, the silvery moon’s reflection of the water in my eyes, the warm undeniable scents of springtime lost in my thoughts and recollections, wondering around the landscape of a waking dream of pillars intact reaching to the stars until a noise from the within the garden brought me back.  With that, I stood up, took my time walking back to the gift shop that led to the garden exit, wanting to stay knowing that I had no choice but to leave.  I realized a whole lot more upon leaving than when I first came here tonight.  What was that Dorothy (the one from the Wizard of OZ) said?  “If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own back yard.  Because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with.”

I paused at the desk to ask the woman about the artifact, and why it was such a secret.  She explained: “The Fitzgeralds had made some close friends with some people within the Greek Government and as you are aware that Government has had a great turn-over of people in it long since then-so that connection of friends is gone.  Possibly if anyone ever found out now, they may decide that they want the pillar back and worse case scenario-this could cause an international squabble, which we don’t want.  That is why we really don’t speak of it”.  “Don’t they have enough pieces to pick up over there already.” I thought.

05 May-Morning: I went back this morning and saw the garden again in the light.  I came upon an inscription in the inside of the wall of the garden, which read:

A kiss of the sun for pardon
The song of the birds for mirth
One is nearer to God in the Garden
Than anywhere else on earth

End of Log 06 May 2001.

Staurday 05 May-afternoon.  I went into work to make up for the time lost Friday, and catch up on a hot tasker.  I had declared earlier on that I would not have anything else to do with Paul that I didn’t have to.  I liked him but just thought it best that he have a nice life and I have a nice life without being around each other.  But, after last night, and the day before, I figured that if I was going to find out the truth about something for definite certain, I would take a chance and contact him via email: “Just testing you.  Do you copy?” I wrote then sent it off.  As I prepared to leave, I reached into the basket of mixed candy items I had and picked out a dove chocolate piece.  The wrapper read, “Time is a river without banks.”

“Yep.  Oh well, it’s time for me to leave”.  I picked up another one for the road.  I popped the second piece of chocolate in my mouth.  The second wrapper said, “Time is a river without banks”.  “YOU ALREADY SAID THAT!” I thought.  I said under my breath, “I am not going to push this conversation”, as I walked out the door.




End of log - 06 May 2001.

06 May, Sunday: By now, I am really wanting to talk to Paul to see if he will respond to a question that only he can verify for me.  I wanted to see if Paul could tell me without me reminding him, who it was that he spoke to concerning the question he asked.  I wanted to see if he even remembered the incident at all.  So I wrote:




07 May-Monday morning: I go into work and discover, to my delight, a message from Paul.  His verification of the individual I suspected, hit me harder than I expected, my heart was in my throat.  I started crying-a “knowing” feeling that now I knew for certain who it was.  This made my day, before it even started.

The voice message Paul left me goes as follows:

“Hey Lisa, I want to let you know that I got your email.  Hopefully you can open this but if you can’t I’m going to write you anyway.  The answer to your question about this stream: the guy was Beethoven, and he told me to stay away from synthesizers, the modern keyboards, you know.  Uh-yeah, and that was strictly for you to build your musical ability.  That’s what he was talking about.  But that’s what he told me (Paul giggles), I do remember exactly- in fact I do remember that.  But anyway, I’m going to try to let you know I got your message, I'm going to try and write you from work, or whatever, when I get a chance.  But, uh, hopefully you can open this, but like I said if not, I'm going to write you anyway.  But I’ll, uh, talk to you later.  Again, that was Beethoven.  He was the man.  And he said uh, that he did not like modem synthesizers-in learning, he said to stay away from them  So, I do remember (giggles again).  But I’ll talk to you later and will try to write you tomorrow.  Bye!”

(END OF RECORDED EMAIL VOICE MESSAGE)


I emailed Paul back and asked him to put all of this in writing.  He obliged me, and without questioning my reason for wanting it, to my surprise!  Boy, us having gone separate ways and living apart for a while has certainly paved a better path for old friends to walk on together again!  At this point, 1 still had not revealed my purpose in having him do this.  I wanted him to remember on his own everything that he could without any prompters from me.


Soon as I heard from him I emailed him back with my phone number.  About twenty minutes later, he called!

