Opening Up

I didn’t put the philosophical questions of a possible past life as PKD as neatly aside as I had pretended.

I suppose from an earlier entry some of my readers might have guessed that.  I am still deeply bothered that, if I was him, I’m still here in this continuity where he’s given up for dead, not a whole hell of a lot has changed, and Ferris Fremont Donald Trump has a real chance of becoming president.

I was kind of guilted into trying not to think about it for a while by someone who I’m not sure I can count as a friend any more.  We didn’t really speak after he began spouting more and more bile against Muslims on Facebook until one day, he made a really patronizing post about why the LGBT community should hate Muslims as much as he does.  I made a friendslocked post on my Facebook calling him out and coming out trans for probably the first time to a lot of people who watch me, and I haven’t heard from him since.

Anyhow, this guy- let’s call him J- was quite adamant that I couldn’t have been PKD, in part because he was convinced he’d ascended into the pleroma.

And the thing is, Phil was convinced he would ascend into the pleroma too.  J had a point.  If someone like him couldn’t transcend the cycle of death and rebirth, then what was the point?

I’d been reluctant to talk to anyone about this since.  Most of the people who were willing to listen had little to offer.  But I finally got a chance to talk at length with my bishop about it, and he basically offered the idea that if I was him, and I’m still here, then there must be a point to it because we do have something to accomplish.

J was the sort of person who would have abhorred the idea that there was any point to being here.  He referred me to a Buddhist writing which called the world a “burning building” and was very adamant that escape was the only valid goal.  I had internalized his ideas because first, J seemed to know what he was talking about most of the time (except when it came to Muslims… and the economy) and second, because he and I share some admiration of Rev. Dr. Stephan Hoeller, one of the great scholars of gnosis of our time and, incidentally, the bishop to whom my local bishop answers directly.

But back to my talk with the bishop.  This was right before I went on my long drive out to Aurora and had my breakthrough about my tendency toward a savior complex.  I had started reading Phil’s novel “Radio Free Albemuth” some time before but hadn’t finished it due to distractions.

A couple days ago, I finished reading it finally, and I have to say that if I was him, and if there ever was a single manuscript that represented the answers I was looking for, this is it.  A bit of background: RFA was written before “Valis” and represents the book in its original form; but it’s a radically different story, and contains all of the flaws you’d expect of an early draft from Phil.  It derails and rambles a few times, the plot isn’t articulated as well as it could be, and the ending felt like a deus ex machina.  The whole time I was reading it, I was thinking “if I submitted something like this to my publisher, they’d make me rewrite the whole thing too!”

But it’s an important piece of the puzzle.  It’s an honest, story-driven take on Phil’s experience rather than a Gnostic tractate with a picaresque novel written around it like “Valis.”  And in it, I found two pieces of wisdom that really resonated.

One of them was the ending.  Let’s see… how do I describe this without spoilers?  Old growth is cleared away, leaving the younger generation to flourish and carry on.  That’s the archetypal theme.  I imagine there’s probably an I Ching hexagram that corresponds to that though I’m still learning I Ching.  Essentially, the torch had to be passed to a younger generation.  Phil had to die because perspectives had to be renewed.  If I was him, then it could be by design that I was brought back here.

This is relevant.  I recently chanced on the Facebook page of someone who knew Phil (not my former friend J, who was only a fan and didn’t know him) and was struck by how they complained about how this generation never gets anything done and spends their time playing Angry Birds while their generation was protesting the Vietnam war; simultaneously, they were complaining about the present generation of activists and their protests.

Not only did it put me off making any attempt to reach out to them via Facebook since we clearly had little in common any more, but it gave me pause to think: what would I say about Millennials if I was still Phil, pushing 90 years old and having done and seen so much that my worldview was set fifty years ago?  If I was meant to do something in this world, I couldn’t do it with such an outlook.  I would have had to shed all that, the same way a snake sheds its skin.

The other one is the idea that the end goal was not mine to know or strive for; if I was meant to be part of it, then I must trust that the Lord has already made a path for me and follow it.  This has been reinforced by the fact that my attempts to advance beyond my boring but stable existence into a better career or some kind of position of leadership have been thwarted by forces beyond my control.  I always have the sense but not the certainty that something is keeping me on this path, like I’m on rails, and that this path is good and right and where I’m meant to be even if it tries my patience sometimes.

