Birth Certificate

Apparently, the UK home office issues birth certificate copies for a rather small fee of 9.50 UKP, and apparently they have records going back quite a long ways.

If I can get hold of John Harris’ birth certificate, then I can probably nail down a birth date for once.  If we share a birthday, that will be an extremely weird coincidence; I already have evidence to suggest he was born in the same month.  If nothing else, I finally get to hold some part of who he was- who I might have been- in my hand.

I’m out of money at the moment but when I have a little to spare, I’m going to do it.

Memory Fragment

Another one, unsure if I’ll be able to confirm this one.

I was listening to a compilation of medieval songs on YouTube and unexpectedly had a memory from California in the early 70s.  I was at this medieval-themed dinner and they had an LP of medieval music playing.  I think it was one of my records they had borrowed.  The room looked like a club or lounge of some sort.  The walls had pretty standard faux-wood and were decorated with small buntings.  They had waiters in period clothing and a bunch of bored-looking people at the table.

After researching albums of medieval music available at the time I came across this: http://www.etsy.com/listing/113183009/medieval-music-and-songs-of-the?utm_source=google&utm_medium=product_listing_promoted&utm_campaign=vintage_low&gclid=CPbT58nDi7sCFWRBQgodXV4A8A

I’m going to see if I can find it and have a listen.  I think I may have had this album.  A bit more research shows that Everest Records closed in the late 60s, so this would have been a rare, out-of-print record in the early 70s and I certainly would have known that.  I was probably there to make sure it didn’t get abused.

Hymn of the Pearl

Today, I discovered the Gnostic Hymn of the Pearl.

It’s an allegory for the Gnostic journey and although I am not myself a Gnostic, I have profound respect for the ideas of Gnosticism.

I’m still kind of digesting it and there is a lot of symbolism (mostly of a ritual nature) that I’m a bit unsure of, but here’s the gist of it:

A young man of royal blood goes out into the world to seek a magnificent pearl; this is the worldly birth and the quest for wisdom that comes with it.

He begins to dress and act like the foreigners he travels among, and by their infectious (though not malevolent) hospitality he forgets what he came for; this corresponds to the Gnostic view of the world as a corrupt illusion that is so real and perfect to our perception that we mistake it for our purpose and meaning and forget that we have sought wisdom.

A letter arrives, reminding him of his true nature and of the pearl he seeks.  This, to a Gnostic, would be Logos, the Word of God; but as part of the divine nature it is as much the prince’s own word to himself as the word of a benevolent father (as above, so below).

The Letter arouses anamnesis of his true nature and in triumph, he remembers, seizes the pearl, and returns to glory.

I can’t describe the feeling I get from reading that text.  It really makes me think about what I’ve experienced over the last 14 months.

The truth is that we are eternal; we cannot conceive of that because we are bound up in the illusion of decay, but decay and time are nothing more than state changes of matter perceived negatively, because our eternal nature resists change.  We fear death because it is not natural to us; we cannot conceive of the end of our awareness because our awareness is ancient and our beginning is of no consequence.

It is important to understand the difference between the beginning of ourselves and the beginning of our awareness.  I can only say that my awareness goes back (at least) to the later half of the 12th century, but I cannot say that was my beginning; my beginning is something ineffable, as is yours.

Perhaps once matter becomes aware of itself, its awareness is no longer bound to matter, or perhaps consciousness has substance.  What the relation between these two things actually is, I have yet to really work out.  In Gnosticism substance is largely an illusion; in Hermeticism, as in Buddhism, substance is a projection of the true reality into the material world.  Science in the 21st century seems to bear this out to a point; the universe is a hologram.

The Solar System of Late

A few signs that may mean nothing or may mean everything, depending on your view:

Venus has been super bright over Portland, Oregon.  I don’t know how it is elsewhere.

There is a comet, ISON, circling the sun that appears to be weakening, then strengthening again.  Scientists are puzzled.