I finally got the letter Paul promised me (several days later):





Part V

“I not sure I know who I am anymore.  I only know that I probably need to do something, but don’t know.  What is it?” I demanded, growing impatient-feeling that everything I have finally managed to acquire of late, for stability sake is slipping away from me.  As if to answer back, there was that PERSISTENT, not so seemingly still small voice again- not what one would expect as the “voice of an angel”, either, but more like it as I was now accustomed to the tone of things now, it was a low rumble of thunder indicating a storm brewing.  “The danger lies in ‘clinging to dust’, instead of what is real and everlasting.  Stop telling yourself that what’s happening, really isn't.  How are you feeling, by the way?”

Suddenly, I wanted to just get out of that house.  Had to.  “Yeah!  Let’s go driving!” I jumped out of my seat, then halted.  “Let’s?” What am I saying? ....oh crap, I give up.  Come on, then, however it is you choose to GET IN!”  I was getting irate.  I,  or should I say, “we ??? for sanity sake, went to wash my car and fuel up.  Inside the car wash seemed indeed an appropriate starting place for “coming clean”.  Seems I cannot stand up for failing down.  Suddenly I felt overloaded with emotion in my brain-a trigger wanting to be fired for release sake.  “Why do I keep feeling like a Goddamn yo-yo?” I sighed heavily.  I turned around and grabbed pen and paper because here it came again

YOU broke a promise this morning because you are so afraid that ‘it’s going to cost you’, like she said, oh yes it is-but not in those terms.  Pity that you can excel at this-that you neglect channeling your energy into anything truly worthwhile.  Don’t you get it?  This vicious cycle is your doing!  Your refusal to deal with it.  That pattern is of your own design and do you ever wear it well!  That’s why you feel bad right now- either way you are going to pay a hefty price.  You cannot escape this.  Haven’t you been listening?  So, now let me ask you: what’s it worth to you?  Wrack your brain, my lady!”

“I know that.  SHUT IT UP!”

Don't tell me to "shut it up"!  What do you think “the big picture” is all about, anyway?  You need to make some very astute comparisons here for yourself before you get further down this road you’re on.  You’ve got what you need, but you’re not doing what you need to with it.  There is something you refuse to face up to that you are afraid to bring out and examine, and for your own good, you must reconsider.  But, the choice is yours-no one can do it for you or force you to-they can only work at encouraging you-but you have such a stronghold on this lock that bars you from yourself, that you seem so proud of having control over.”

(By now, I was exiting off of 1-85 to the Herron Street exit heading towards Prattville, still scribbling-hard and fast-writing as I was driving trying to merge with traffic.  "God!  I must be reckless!" I thought.)

"Lemme guess: you’re ANGRY at me, now?” I asked, daring to raise my voice, hoping to affect a calm in the thunderous voice rattling my cage.

" 'Angry ' "?  How many times do I need to spell it out for you?  Wbich flavor do you like-WHAT sounds good to you? It doesn’t matter how many times I say it and which version you hear-it’s the same message that you're not getting.  Let's give you credit where it’s due, here.  You’re not stupid, but you do have a problem and ifs obvious.  See, it sits on your shoulders.  Want me to define it for you?  Here: it’s called a “hard head.....”

“Hey!!!”  I said, smiling trying to lighten things up, “Are you that-um-entity that Dorothy spoke of?

“Oh!  You have got to have that clarified, too?”

(Silence.  I didn't want to hear any more of that.  I was getting beat, as usual, in this battle of the wits.  Then it started up again ....

“What have you learned about the behavior of opposites?”

“What are you talking about NOW?” I growled through my teeth.

“Simple to comprehend!  North and south ends of magnets do a very peculiar thing when they come in close proximity to one another”.

Oh, I get it-that’s a dead give away-too easy!  You must be the south end.  Get it?  HA.  So what's your point?”

“You're the one who isn't getting it, that’s what my point is!”

“I sure would like some more of that serenity stuff right now, ya know?”

“Well, the ball’s in your court.  GO GET IT”.  You have been met halfway already and now it’s your turn.”

“Stop!” I said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.  God, it hurts sometimes when you need to laugh, but don’t want to.