The passage went like this:

“So now I knew who Valis was; he was my father, my real father, from whose race I came repeatedly into this world, to leave again, to return again, to work toward some distant goal unseen, not as yet comprehended. The search, perhaps, was the goal. As I achieved a little motion toward it, I understood it. Overthrowing the tyranny of Ferris Fremont was a stop along the way, not a goal but a moment of decision, from which I then continued as before. Changed to some extent, but changed by my father, not by what I had done. For, I understood, Valis himself did it, through me. The virtue lay with him.”

There is no reasonable way forward for me except to continue on the path that has been set before me and not let my ego get in the way. I am doing well in my spiritual growth in this church and I believe continuing to study for holy orders is the correct place for me to be.  I am doing well working part-time and recovering, albeit slower than I’d like, from the shock of Jack’s memories.  I am doing well writing the kinds of stories I want to publish with a publisher willing to print them provided they’re of suitable quality.  I am doing well in my historiography about Count William as well.  These are the gifts I’ve been given.  These are the tools of my path.  I waver, I falter, I get distracted, but I always reaffirm my direction when I meditate deeply upon it for any length of time.

+ Adsum domine +

Some Days…

Some days it feels so surreal to have a calm, easy job with very little danger.

Some days I feel like I just got back from a war that ended 98 years ago, and that the life I’m living now is a strange, jarring adjustment even though I can recall everything that led up to this point in my life.

It’s as if I’m simultaneously aware of the intervening 101 years since his death and yet still dealing with the fallout from the war as if I only found out what happened four years ago; like that part of myself had been unconscious, unrecognized, and unable to begin healing until that terrifying moment when it all came screaming out of the blue like a whizz-bang.

There’s no resources for people like me.  The few counselors and psychiatrists I’ve talked to are stumped.  I’m not psychotic and in all likelihood, not fantasy-prone.  At least, fantasy-prone people don’t read as classic PTSD cases to complete strangers.  I do.  I have had several people- some doctors, some PTSD sufferers themselves- recognize those features in me without being told about them.  I had some pretty bad anxiety before, but I never actually had a real, honest-to-God panic attack until those memories broke.

Whatever happened- whether it was a self-inflicted mindfuck or a genuine recollection of a past life- it seemed very real to me and it’s had many of the same effects you’d expect of having a genuine memory of this nature.  All I need is for someone to recognize that whatever it is, I’m hurting and the pain is real.  Some days it feels mercifully far away but all it takes is a single explosion or a strong whiff of chlorine and it’s back.

I keep hoping that one day, some outside-the-box therapist or doctor will see this blog and take me as a patient, charge free.  All I can pay is my story and a case that’s so unique it could be a case study for years.  I need someone who is willing to go the extra mile to really understand what’s going on, who will read my books, listen to every little story, and look at the big picture to try to make me whole again.  I keep hoping and praying you’re out there but so far, nobody has come forward.

Now This Is Strange…

I had a brief memory flash of serving in India during colonial times.

Now, I know for a fact that Jack (the life I lost in WWI) had served most of the Edwardian era in Secunderabad.  However, the flash I had was of going into arid hills with a band of soldiers to hunt bandits.

According to a quick scan of search results on Google, hunting bandits in arid hills sounds more like the 19th century.

I am pretty sure that I was a soldier in my mid-19th century life, but could I have been in India during that time as well?  That would be two lives, back-to-back, as a British soldier serving in India.  I’d had a strong feeling that I had been to India in that life before, but after I discovered Jack’s tour of duty in Secunderabad I had nixed that.  I hadn’t considered that I’d been there in two subsequent lives.

That would explain why the flowery trappings of British Victorian orientalism seem so stuck in my head, in some deep place that I can’t quite see.  Two lifetimes of that is enough to make a deep impression.  Every time I saw some fragment of that cultural phenomenon while I was in England in this life, it gave me weird feelings.  The Royal Pavilion at Brighton was downright eerie in that respect, with its orientalist whimsy bordering on madness, stylized banana leaves all around in places where they were really not needed.  In some part of my mind, I see flashes of dark, smoke-filled rooms with dim lanterns and brightly-colored fabrics all around.  I smell a hit of exotic spice.  But this isn’t a place I’ve been necessarily; it’s a cultural construct of a place I thought India might be all those ages ago and it’s still there, in my mind, a dated and ego-dystonic construct born of Imperialist naivete.