Also, the sun is unusually calm this cycle.  There have been far fewer sunspots than expected, which may slow (but not stop) the current warming cycle which I guess is good.

The moon seems to be in the extreme end of one of its cycles.  A friend up in Friday Harbor reported it was several degrees away from where she expected it to be in the sky, and apparently, while normal, this only happens every few years.

I suppose if you’re a believer in astrology, this could be considered auspicious.  Personally, I’m on the fence.

What I Know About John

For those just finding this blog, I thought I’d re-cap over what the results of my research and memories of John’s life have produced so far, and how they relate to prior and subsequent lives.

John’s life was the first of several past lives I’ve recalled, and it’s difficult now to explain one of them without explaining the others.

I initially found John’s identity from a string of memories in September and October of 2012. These included flashes of actual combat as well as a few memories of his life before the war. The memory that proved the most useful to me is the hardest to explain, because it involves seeing John’s grave as it would have been some time later in the 20th century.

A hardwood tree (which I initially thought to be an elm but later turned out to be a willow) was immediately to the right of a grave at the end of a row. There was at least one more row of headstones behind John’s, tucked away in a corner near the fence. The lot was shady and I knew intuitively that the grave was among other British war dead and in France rather than Belgium.  It also had a unique, relatively fence with angled bricks on top, very different from the usual sort of Commonwealth cemetery wall which is low and capped with flat or beveled marble.

I began my search using online databases of WWI cemeteries including the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. Their website contains diagrams, photographs, and a casualty list by plot which helped me find not only the correct cemetery, but also gave me a partial name, regiment, battalion, and serial number. It also had a small note that he was the son of William and Jane Harris from Yeovil- perhaps a comment entered into the records by John’s behest, so that history would be able to find the correct J. Harris one day.

The name, rank, regiment, and serial turned up nothing in the way of service records; I can only assume the details of John’s medals, merits, and untimely death were lost to history during the Blitz when the archives were firebombed, but John’s service was not completely erased. Eventually, the information I already had helped lead a friend to a record lifted from “Soldiers Killed in the Great War” that gave me not only the first name John, but what town he was living in (Hereford), when and where he enlisted (Nuneaton. September 1914), where he trained (Copthorne Barracks, Shrewsbury, Shropshire) and when he deployed (5 February 1915), among other information.

More research into John Harris through civilian records helped confirm some of the other memories I had.

I know from records that John’s middle name was probably William. There is a record of a John William Harris born in June 1877 (the only source we have for a month) and I know for certain that John’s father’s name was William.  Whether or not this can be said to be connected somehow to William Longespee is debatable since William is an extremely common English name.

I also know from census records that he lived on Sherbourne Road in Yeovil, Somerset.  One particular house on Sherbourne Road is a good match for my memory of a partially-obstructed view of a railway line, as it is a tall terrace house very near Yeovil Pen Mill Station. However, John may not have actually lived in this house; census records are somewhat ambiguous on the exact house number. There is a field in the census forms that sometimes contains house numbers and sometimes contains arbitrary numbers denoting how many houses the census taker had done that day. If John did indeed live in the tens along Sherbourne Road, then his house would have been some distance from the railway station and is now a car park for an Aldi.

I know from subsequent census records that John had also lived in East Coker as a farm hand until he was an adult. I also know that in 1914, John probably lived in Hereford. I know his father lived on St. Owen Street there. St. Owen Street terminates in St. Peter’s Square, where a church and a Boer War monument stand. The church and the monument correspond closely with my memory of the place where John saw the now-famous recruiting poster, the ink barely dry on Kitchener’s mustache.

As for marital status, I am reasonably sure John was unmarried. I had previously come across records of a John and Margaret Harris married in Leominster; however, I have no reason to believe that this is the same John Harris.

John may have living relatives in New Zealand, most great-great grand nephews and nieces descended from his sister Matilda. Ancestry.com gives several generations of names, but the most recent generations are set to “private” so I assume they’re still alive. I have no means of contacting them and I do not know of any other living relatives.