Inside Prattville Walmart: The first thing I see, stepping in the door, around the comer, is a RACK OF BOOKS??????? “No, no, n-o-o-o-o!  Look at the f-l-o-o-o-o-o-o-r!” I tell myself.  I look at the floor at the bottom of the rack and then glanced upward by mistake.  A book entitled, “HELP ME!  I'M MARRIED!” on the bottom rack.  “G-0-D!”   I grit my teeth and grin, trying to keep from laughing-the title just struck me as toooo funny.  I know that if I can’t contain myself I will be making an ass out of myself in public, and there will be no one else to point a finger at.  I look up to see a woman customer standing at the check out counter smiling at me as if wondering what is up with this grown woman.  I can see her eyes dancing, too-she isn’t fooling me.  I ducked into the isles, trying to “get lost” from sight.

By evening, I am feeling “unsettled” again in the pit of my solar plexus area, for no real reason.  So, I went over to where that now “confounded” portrait print, that I now regarded it as, lay on the table and snapped at it as though it might actually comprehend.  I had to target something I could see, was my mad logic I suppose.  “Go away!  I'm tired of you!” Then I thought, “What the hell am I doing?  What I am doing, I am doing to myself,   NO ‘self control’!  Then I thought out loud again to nothing or no one, “This is just me ‘reacting’ to ‘logical situations’ again-there’s no evidence to support any of this and I may be just doing it to myself again.”  “Oh, you want a-n-o-t-h-e-r sleepless night?” something seemed to tease inside my mind.  I shook my head as if in gesture of a ‘sanity check’, then said out loud, “I plan to sleep like a DEAD MAN,” I boasted in self-defense, then caught myself, “Lisa, shut UP while you’re still ahead!” I warn.

I have trouble getting to sleep. Why am I not surprised? Seems that each time I try to command myself to relax, I would tense up suddenly, most notably in my calves.  So I would tense my legs and try and relax them as a counteraction to the sensation.  Then change positions, but the feeling persisted.  I gave up.  “Please let me go to sleep!” I wanted to cry myself to sleep but nothing would come out.  So I couldn’t relieve my senses in that manner.  I folded like a cheap tent.  “Okay.  Have it your way.”  I relaxed, gradually drifted off after some time while I was trying to discern what should be considered real and what was not.  I didn’t get to come to a decision.  Briefly, it seems, I slept.  But it was not worth asking for.

I dreamed I was on an interstate, seemingly headed north, unsure of the reason why I was driving on it in the first place.  The road ahead seemed unclear-a dark uncertainty about it.  There were about two or three cars some distance ahead of me.  Suddenly, a law enforcement car has its lights turned on, siren sounding warbling as the vehicle makes a mad dash off the ramp-it came seemingly out of nowhere-and then crossing over as the driver sped up to get ahead of me into the same lane as I.  He was parallel with one of the cars in the left lane.  He began aggressively and persistently blowing the horn as if the driver wanted the other car driver’s attention.  This, in turn, seemed to agitate the driver of that car, and the driver then began misbehaving on the road, speeding up.  This dance went back and forth for a moment, and I felt I was too close to what might become a tragic situation.

I put on the breaks to put distance between myself, and what I anticipated might happen.  Someone almost rear-ended me-a driver in whitish van-because of my action in the process.  The van-seemingly, oversized to me-then pulled in front of me and further prevented me from seeing ahead at the action of these two whom I felt were flirting with disaster.  Unable to see what was going on, I then heard the sound of tires skidding and then a very loud bump-glass sounded like it had literally exploded.  So, I was unable to see the entire sequence of events to understand exactly what caused the crash, but the sound of the wreck made me feel “heartsick” in the pit of my stomach.  I opened my eyes in the dark room I slept in and the first thing I became concerned over was my older brother who had just gotten back onto the police force.  As I knew he was working tonight, this elevated my concern of the possibility of something having happened to someone I love so much.

Awake and worried now, I saw in my mind’s eye, the logical: various colored lights at the scene of an accident.  I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep.  I could not get the tragic scene, and worse than that, the feeling out of my mind.  It felt too real-frightfully so-although I knew I had been dreaming.  I tried to close my eyes again to block the image out of my mind, but I opened them to pitch dark again.

