2015 In Review

What a year it’s been!

*Confirmed a number of memories from several lives, including a MAJOR confirmation that I had been in India before WWI and a couple memories about Phil’s life.

*Managed to get my first experience in past life travel.  I never got the exact answers I was looking for, but I discovered that I know Marin County surprisingly well for someone who’s never been there and I still love the place!  I think I have a new romantic getaway spot if nothing else.

*I managed to pull off what I set out to do, to write a book with a synthesis of styles and themes from my present life and from my suspected past life.  It has sold almost as well as the first novel I published and might actually edge it out.

*Had a moment of major doubt about my life as Phil, but ultimately realized that there’s a lot going on there that I find it hard to ignore even if I remain unsure.   At any rate, see my above two points for why I’m not abandoning this claim just yet.

*I graduated from university for the very first time in any lifetime I can remember, after many years of being too restless for my own good and almost burning that bridge forever a few times.  Too bad I haven’t done anything with my degree yet.  Going to try for grad school because the job prospects are better.  If nothing else, when I’m gone no one can say I was a dropout.

*Found a church I actually feel at home with theologically.  I have come to fully embrace Gnostic Christianity and I have ambitions to enter the clergy.  What’s more, my church practices a form of the old Cathar ritual of Consolamentum; I fully intend to take this rite since I figure it’s probably as good a route as any out of the cycle of reincarnation.  And if it doesn’t work, maybe I’ll learn from my mistakes and from the books I left behind.

*I finally came to terms with a loss I experienced more than 800 years ago.  Although I don’t know for sure and probably never will, I suspect that the soul who was formerly my brother, Richard Couer de Lion, is still in my life.  If he’s the person I suspect, then I’m satisfied that he’s happier and better off.

It’s been interesting days this year…


Happy Christmas

On this day 790 years ago, William Longespee landed in Cornwall after a long sea voyage to celebrate his last Christmas safely back in England.

On this day 101 years ago, John Harris spent the last Christmas in England I have had in any life to date.

But though I’ve been gone long, over the sea and given up for dead, I will return one day.  I will have my Christmas on England’s shores again.

To the surviving relatives that I now believe I still have in Yeovil and Hereford, most of whom are probably my thrice-great nephews and nieces, I’m here and I’m thinking of you.  Happy Christmas to you all and God keep you!

I Didn’t Need That

The street I live on takes on a strange feeling in the evening, especially when it’s damp and cold.  Some details about it seem to remind me of Armentieres but I can’t put a finger on what it is exactly.  Most of the time I can ignore it but it’s always there at the back of my mind.

The last thing I needed, then, was for some random asshole to set off a large fire cracker not far from me while I was walking to the store.

That was more than three hours ago; my hands only just stopped shaking.  Just when I thought I was over being spooked by things like this, I got a painful reminder that part of my mind is still there.

Hopefully Christmas won’t be ruined for me.  My mood has taken a nosedive.


Sorry for my relative absence, I haven’t been terribly well lately but I feel like I’m improving somewhat as I’m no longer in searing abdominal pain and my appetite is returning slowly but surely.  I was literally one day from going to the doctor when I started showing signs of improvement; I might still go to the doctor if I have any significant downward turn or return of symptoms.

Assuming I’m right about having been Philip K. Dick in my previous life (there is forever a shadow of doubt which I have elaborated on to great length elsewhere), I would have been 87 years old today.  For some reason my birthday this year has had more resonance with fans than last year, or so it seems.

It doesn’t help though.  I meet 87-year-olds occasionally, and if I could have stayed active the rest of my life, like Bradbury (who finally broke into mainstream fiction and script writing), I could have left a bigger, better legacy.  I could have lived to go from Cassandra to living prophet, and I could have possibly had some pull, as a public figure, in the outcome of things like the 2000 elections or the run-up to the Iraq war, or the rise of the technological dystopia I predicted back in the 1960s.

Instead, I’ve been bumped back to Cassandra status and I’ve been feeling so helpless lately.

Perhaps in desperation then, I took part in a ritual on Monday to summon an angel said to bring to light solutions to questions of a civic nature.  My query, of course, was what my best contribution to helping the world could be.