John may have visited ruins, possibly as a hobby or as a favorite spot for dates. Features of ruins I recalled matched ruins in various parts of the Welsh Marches. Some of these ruins may have been associated with William Longespee who spent a substantial amount of time in the Welsh Marches.

I initially had thought these memories were of places I had been as a child among the crumbling ruins of rice plantations and English colonialism in the South Carolina Lowcountry. I used to play around the old plantations and summer homes like Middleton and Atalaya, though my favorite place was Old Fort Dorchester, a proper ruin of an English fort settlement and its parish church. In 2004 while home from England for a few months, I went looking for these specific ruins near Charleston, to no avail.

John, for reasons I can only speculate, chose to enlist in the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry through a recruiter some distance away in Nuneaton. He arrived in Shrewsbury and took his training at the Copthorne Barracks in the autumn and winter of 1914/15.

I now know that William Longespee had also lived in Shrewsbury and was sheriff of Shropshire. Interestingly, though perhaps only by way of bizarre coincidence, his stronghold (Shrewsbury Castle) now houses the Shropshire Regimental Museum.

“Soldiers Killed in the Great War” goes on to tell us that John shipped off to France in February 1915. He arrived at Le Havre and was posted to the 2nd Battalion, attached at the time to the British 27th division.

I also know, from the few extant pieces of information about the 27th division, that John’s battalion took part in action not only at Bellewaerde Ridge near Railway Wood, but also at Hill 60, a low spoil heap fought over bitterly over for years because it was the only high ground on the Salient. This action also seems to validate my memory of the few standing trees at Hellfire Corner just beginning to fill out with buds and leaves. If not for John Dixon’s excellent book “Magnificent But Not War,” I would not have been able to confirm those memories.

Hill 60 corresponds with my most vivid memories of battle, a bloody rout in broad daylight where the platoon I was attached to got split up, then picked off by machine gun and shell fire. I had previously assumed this was a false memory because earlier sources I found only credit the KSLI with action at Bellewaerde Ridge. That was a night attack under full moonlight, more in line with the memories of dark fields full of bear traps and trees full of corpses in flashes if intense horror that I had.

I had a memory of the bolt on a Lee-Enfield becoming sticky and uncooperative in the heat of battle, but not completely jammed and easily coerced with a small hammer. While I can’t confirm that this is true, this seems to correspond with descriptions found online of headspace issues that are fairly common and easily remedied in the Lee-Enfield. With no time for a replacement and no work bench to fix it, the rifle had to be fired as it was.

I now know that, whether or not his rifle gave out on him, John somehow survived the Second Battle of Ypres and Hill 60. He was posted to the quiet sector of L’Epinette where he died on 8 July 1915, a few km south-southeast of Armentieres and only about 39 km from Bouvines, where William Longespee was captured in battle in July 1214, just shy of 701 years earlier. John is buried at Ferme Buterne Military Cemetery in nearby Houplines, in Row C, Plot 1.  John’s cause of death was most likely gunshot wounds, and though my memories hint at machine gun fire, a single Mauser round to the head is just as likely.

I suspect- but cannot prove- that I may have been at Ferme Buterne in my previous life, in the summer of 1977 (just over a century after John’s birth). I do know that I was in France at the time but the only area I can prove I traveled to at the time was closer to Verdun than Armentieres.

That said, the memory- or perhaps vision- of the cemetery corresponds with about the state it would have been in around 1977: with several trees of moderate size that gave a great deal of shade, instead of two large trees that leave much of John’s corner of the cemetery in partial sunlight as it has today. This memory, by the way, was confirmed by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission who informed me that the two trees at the front of the cemetery were cut down in 1994 because they had grown too large.

In short, as of this date, I have a fairly good picture of John’s life that corresponds well with the memories I’ve had. I cannot prove much of what I remember but what I have found is intriguing enough to build a strong circumstantial case for either having been John Harris or for somehow finding his memories.  Much information about John has been lost to history but the surviving information was enough to link specific memories to specific places and events.