I lay awake again until first signs of daylight.  I was tired again.  I stayed in bed and drifted-not sleeping, but just drifting in and out of different levels of consciousness, thinking about things and why they might be causing me to be going through this "psychological" torment.  After a while, something seemed to be directing thought towards me, “You want sleep, and I want something.  If I can ever get it out of you, then we both can rest.”  “Easter morning”, I then realized.  “He is risen”, I thought, joylessly.  Then I thought, “Oh, yes of course, Him too.  You bet!”

April 15 Sunday I noticed something silvery falling off the eaves of the house.  It looked like rain, I wasn't sure, so I got up and pulled the sheers open and sure enough, it was coming down.  I made coffee and finished “picking up” around the house, whereas I didn’t get to do so yesterday.  11:30 came around and I decided that I would get out of the house and go get one of those sandwiches I liked from the bread company.

I was halfway there, nearing the exit of the 231 loop, headed towards Clay Street, with it still raining, when it occurred to me that driving there was senseless, considering it was Easter morning.  But then again, I didn’t seem to have much “sense” left in me.  As I got onto the interstate going south, I saw on the other side, an accident.  Several emergency vehicles were on the scene, and the ambulance departing the area going north was not making a mad dash to leave.

“Oh, no!” I thought, worried.  “Lord, please help those people”, I prayed.  I could not see clearly, but when I got parallel to the scene, a dark compact car, similar to the shape of the one I saw in my dream was sitting next to a reddish colored pick-up truck that was crunched inward on the driver’s side, from the door jamb forward, to the front fender, like someone had side-swiped it.  I am thinking that if the victims have survived, it would be a miracle.  Past the scene going into the Atlanta highway, I’m somewhat shaken by this and how it reminded me of that dream just hours before, and somewhat more cautious now.  A thought comes at me: “Unfortunate.  Nonetheless, you saw this coming.  In a way, you should take a good look at yourself in comparison to this.  When are you going to stop thinking that anything else that has happened is less real?  This, too, is unfortunate, that you won’t.  Indeed, you are reckless”

April 15:Sunday night.  I once again had accepted the events and things that had been going on with me as something that warrants a more thorough investigation.  Once again, I felt at case.  I slept peacefully.

April 16-afternoon: I call mom from work in the afternoon and spoke with her, just to touch base with her and perhaps, try and touch on what I knew as reality: so I asked her point blank if she believed in angels.  I wanted to know that perhaps if anything, I was dealing with something good.  She wanted to know why I asked and I cautiously said, “Well, I kinda don’t feel that I’ve been alone lately- does that sound crazy?  “Do you think someone is living with you?” she asked specifically.  Did she have to ask that?  “Who do you think it is?” She asked.  “I haven’t the slightest idea”, I lied.  “Your Aunt Lois?”  “Well no,” I said, certain that this was not characteristic of the Aunt Lois I knew all of my life.  “I don’t particularly get that feeling”  “Maybe a relative?”  “I don’t think so”.  “Who, then?”  “Mother, I can’t tell you.”  If I told her that, then I would find myself explaining everything else in order to justify why I thought so.  “Why not?”  Now, I’ve been told all my life that I am just like my mother and this is why we can’t get along, although I deny half of it.  But, whereas prodding someone until they give in, I definitely have to differ with anyone that I am just like her.  I know when to quit-usually after the second try.  But, Mom?  We all have moms and I don’t really have to explain this, do I?

“Because”, I thought to myself, “there are some things that you just don't discuss with relatives and close friends”.  Experience tells me that they are not too understanding.  An uninterested uninvolved bystander with an objective viewpoint is a safer bet.  And so I danced around the subject with her about “to whom this might possibly concern”.  That much she could not squeeze out of me if my life depended on it.  She said, “Well, Lisa, I can tell you that I have never doubted that we all do have angels watching over us, but I don’t think we are supposed to know who they are.”  “How do you know?” I wanted to know, my heart starting to shake a little in that something hit me hard as a realization that there might be more to this and more credible that my imagination, as I suspected half the time.  I had asked, “Who was the name”, and didn’t get an answer the other day.  It was hot in the house, but I felt “chilled” inside.  I no longer thought this a “joke”, but started looking at the situation with a more serious attitude.