I wish I could remember something more, something concrete that I could track down and confirm once and for all.  What did I do as a soldier in that earlier life, and what went wrong that saw me drummed out and turning to the seafaring life?

Thinking of doing a past life regression again soon.  It seems that earlier life has come through pretty clearly in regressions and dreams, so it’s probably not very deep in my subconscious.  Exactly why this life in particular would be so close to the surface is anybody’s guess.

Back At It

So a while back, I had the idea to create a small, portable shrine to my WWI life as a means of closure.  It would be creating the sort of box or tin of items that might have been left behind had Jack’s belongings stayed together.

But a couple of things happened.  First, I didn’t have the money which was a deal-breaker.  Second, I was kind of enjoying the stretch of time when I wasn’t feeling particularly disturbed by those memories and I was trying to avoid dredging that up, hoping it was finally behind me.

The need for closure has reared its head again, so I’m back in the process of buying items bit by bit to assemble into this simulacrum of the sort of thing an Old Contemptible might have kept in his sock drawer after the war.

I already had my first item, a sixpence from 1913 (and a shilling from 1893, which will be among the items that aren’t WWI related but give the impression of a person who might have been pressed for a safe place to keep a special item).  I’d had these coins for some years and I thought it interesting that I was drawn to these specific coins one day about 18 years ago.

Today, I bought a couple more items:

lighterstuff

The stereo slides will go in a general collection of ephemera I’ve been amassing, but the lighter (probably a reproduction) will go in the shrine.

Some of the items I intend to add to the shrine:

*An Edwardian box or tin to keep everything in.

*A recreation of the letter Jack’s father likely received upon his death.

*A print of a photo showing soldiers from the KSLI (I just need to find a suitable paper stock to print the image on).

*A KSLI cap badge (original or reproduction)

*Reproduction ID discs (these have been sourced but are a bit expensive)

*Reproductions of Jack’s medals (sourced but expensive).

*Assorted paper items such as manuals or chits (if I can find them) or period papers not necessarily related to the war such as old ticket stubs.

 

There are three other items that might be interesting to add, but I’ll have to pick them up when I travel to France, Belgium, and the UK:

*A hop picker’s token from Hereford

*A small vial of soil from as near to the spot where Jack fell as I can recall

*A pressed poppy from Flanders.

The shrine will be kept, just as Jack might have done had he had the chance, tucked safely away in a dresser drawer.

On Yesterday’s Breakthrough- More Thoughts

I think part of the reason it came to me in an antique store out in the country is because of the fact that this setting has a deep connection to my psyche.

In fact, I think if my subconscious was a building, it would be an antique store in the middle of nowhere.  Chock full of fragments of lives I’ve lived, many of them forgotten to conscious thought but not lost forever; in the nooks and display cases I can still find them, if I explore long enough.

I often have dreams of taking long drives down narrow country roads and stopping at antique stores.  It’s an archetype that is ever-present in my mind.  In a way, what happened yesterday was like descending into a dreamscape where I could freely explore the subconscious.

There was also a disinhibiting stimulus- I had attended mass that morning, and was still feeling that sense of timelessness in the road with its old bridges and roadside fixtures and in the little town and its antique stores.  I had opened myself up to that timelessness and was in a liminal state when I drove into Aurora.  I still felt that time had stood still for me after the third or fourth store.

Also, I had to really sleep on it to gather this, but that one moment in Jack’s life and the place it came from is significant to so many of the things I angst over here and now.  This is relevant to my lingering questions about gender (after all, I still have that impression of stoic Victorian masculinity lodged in my being some place where it won’t be removed easily). It’s relevant to my tendency to see myself not having much of a future, seeing myself being killed in prison for something I’ve done or said as if it’s an inevitability. It’s relevant to my courageous and idealistic but ultimately self-serving tendency to rush headlong into causes where I know full well that I’m putting myself in danger. It’s relevant to so much of my angst about the upcoming presidential elections.

This probably isn’t the only significant thing I can learn from past lives, but it’s the most significant thing that I’ve come across in a very long time and it’s a pretty big deal.

One more thing: I tried to find a piece of music that carried the same emotional charge for me as the feeling I’ve tried to describe.  I tried the usual British flag-wavers like “I Vow to Thee My Country,” “Land of Hope and Glory,” and “Nimrod,” but they just don’t do it.

