A Gnostic Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel

Saint Michael the Archangel,

defend us in battle,

be our protection against the designs

and deceits of the Archons.

May the Light outshine them we humbly pray;

and do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly host,

by the power of God, cast asunder

Every obstacle and adversary that lies

Between our souls and the eternal Fullness.

Amen.

Back And Forth

Going back and forth lately on whether these memories are of my own past lives or if they are something else entirely.

In some ways I see a lot of myself in those people, but what does that mean really?  Could it be that I simply have the same traits as these people and that all I share is being of a specific type of person?

In particular, could it be that I’m a host to the spirit that Phil called VALIS, and the flashes of his life are simply flashes of its prior host?

Phil certainly believed that his flashes of WWI came from that source, and not a past life.  And my flashes of WWI seem like the most telltale signpost of a connection to Phil.

I had explored this idea before, but it really gained some traction after a remark a very close friend made.  They said something about a character in Star Trek DS 9 who was host to a symbiote who retained the memories of its previous hosts, and so was able to remember the experiences and knowledge of these past hosts as if they were past lives. They said that this character reminded them a great deal of me.

And really, that’s what Phil believed.  He believed that there was a sort of spiritual symbiote that had fused itself with his being.  It changed his thoughts, his attitudes, his actions, and the outcome of his life for the better.

He elaborated on this idea, that it could replicate both through the transmission of Word (Logos) and through direct intervention; that it gathered up the souls of the transcended and delivered so that part of them remained to gather up other souls and part of them ascended to Pleroma (Exegesis, Folder 22-039).

Given the intense parallels between our present times and previous times Phil linked this spirit to, I am beginning to suspect that perhaps I am simply the latest host.  In a sense part of Phil’s spirit may have entered me, but that doesn’t mean I was him in a past life.

This would explain another thing: I have spoken to multiple people who claimed to be contactees.  Some experiences were very basic; others were rather astounding and sublime.  At least one other person has come forward who thought for a time that they were Phil’s reincarnation too.  Perhaps in some way, they are; he believed the homoplasmate was a self-replicating organism.

I think maybe what we understand as reincarnation is oversimplified, at any rate.  I believe I’ve stumbled on something bigger than that.  I believe I may have been among a number of people chosen to witness the coming marvels, both fearful and wondrous.

I’ve mused often lately that perhaps my generation, or the generation to follow, will bring forth the Parousia (the return of the Christ-nature to material being).  But what I see potentially happening is not a single Christ, but many Christs who will emerge from a great generation.  Something cosmic is happening and although I only see it dimly now, it seems to become clearer by the day.

Or perhaps all of these things I’ve said will show, beyond a shadow of a doubt, my descent into madness.  I hardly know if I’m making sense any more.  I hardly care.  I want to be honest about my craziest ideas because at this point, radical honesty is the most certain freedom I can grant myself.

Disappointment

I went back through my old LiveJournal to see if I had anything there that would help unravel the whole past life thing.

No, I didn’t.

I found a couple of posts that reminded me of a detail I forgot, that York and Dover Castle had both been second choices; my first choices had been Iona Abbey (Scotland) and Calais, respectively, which makes me question my interpretation of those stops in the context of Count William’s life.

On the other hand, what I didn’t post was more remarkable.  I didn’t talk much about my emotional landscape except how lonely I was.  At the time, I was 19-20 years old and so fixated on sorting out my sexual orientation and getting a long-term partner that I pretty much excluded everything else for the most part.  Even when I traveled, I was preoccupied with trying to get friends to join me (they never did).

There were so many things- big and small- that were going on in my life that just weren’t there.  I didn’t talk about my forays into theology, though the LGBT-affirming Bible study I co-authored is still around online.  I didn’t talk about many of the things I bought while I was in London.  I didn’t talk about the strange way every English town made me feel, or certain details or items from Victorian/Edwardian times made me feel.

