I no longer doubt that in this life, I am a capable writer with a grand voice all my own.

What I doubt most of all is my previous enthusiasm for this being my second such lifetime.

Sure, I knew about the Marin County Civic Center and what Phil thought of it.  Sure, I’m psychologically, physically, and culturally similar on many levels.  Sure, I haven’t yet ruled out further confirmations.  Sure, I found clues in Phil’s writings that suggest he recalled WWI just as I did.

But why do I remember nothing of writing?  Why do I only have one very tenuous memory of the stamp collection I prized?  Why can’t I remember more things I can confirm?  Why didn’t I remember my step-children or their names?  Why can’t I remember more about my life in general?

Generally, without getting into the finer details of his biography, my case is pretty weak and even with the stronger details, I can only say for certain that I’m a halfway plausible candidate for having been  him.  But without more memories or more confirmations, I’m extremely doubtful.

I wrote an extraordinary book to see once and for all if I was made of the same stuff and ironically, though the book turned out to be everything I wanted it to be, I’m still left with gaping doubts.  I know I’m a great writer and that this kind of helps my case circumstantially, but I could have been a great writer without being one in a previous life so it proves nothing.  I would be less vexed if I had failed miserably at my attempt.

I’ll be going down to the Bay Area this summer, staying in rural Marin and making trips to Berkeley, San Rafael, and San Francisco… maybe I’ll manage to find the place unfamiliar enough that I’ll finally be cured of the idea that I was ever him, and I can get on with my life.

I want off this ride.  I feel like fancying myself to be the reincarnation of Philip K. Dick helped cushion the blow from John’s memories (which I regard to be more likely real owing to the number of confirmations I’ve made) and it gave me the impetus to get off my ass and write great literature, but it’s time to put it to rest if I’ve really been making much ado about nothing.

Then again, I made a similar post about Longespee a while back and those of you who have been following this blog a while saw what happened…  I ended up getting blindsided by a couple emotional reactions I was not prepared for.  Emotional reactions prove nothing, but they make it so much harder to doubt on a personal level.

For now, I’m seriously starting to doubt that I was or could ever have been Philip K. Dick and if anything, I’m starting to think I’d rather believe I wasn’t.


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