I think the more I learn about my life as John Harris, the more I realize why I forgot it in the first place.

It was a rather dull life, you see.

According to someone who helped me research my previous life, In the 1891 census, I’m listed as a “Farm Boy,” living with an aunt in the tiny village of East Coker.  There is really nothing at all in East Coker, mind you.

And being a farm boy from Somerset explains something critical about why I can’t remember any text from my visions: I was illiterate!  I had suspected as much, but I’m fairly sure this is the case now.

There’s no record that I ever had married and thus no living descendents, no record of friends, no recollection of any highlights of my life because really, that damned war was the only thing exciting that ever happened, and it was a little too exciting.  I think if not for French Whores I wouldn’t have even lost my virginity in that life!  How depressing.  I almost died a 39-year-old virgin.

I can see why I wanted to go back to that on a subconscious level, though, why I went out of my way to go to England in my teens and eventually moved there for a year and a half.  It was familiar.  It was home.  But I romanticized it too much, just like I’ve romanticized other places I’ve lived in this life.  Sure, I still have a lot of love for Old Blighty, and I’ll always think of myself as more English than American even in this life, but there was nothing there to keep me.

I’m better off now.  I’m poised to get a college degree and work in a creative profession, I’ve got a wonderful and talented fiance who I wouldn’t trade for anything, and I’m living in the wonderful Pacific Northwest US, probably the last refuge for ambitious, dynamic, creative types like us.

Oh yes, and I can read and write.  More than makes up for being illiterate last time, don’t you think?

Maybe it was karmic, or maybe the dice just rolled a lucky 7 this time.



Exploring the maps and streets via Google’s services, I can’t help but notice something interesting.

As a child in the 1880s, I would have been in England, in Somerset, near East and west Coker, and there was a highway called Dorchester Road running through town.

As a child in the 1990s, I was in South Carolina, near a Somerset Beach, a ways down from Coker College (where I briefly considered going to school in the 2000s), and near a highway called Dorchester Road.

This is… wow.  I’m actually floored by this.  I want to say “this can’t be accidental” because this is where my parents in this life came from.  Even though I was born in the midwest, my parents came from the South Carolina Lowcountry, a region where so many of the names of places were carried over into the New World.  They met and were married there, and we even moved back to that region between 1988 and 1994.

In all likelihood, I was conceived within a few miles of a “Dorchester Road” in both lifetimes.

Has anyone’s jaw dropped yet?