Gender Double Standards and Supernatural Experiences

I have realized something fundamental about the way society interprets experiences like mine.

If I were to be judged by male standards- the ruthlessly rational scientist and engineer archetype that all boys are raised to aspire to- then I would probably be considered mentally ill.  Men who have these experiences are stigmatized for talking about them because they’re expected to be leaders who only believe in one of a few socially-approved opinions about the nature of the universe.  To believe anything else is to be a pariah.

Women, on the other hand, are expected to be more intuitive and emotional, and are also less likely to be dismissed for believing in supernatural experiences because the men in their lives expect women to be inferior to them in some way.  They see the mystical side of women as validation for the patriarchal view that mysticism is nothing more than female eccentricity.  I have seen comments by determined antitheists that were positively dripping with misogyny toward, for instance, modern witchcraft which is predominately female, describing them as fat and ugly among other things.  While I no longer follow that path, I feel it’s wrong to chalk it up to female eccentricity simply because you don’t understand it or to put down the women who get involved in it simply because you don’t believe the same things they do.

As a transwoman, I get both reactions to my experiences.  Those who still see me as male think I’m 100% off my shit, but those who accept me as female are much more likely to accept the past life thing as nothing worse than female eccentricity.

It’s really starting to sink in how this double standard works and it’s frustrating when you really think about it.

Memory Fragment

I’d had previous memories of a theater with tawdry chandeliers with red, white, and blue plumes, large gas lanterns along the sides, and a fairly intimate stage with an odd, wavy-shaped proscenium that was sort of like a seashell (I wish I could describe it better, I may have to draw it and see if I can get that scanned).

I was watching a production of Mozart’s “The Magic Flute” done with a somewhat traditional staging and immediately, I started having flashbacks.  The first thing I remembered was the smell of old wood soaked in dust and rosin, like you’d smell in the backstage areas of a very old opera house or theater, or the inside of an old piano.  Then rosin, sand bags, old-fashioned hemp rope, the way a limelight’s glow starts when you fire it up, these all came back to me.  I felt a sense of excitement from the music, and a memory of ropes and sand bags holding up elaborate set pieces.

I believe that in one of my lives, I may have been a stage hand, but exactly where or when is more than I can know.  I don’t know if the proscenium I saw was in that theater where I worked, or the one I remember from John’s life.  The use of lime lights suggests any time in the later half of the 19th century, though probably between 1860 and 1890.  For all I know, John may have had a stint as a stage hand.  However the only known occupation besides soldier was farm laborer so I can’t prove it.

Still, it could have been a life before John.  “The Magic Flute” is a very popular opera and probably would have been performed quite a lot inside the hundred years or so between its first production and the time John would have begun life in earnest as a worker in his teens.  That really doesn’t help narrow anything down.

Neither does “Va Pensiero” from Verdi’s “Nabucco,” the piece that caused me to have the memory of the proscenium and the lighting from the audience’s perspective.  That only narrows it down to any time after 1840 so it could still have been a life I lived before I was John.

And yet, I had thought for sure I’d been a sailor in the life I lived before John, after some of the details I’ve remembered.  I’d also explored the possibility of having been Charles Dickens or a Chartist agitator, but those turned up nothing I could clearly remember to identify me as any of these people.  I am fairly sure I was English but that’s based on the only other memory I have that actually felt substantial.

That memory was a street scene from the 1830s that was pretty generic and gave me little more to go on other than half-timbered buildings.  I always had doubts about that one because the streets seemed a little too obsessively clean.  I guess it could have been somewhere in Central Europe, like Germany, Switzerland, or Austria which might explain the cleanliness, but would even the Swiss have been that clean in the 1830s?

Perhaps this is nothing, but it’s refreshing to get a clue that doesn’t come strictly from the realm of uncanny coincidences and circumstantial evidence.  This was an extremely vivid memory, it didn’t feel forced, vague, and hazy like the memories of being at sea or the chartist rally.

I hope I recall more about this life.