The only piece of music I could really think of that does it for me was the Adagietto movement from Mahler’s Symphony No. 5, especially the first few bars of it.  Imagine that playing over the story I posted, during the part when Jim is telling Evelyn not to cry.

 

Thoughts on my Last Post, Part 2

While I won’t post anything from my most recent novel (keeping with my promise not to promote my published work here), I will share a short story I penned around April and revised slightly in June but have never had the nerve to post anywhere else.

Here is a perfect example of the doomed Englishman archetype resurfacing in my work.  It’s very telling that I had in mind that he was roughly Jack’s age, if he’d survived the war and lived into the late 40s.

Incidentally, the ending was meant to be enigmatic, though at the time I was going through questions about my gender related to the prevalence of this very male archetype in my psyche.

Farewell, Mr. Bagshot

Wandsworth Prison- 18 November 1946, about 7:45 AM

“I must admit this is the first time anyone’s asked for their solicitor,” the warden, a tall, severe man with thick glasses mumbled. “Most of the time it’s a priest they want to see. Do you reckon he thinks you can get him a last-minute pardon?”

A woman in a smart, professional-looking dress walked alongside him, the hard soles of her shoes tapping lightly on the walk past cell after cell. “Not likely,” she said. “Not knowing him.”

“You know him well, do you?” the warden said, arriving at the condemned cell and reaching for his keys, sliding the big heavy key into an ancient steel door and opening it.

“No better than any other client,” she lied.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes, if you’ve got any business do be quick about it,” the warden bellowed, shutting the door of the cell.

The inside of the cell was white-washed with a single window with heavy bars at one end. Little else except a lone cot with a thin mattress, a table, two chairs, and a single electric bulb in a fixture high overhead furnished the room.

Mr. Bagshot sat at the table, looking as well as a man could be in his predicament. He had a smart tweed suit on, with a red brocade waistcoat and a green bowtie, his mustache immaculately groomed into a perfect pushbroom. In his hand he held a glass of brandy that was half-finished. The solicitor winced as the noxious smell of the cheap brandy- the only nicety afforded a condemned prisoner- hit her nose.

“Ah, Miss Moore! Wonderful to see you!” he said, his warmth genuine and his tone strangely calm. “Well, come on, do have a seat!”

She sat down, scarcely able to look at him. What could she say?

“Hello, Mr. Bagshot,” she said quietly, the name sitting heavy on her tongue as she took a seat across the table from him.

“Oh, come now, let’s not be so gloomy, Miss Moore,” Mr. Bagshot said. “My troubles are nearly over. And it’s Jim now, there’s no business left for us I’m afraid, so we might as well talk like two people who know each other, eh?”

Miss Moore fought back tears, swallowed hard and gazed at the rough surface of the wooden table. In it were carved the names and dates of nearly every prisoner who had passed through this cell; the oldest date she could see, stained dark by the passage of time, was from 1893 and the freshest, scratched only an hour before, was an inscription that read J. Bagshot-1946- Innocent.

“I failed you, Jim.” She forced the words painfully, her eyes still fixed on the tortured wood of the table.

“What utter nonsense, Evelyn,” Jim replied with a curious warmth, taking a delicate sip of the brandy and swirling his glass as if he were drinking a fine Bas Armagnac. “They wanted me dead. The truth didn’t matter, they wanted someone to hang for treason and by God, they chose me. There was nothing you could do. I was dead the moment I walked into the Old Bailey.”

The words twisted at her heart, though Jim had spoken them so nonchalantly. “No, I didn’t do enough,” Evelyn insisted.

“What could you have done?” Jim asked, taking her delicate hand and looking her in the eye.

That gaze… that touch… she couldn’t remember the last time she felt this way about anyone. Perhaps her father might have made her feel this way when she was young. Why, oh why did it have to be a condemned man that brought these feelings out in her?

She searched deep… Jim deserved an answer. He didn’t insist upon it, except for the gentle squeeze upon her hand when she was most lost in her thoughts. But as much as she searched, she could think of nothing; it had been a kangaroo court, a show trial of the worst order, and nothing could have saved him.

“I don’t know,” she finally admitted. “I tried everything I could think of.”

“You see? There was nothing,” Jim said calmly. “They wanted blood and they found a chap with the same name as the fellow they wanted. Didn’t matter that Jim Bagshot from Battersea died when the bombs fell on Dresden. It didn’t matter if I didn’t know the poor bugger from Adam. They couldn’t admit a clerical error after they arrested me. They had to have their pound of flesh and by God, they got it.”