She started on me again.  “Is this someone I know about?”  Like I said, she doesn’t know when to quit.  “W-e-1-1, maybe; maybe not.”  Who?” she kept chiseling away at me.  I was almost sorry I’d even phone her at that point.  “Somebody.” I said without thinking.  “Damn!  What are you doing?”  Now I was using an actual character reference of “person”!  “Do you know who this somebody is?”  I wouldn’t answer that, but I told her in general that I was having an unusual string of experiences that I’d been having without going into detail; then told her about going to see a psychic.  “Oh, you did?” she said with surprise in her voice.  “Yeah, I did.”  “What for?” she asked.  “I just told you.”  “You couldn’t tell me?” she asked.  “Hell no, mother”, I thought.  Then I said, “Well, no, not about this, but you always told me that if I felt I couldn’t talk to you that I had better talk to someone.”  She told me then, “Well, Lisa you know that these people ask you questions in a slight manner before answering you”.  I said, ‘I know that mother, I just needed someone to talk to at the time, and she just happened to be the first available person at 10:00 that night and I really needed to talk to someone.”

I had to make a quick exit.  “Hey mom, maybe I’ll tell you more about it later.  I just can’t do it right now.”  She relented then, getting the message, but said to me, “Well, Lisa, next time you are inclined to throw your money away like that, you just come down and see me with it and I will find a better way to justify spending it for you”.  Thanks mom, I thought sarcastically.  I knew I could count on you for something smart-assed as the last word from an all-wise voice of authority.  God, I love her unconditionally, but God forbid: she is not the person for me to excavate “deep issues” with.  Can’t she just listen without lecturing for a change?  There really is no one to talk to, (so maybe that is why I am having to write it?)-maybe when I’m dead and gone, they’ll find something useful to do with this effort.

Thereafter, I became real “down” on myself and couldn’t pull myself out of it.  I wanted to just “snap my fingers” and have everything back to “normal” before all of this.  I wasn’t getting things done at work as I felt that I should or wish that I could for job satisfaction and goal striving sake.  I was always having to do things as “last minute”-crucial stuff, like a house threatening to slide off its foundation.  I exerted extra energy in trying to ensure that I didn’t misstep and let things fall through the cracks.  I didn’t want to fail in anything at work.  I drove down the winding Jasmine Hill road from Winn Dixie in Wetumpka, which seemed longer than ever this evening.  By the time I had gotten home, I was in tears.  I parked the car in the garage and stayed there, and calmed down.  Then, I felt alone suddenly, too soon, for no reason.  I cautiously got out of the car, and as I turned around I thought that I saw a “barely there” shadow hurriedly walking away from me towards the living room wall, then nothing.  I shook my head, certain my bleary tear stained eyes were playing tricks on me.  I grabbed and opened the half jug of the Paisano, and instead of pouring it into a glass, as usual, I just turned it up and started drinking out of it-too fast too soon-I just wanted to fill that void and numb it, and close my eyes and go to steep as fast as I could, so that I would not have to think anymore.

April 16, 7:30 PM.  I tried to focus on sleeping and how good it would feel, as the night before.  I couldn’t concentrate on resting because I was getting those sensations again in the leg, then on the side of the head if pressure were being applied to both sides of it.  I turned over, readjusting myself, to see if that would make any difference.  Yes, it made a difference, in temporarily disrupting the sensations that came right back, and still I could not close my eyes.  I could not believe that something seemed very much to have me completely by my mind, now, and I could not rest as a result.  So, the only thing left to do was vent.  I had to blow off steam.  I sat straight up in bed and talked into blackness:

“I must congratulate whoever or whatever is causing this for the ability to be CONSISTENT”, I thought angrily, now thoroughly fed up with the process, “something that you seem to be better at than me!”  “Oh, no, you’re consistent too-an equal and opposite unwavering reaction”, there seemed to say with a touch of humor coloring the air about me.  “The problem you’re having is that you have so much to place blame with, that you don’t where to lay it down first."  I couldn’t take these “insults” anymore.  I became very arguable.  “I’ll tell you what my problem is!  My problem is that I can’t possibly believe in anything if I CAN'T SEE IT!. 1 can't see you-now maybe that is what my problem is!  But you see me-I don't think THAT’S FAIR!  But, I am NOT afraid of you!  And you wanna know SOMETHING ELSE?  The whole problem with me is that right now we are each other's problem!  THAT is what I am having a problem with!  So, in knowing that, I don’t have a problem!”

“How many times is it going to be like this before someone admits a stalemate?”