The angel in the vision was a beautiful one.  She had two forms; one was that of an eye in the center of a majestic whorl of wings.  The other was that of a beautiful black woman, full-figured with a round face, who was dressed and groomed like a Nubian queen in a flowing robe of purple, like a Madonna icon, but who carried herself with the enlightened humbleness and sure-footedness of a Boddhisattva.  She was the very image of wisdom, beauty, nobility, and benevolence.

Most of the vision felt like I was trying too hard; the images were beautiful but meaningless as far as I’m concerned.  I think my concentration was broken by my general illness and hunger. But the initial vision was one that seemed genuine since my query hadn’t been about past lives.

I was back at the house in Point Reyes Station, stepping out the door.  This was after Anne and I had separated, around 1964-66.  I know this because had my little VW there in the driveway, waiting for me.  I was wearing a button-up shirt.  I had a letter in my hand and put it in my shirt pocket.

I was frustrated at first to get a scene from any past life, because I hadn’t asked for that; much less for a past life where I was an addict, perpetually broke until my last few years, a terrible husband, and a terrible father (at least in my estimation).  I took the letter to be more symbolic than literal, a reference to the later verses of the Hymn of the Pearl which seem to be an ongoing theme in my reflections on that life.

I initially rejected the apparent message of “keep doing what you’re doing” because I still feel like I’m in a rut repeating a slightly less tragic version of the same life.  I don’t want to be that any more.  I want to be a living saint because the world needs living saints.  I feel like that ship sailed in 1982 and I came home from the ritual in low spirits.  My physical illness got worse and at one point I was in the right mind to die, which is to say thinking of how to make it easier for my fiance and thinking of returning to the true light instead of returning to this world of pain.

Today, the illness finally seemed to break somewhat, and without searing abdominal pain to keep me from sleeping on it, the thought occurred to me that I need to keep prognosticating in my writing, even if it seems like I’m beating my head against the wall.  I need to take care of myself, so I don’t die at 53 with so much work left to do.

A friend who has read my book about queer academics caught up in the machinations of a ruthless dictator from the world of corporate raiders put it best: “It seems your days as Cassandra weren’t altogether misguided after all.”

Perhaps this life is my chance to actually make a difference with my predictions instead of being recognized too late.   At least, I have nothing to lose by trying.

Regarding My Last Post

I’ve had a little while to think about what I posted in anger and you know what?

In this case, I think I’ll let it stand.  I have not seen a candidate for public office in America, in any of my lives, who was more reckless and less qualified than Donald Trump.  A comparison to Hitler is giving him far too much credit; a better comparison would be to Isaac from Children of the Corn: shrill, blustering, self-important, profoundly immature, and using a violent mob to crush dissent.

If we cannot direct our indignation at those whose only modus operandi is hate and distraction, if we cannot speak up when we have the chance, if we cannot make it clear and unambiguous that certain matters of policy are simply beyond the pale in a free and diverse society, then the freedom to defend the expression of others has no value.

I stand by my remarks in full.  Donald Trump is a menace and a symptom of a very sick society.

That being said, I do not wish to dwell on this negativity or my resentment, however well-placed it might be.  I’ll be back to posting the usual content shortly.

Open Letter to Donald Trump

Dear Donald Trump,

Your entire career represents the apex of 20th century selfish egoism, which is to say the lowest point in the history of civilization when a man who is nothing but a bloated psychopath can steal and cheat his way to the top until he aspires to become a fascist dictator.

The people who cheer you for bringing the sick designs of Irving Kristol and Ayn Rand to their logical conclusions are the only thing in the known universe sadder than you.  If you lose the primary then it will be the first sign I’ve had in a very long time that the human race isn’t completely fucked.

Nothing you have said in your campaign warrants any further debate or criticism than a fifth grade graduate could offer.  To that end, I offer this: choke on a donkey cock and die you malignant toad’s anus.



Wars of the Roses

I have a strong suspicion that I lived at least one life during the Wars of the Roses, as a Yorkist.

It’s funny, when they found Richard III’s body it didn’t really affect me much.  Maybe it’s because I was able to ignore all the hype?  If I had actually been in England at the time, when the hype was inescapable, would I have felt different?

And yet when I think back the feelings I have about Richard III are both warm and friendly, as if I admired him greatly.

I wish I could remember something that isn’t in any documentaries I’ve seen.  It’s not an area of history I’ve focused much on; my most in-depth research has been on the high middle ages, from about 1150 to 1350.

This sense that I was there is strong and hard to shake.