The two gazed at each other, Jim still holding her hand, his eyes softly imploring her not to cry, but it was no use. She felt tears begin to fall, and in only a moment he was by her side, embracing her.

“No, no, Evelyn, please don’t cry,” he insisted. “I’ve had a good life. I’m almost seventy now. I buried a wife and two grown children in the Blitz. My heart broke a long time ago, and I mean that in the most literal way! I’ve got a dicky ticker, dear. Grief can do that. Turns it all big and bulbous and useless, like an old cider jug. I’m going to die soon whether or not they hang me. This isn’t the way I would have wanted, but at least it’s quick. I hear Mr. Pierrepoint is quite the expert in these sorts of things…”

“I failed you…” Evelyn repeated, her voice weaker.

“You did no such thing! Enough of that, now,” Jim chided her gently, wiping a tear from her face. “Now, Evelyn, will you deny a condemned man his last request? I want to see you looking beautiful. Please, don’t let tears smudge your mascara and turn your eyes all red… is that what you want me to remember for the rest of my life? Save the tears for when I’m gone.”

“Sorry,” she said, sitting up straight in her seat and putting on a weak smile.

“That’s the spirit,” Jim said, his smile deeper and warmer… how did he do it? There was no trace of fear, pain, or resentment in him though, she reckoned, he must have been in a dreadful state behind that calm exterior.

Jim returned to his seat and took another sip of his brandy, then looked at the glass. “I suspect you need this more than I do, though. Care to share a drink?” He slid the glass toward her, a sparkle in his eye.

Evelyn took the glass. “Thank you,” she said, looking at it a moment.

“Well, go on, drink up, we haven’t got all day… well, I certainly don’t,” he urged her, chuckling a bit at his own gallows humour.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Bah, I’d have much preferred a cigar,” Jim replied.

Evelyn took the glass, held her nose, and drank deep from it, then coughed slightly as the burn of cheap alcohol hit the back of her sensitive throat. “Oh God, it’s horrid!” she said, gagging slightly.

“Yes… not the best I’m afraid,” Jim said matter-of-factly.

At that, the bookcase against the wall slid aside. Three men entered the room. “I need you to come with me, Mr. Bagshot,” said the man in the middle grimly.

Evelyn’s heart fluttered in her chest. “Wait! Wait, please, not yet!” she pleaded.

Jim stood obediently. “Evelyn, it’s no use!” he said as the guards pinioned his arms. “But before I go, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it?” Evelyn said, choking back tears and feeling faint.

The guards turned Jim around and hustled him toward the death chamber where the noose awaited. “I am you!” Jim said, turning his head as far as he could to look at her. For just a moment his eyes met hers- not fearful, but full of earnestness- then they were out of sight forever as a white canvas hood was placed around his head.

“What does that mean?” Evelyn pleaded.

There was no answer. Jim stood tall and proud as Mr. Pierrepoint, the hangman, worked the noose over his head, checking the knot placement. Jim nodded affirmatively, sticking out his chest a bit and turning his nose up as the hangman walked to the lever, his fear betrayed only by a slight tremor in his legs.

Then there was a sharp bang, and Jim Bagshot fell into eternity. It was all over in just a few seconds. Evelyn’s eyes went wide with horror; just out of sight, below the level of that trap door and at the end of that taut rope was the moribund shell of the man who had stolen her heart.

Evelyn felt a tightness in her chest that grew and grew, crushing her until she could no longer breathe. She gasped, her legs buckling as the room began to grow blurry.

Her body hit the floor of the cell, lifeless as the body on the gallows nearby.

Thoughts About My Last Post (pt.1)

Back in early 2013, when I was still in the early stages of making sense of my memories from Jack’s life, I took a class in existentialism.  I was always struck, when I read the works of Sartre in particular, how much he grappled with the idea of free will and its implications.  I found he had the start of a philosophy, but lacked nuance and refinement.

Now, I think I understand why.  I had taken for granted how much fatalism and determinism shaped the European psyche up to the first half of the 20th century.  He was in new territory to espouse an extreme version of free will.  I don’t agree with all of his conclusions, but I think I know where he was coming from.

More thoughts to follow after my shift is done.  Writing this on break.