“No kiddin’!  Finally!  Someone admits it!”  I shot back without thinking, but just reacting.

Nothing.  No Response.  Silence hung in the air like a silver halo of clarity.  The only thing I was aware of now was my breathing.  I felt like I had just gotten something huge off of my chest.  I had blown my top, and the pressure was off me now.  I felt a tremendous sense of release from grief, like something lifted off my conscience.  I felt a sense of freedom somehow, but wasn't sure of what to do with it.  Then it hit me.  I backtracked, and thought about what I just blurted out.  What was that bottom line, again?  Not up until then, did I really realize that it was me who hadn’t been “getting it”.  I felt then like I had just lost the argument.  At this point, there was no fight in me.

By 11:45, 1 had cooled down because I sensed that this “battle” somehow had run it’s course, and that there had to be an end to it somewhere.  I was hoping that the hour was finally upon me for it.  Now that I had blown off steam, what had been so suspect many times before was still in front of me as the fog cleared from my senses.  It had been there again and again and it was the only thing left standing to observe after this final stage in the whole conflicting process.  I remembered then what the psychic said to me about someone wanting me to see something, but that person could not get me to see it because I was blocking the effort, somehow, but that I didn't know what I was doing to cause it, and that was what was frustrating me, and preventing the other from succeeding in the assistance of it.

What a tangled web we certainly do weave!  I was realizing more and more the very real coinciding differences in my acceptance of things happening as really having happened in a progression of events that was turning into the story of my life at present and being at rest, then rejecting it and being restless, as becoming a set pattern.  Was my conscience working for me or against me, here?  If there was anything that I was not seeing, and complaining about not being able to see, then this must be it.  Otherwise, just like any good salesman who knew when to quit talking, why the sudden deafening silence?

I then, for some reason, realized something: if you want to understand someone, put yourself in his shoes.  I opened my eyes.  What?  What has this got to do with anyth....... oh, no.  As I turned my eyes to the right and looked in the direction of the large mirror on the wall, I thought I heard a quick “zap” to the right of my head, like “nervous electrical discharge”-a lightning quick “something”.  I sighed, tired of thinking at all, closed my eyes and turned my attention back to my thoughts.  “Mirror?  Shoes?”  I became relaxed.  So, how do I get out of all this?”

Then, I remembered an ad many years ago in the back of a magazine, with a figure sitting cross-legged in a robe, and the caption said, “The only way out, is in.”  I thought to myself, “I have to go into me in order to get out of this problem?”  “You wanted to know something.  You wanted to solve something on your own terms because you didn’t believe anyone else.  So, look.” “Look at what?” I wondered.  “Think”.  “Think?  I’m tired of that!” Silence, again.. This always seemed to be a cue for me.

“Look”, I thought.  “What’s there to see?”  Then, I remembered that “picture”.  Think-about what?  I started to drift off to sleep after a moment.

Tonight-17 April I must say that was one heck of an experience.  There is no sense in telling myself it never happened.  “I may have an angel, indeed.  It doesn’t matter who it is”.  Indeed, in my flying dreams and my falling dreams I have sensed to varying degrees, “another” that I have never been able to turn around to witness the face of the warm presence of strength.  Most folks who would hear this comment knows right away what I am saying.  They too, have felt it.

I read the words to the song and they never meant anything till now.  so near, so far .... ah, wherever I am there you are also"; how very similar indeed, are those words in this song near, far, wherever you are ... I believe that the heart does go on.  Yes indeed, how similar are the thoughts of human beings around the world that does suggest a base continuity of connectedness, no matter "where we are" or "when we are".  I can see what it really means.  So, I heard it again for the very first time, tonight.  Now, it is like an endless loop recording, forever and ever around and around in my mind.

Next day, I have a fire in a wheel barrow, outside.  So what of all the books-especially the one on the “singing for life”?  Well, today, I thought about all of the money I spent on those books that I have never read but sit and collect dust instead.  I wondered out loud why I did that to the know-it-all somewhere in front of me, beside me or behind me.  I was ready for anything that would be “pull out of the air”.

“Are you sure you’re ready to hear it?” came the response.

“It’s now or never”. I encouraged in full reception to it.