The only lasting proof I had any of this on my mind is in the photographs I took, the sorts of details I captured that showed what I wanted my own personal vision of England to look like.  Only there do I see a place very much like the England I left behind in 1915.

I just wish I’d been able to listen to my own mind and heart instead of being a soppy co-dependent mess who felt like I needed to be in a relationship to be happy.  Being in a relationship doesn’t fix that sense of emptiness; I know, I’ve been in one for eleven years.  I had to spend much of that time focusing largely on myself so that I’d be in a suitable psychological condition to keep that relationship.

I was so confused, so stunted, so immature.  It’s no wonder any memories of past lives lurked below the surface and never rose into conscious thought; I was living in my own world and that world consisted largely of the men (and women) I tried dating unsuccessfully.

Well, now!

So… I got a nibble at the line for my screenplay. An agent asked me about the story and if I wrote other things like this.

I’m not the most experienced screenwriter by a long shot, but I’m pretty sure it’s a good thing when agents ask these kinds of questions.

Prayers, well wishes, and good vibes appreciated.

Meet You All The Way, Hespera

So just a few minutes ago, I was vividly imagining the song “Rosanna” by Toto, except I didn’t get the name right.  For some reason the name that came through instead was “Hespera.”

Listening to the song, I hear “Rosanna” but my mind immediately thinks “Hespera” now.  It’s stuck.  The impression, whatever its source, is fixed.  It’s as if a veil of meaning has been lifted.

I looked up Hespera.  In Greco-Roman myth, she was one of the Hesperides and the goddess of the dusk (compare to Christ= “The Bright Morning Star” in Rev. 22:16).  A feminine “Yin” (dark nature) to compliment Christ’s “Yang” (light nature).  These seeming shades of the divine feminine always excite my Gnostic tendencies but I’m really reluctant to think this is anything more than the product of a wandering mind.

This is probably the strangest string of thoughts to cross my mind in a while.  Don’t know what to make of it.

Interestingly, Toto’s song “Rosanna” (I literally had to stop myself from typing “Hespera” just now) came out the year Phil died though I have no idea if it came out before or after.  It’s certainly one I knew well in my childhood (I think the first time I ever heard it was on my cousin’s little portable radio around 1988 or 1989) but I never counted it among my favorites.

If Worst Comes To Worst

I’ve decided that, if I am forced to detransition for my own safety, then I refuse to adopt the male dress and mannerisms of a 21st century man, especially a 21st century American.

I’ll take on the refined but entirely bogus persona of a Victorian/Edwardian gentleman.  I’ll turn my life into an extended steampunk LARP.  I’ll keep my post-transition last name, which is French as fuck.  I’ll drive the deplorables BATSHIT with my completely un-MAGA ways and they won’t be able to touch me because technically, I’ll have done what they told me to and acted like a man.

And in case they do touch me, I’ll have a filigreed 1911 and a walking cane with a good stout handle ready.  Back in Edwardian times, that was how a gentleman dealt with these sorts of ruffians.

Heart Like A Wheel

Last night, the buzz of helicopters still in my head, I settled into a night of confused, restless dreams.

Only one detail emerged out of everything: the song “Heart Like A Wheel” as sung by Linda Ronstadt.

It was surreal because music is usually distorted in my dreams; melodies and lyrics go awry and the song becomes something only recognizable through dream logic.

This was different.  I heard the song as clear as day.  I heard the lyrics exactly as they really are.  The melody, the soft piano and cello, Linda’s voice… it was all there.

I already knew that Phil had a copy of that album and would have been familiar with that song, but I hadn’t realized how much of any impression the song had made on me here and now until this point.

Part of me wants to extrapolate some meaning behind this song emerging as the one lucid detail in my dreams last night but I’m at a loss. The regurgitation of random details by a restless mind finally granted a good night’s sleep is the only likely explanation I can think of.

Still, I woke with a strange sense of peaceful melancholy and that familiar sense of being haunted. Funny how objectively meaningless things can stick with you like that.