“You think if you can read so much into your life about what you believe is real-this life you live, you can compensate for what you aren’t willing to admit that you know so little of.  Just as you have to open up to music in order to learn to respond to it, you cannot close yourself off from who you truly are-as you have erroneously done in the past.  You see now how dangerous it is.”

“God!”  “You know what I find irritating about you?”

“Yes.”

I raised my eyebrows, almost turning around, “What, then?”

“That I can be honest with you when you can’t.  It’s easier for me to point it out, as it is difficult to face oneself in the mirror.  But it will be easier on you if you’ll accept the truth, whatever that mirror is showing you.  And what you must do for yourself is make a conscious choice.  You have the free will to choose taking the lower path, which constitutes dying, or the higher path, which accelerates living.  You can continue to turn away and ignore and no matter how many steps you take to distance yourself from the truth about yourself, it will never end up like you prefer, even in your dreams.  The essence of truth is eternal and you cannot alter that just by desiring it to be a certain way when it is not.  That is error.

In summary, my fear of death is almost non-existent, now.  It is a comfort to be free of a fear of something that I know is inevitable.  Why this string of occurrences that led me to this revelation, all I can say is that it remains to be discovered.  Too, I know that I won’t cross over alone, not after all of this.  End of log.  Nothing follows! xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

21 April Noon.  Yeah, right-nothing follows, as always.  I think I understand why this thing is still running like it's in control of itself. guess I haven’t heard the fat lady sing-do I have to??'??  I am wondering if I should give this “psychic” thing another try.  Dorothy told me not to go see “another reader”.  I wasn’t going to, but I was going to talk to Col XXX, who is a very understanding person in so many ways, someone I can trust.  But I haven't seen her, lately.  As I sit at the now infamous Bread Company eating my favorite sandwich-that flavor that I will always associate with this string of events now, I feel the need to really talk to someone, and I ask for a phone book from the counter.  Very few choices for “readers” in this city-being where it is-in the heart of the South.  I act on instinct with a choice.

I call the Psychic Center, halfway expecting a “frumpy grumpy”.  I find that the voice on the other end is friendly-more open and receptive.  Nice change!  After talking with this lady on the phone, I feet more comfortable in going to see her.  I do, and as I am speaking with her, sitting on her couch, I noticed that she has a pair of fairly large white Egyptian figures seated side by side on the table in front of me-whereas in the other psychic’s domain was the Buddha figure (just an observation, here).  I commented about the statues and told her the lady I went to before (didn’t call her name) had mentioned something about Egypt and then I tried to explain what she said regarding a pyramid.  I asked abpout the graceful figurines, “Who is that”?  She said, “That is King Tut, and his wife”.  She is very easy to converse with, and best of all: NO RIDDLES!!!!  She speaks plain English!


She then proceeded to tell me how she came about owning them.  She said, “It is my personal belief that everything has a match to it, somewhere, that there cannot be one without another”.  “Oh yeah, that is my idea about the duality in nature, too, but I don't have enough knowledge in this area in order to argue the point and win whereas so called soul mates are concerned because I believe strictly in individuality-that God, himself is individual-but that is not to say I am right about soul mates or reincarnation- I just have my own conclusions about that” I said. 

“Yes, I understand what you are saying”, she said softly, smiling.  “But we do agree that duality does exist throughout nature.  My challenge that I like to take is to find the missing counterpart and bring them together, and I enjoy doing such.  It used to be that I owned King Tut by himself, and I was always looking for the match to this figurine.  I never could find it and I gave up on it.”

“One day, my husband came running in excited to me and said, ‘Honey!  Guess what?  I found her!’  I said, ‘you found who?’ He said, ‘I found King Tut’s wife!’ And that is what I am doing with both of them together!” she smiled at me.  I really liked this young woman-she was a breath of fresh air to me after all of the previous upsets!  She wanted to hear what I had told the other woman and so I repeated I told her about the progression of events and how when I tried to get on with my life, things happened that interrupted by capacity to do that, and when I turned my mind back to it, things stopped happening. 

She said, smiling, “What that sounds like to me is that someone doesn’t want you to ignore and forget about this, but to deal with it.”  Guess there’s no getting around it, then-having heard it from two different (pardon me – THREE- different) sources. She was such a pleasant personality.  Still, when am I going to get to make time for it? And how am I going to do it?