Pythagoras Memory Exercise

I had read about this a few years ago.
Pythagoras did claim to remember some of his past lives.
He suggested before retiring at night to retrace and replay the days activities
in the mental view screen. Do this as vividly as possible until you end up
at the point of rising from bed. Go further and recall the dreams you may have had
before waking. Do this every evening. The reflex developed will allow the practicitioner
to begin reaching back into the bank of stored memories before this present life.

..also the verses of this boisterous WW2 General
seem to put him out of step with 20th century thinking.
This is only about half of the poem.


THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY
by Gen. George S. Patton, Jr.

Through the travail of the ages,
Midst the pomp and toil of war,
Have I fought and strove and perished
Countless times upon this star.

In the form of many people
In all panoplies of time
Have I seen the luring vision
Of the Victory Maid, sublime.

I have battled for fresh mammoth,
I have warred for pastures new,
I have listed to the whispers
When the race trek instinct grew.

I have sinned and I have suffered,
Played the hero and the knave;
Fought for belly, shame, or country,
And for each have found a grave.

I cannot name my battles
For the visions are not clear,
Yet, I see the twisted faces
And I feel the rending spear.

So as through a glass, and darkly
The age long strife I see
Where I fought in many guises,
Many names, but always me.

And I see not in my blindness
What the objects were I wrought,
But as God rules o'er our bickerings
It was through His will I fought.

So forever in the future,
Shall I battle as of yore,
Dying to be born a fighter,
But to die again, once more.

The Field

The wind swirls the grass
Floral essence fills the air
I know you, I've seen you before
As we walk through the field

I stand here in disbelief
These feelings so foreign
These feelings so familiar
As we stand in this field

Do I know you from somewhere?
Your face unfamiliar
Your presence so calming
As we talk in this field

What brought us to this place?
Two strangers beforehand
Two strangers reunited
As we discover this field

Do I reach for embrace?
Should I speak of these feelings?
What is coming over me?
As we pause in this field

The picture becomes clearer
Though I can not explain
I have been here before
I have been in this field

As if hypnotized I remember you
I remember this place
But I don't think you know
As we stray from this field

As I watch you walk away
I want to tell you my story
But I stay here unsettled
As I lay in this field

I hope we will meet again
Our paths have crossed before
Though, will it ever be the same
As when you cried in this field?

You were meant to be near me
You will always be part of me
Your image etched in my mind
In the field where I died

Limbs full of sparklers.

Before I was born- Was I the vaporized residue of another's dream? An echo of a desire never acted upon but thought so strongly it became real somewhere else? I am how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop- the World may never know.

So I turn. not to dreams. not to memories.
So I turn. into something.

A stale captain swooning in faint
over the orchid down haze of an air to his cheek
that of fine salt, fine water, and finer breeze.
"You saltine!"~{stillness}


......



(a reply~)!!! (((oh,why,oh,me,oh- I .)))

"You... cusp!", from the teeter totter potter with rose hands to his hips toting grips.
and he continued...
{to make room in life by removing one's life}
"I've got all six and I'll sit you done with just one. The other five are for fun, spite, because, why not, and no good reason."
-Commences the laughter of a gun. {the six chamber reservoir of run-on sentences with sharp punctuation}

The grizzly arching brow of the captain peaked and his feet called to port a well fed retreat.
But.
His salt and meat gave in to lead and heat and his little unbeknown leaf made like the season fall and fell six feet slowly.
~
And begin the residues and echos*

This is how I was made. A life collapsing in on itself, coming apart by particles, and coming back together in a brand new way.
A stranger meeting a stranger over and over again.
An echo echo echo echo echo echo echo echo echo echo echo.....

THE SIZES OF PAST LIVES' INSIDES....

What's death like? I image it being a lot like when I wasn't born yet. I don't remember it. But I'm here. Hey, maybe I'll take another form after this body expires. And maybe I took a different form prior to this one. Can dreams give me glimpses of my past forms? I have no idea. But I have had two dreams where I was in another body different from the one I'm in right now (and this one keeps changing, too!) Here, I'll tell you briefly about them.
I had this dream when I was a teen vacationing with my family in Bathe, England: I'm a buff Roman soldier with crested headgear and all the regalia. I'm with my dad who is also a soldier. He looks pretty similar to how he looks today and we're best friends. We're super tan. I woke up and said, 'Hey dad, I had a dream that we were both Roman soldiers.' He said we probably really were. When all my girlfriends were pretty much into drooling over Donnie from The New Kids on the Block, I was into sketching Ancient Roman ruins.
I had the second dream also when I was a teenager. I am seated before a gilded mirror, staring at myself. And yikes, I'm a really, really old French woman. I am so old that I look faded, like I have white powder all over me. The worst part is that I'm super stale with boredom and so lonely that I'm ready to die. My apartment is small, dusty, with tall windows, and the little dog on my lap doesn't even give me relief from the minutes ticking away with numbing slowness. I think I have dementia.
Was I a really a Roman soldier or a senile senior? I don't know.
In fact, I don't know if conjuring up these possible past life dreams is of any value to someone living a rich and full life. Ready to drop the past and be bold in the now with me?

I have always been here

In the immense heat of stars
I was formed long ago.

I was carried in the womb of evolution
of the earth
and of the great family of life here.

A billion voices
sang for billions of years
and I was harmonized.

I am a human being.
I am the eyes of the universe opened.
I am the universe conscious of itself.

We have looked deep into the heavens,
deep into our past.
And deep into ourselves
to where resides the most fundamental.

There is a story told there -

You are nothing, if not everything.
And you have always been here.

General Daniel Morgan

The old memories hang like dusty fixtures in an attic.
Stored and forgotten under macabre lids and heaped linen.

I cannot presume to know who, or what I have done in the past.
I think, from my experience, there occurs a certain aridity of the spirit.
A disenchantment with the current boundaries one finds oneself in.
I have found myself at several crossroads facing a profound sense of loss.
This emotion does not correlate to a visible or tangible problem before me,
it is elusive, and an interior issue on the unconscious side.
It leaves me with a desire to seek closure.
But, then the mood passes and I settle back into like as usual.

Visions have come in dreams to me at various times.
They are not often. I compare them across my current situation,
and attitudes I habituate. Some things I have seen are difficult to associate with,
but can be saturated with a hold-over emotion that is heavily charged and
is not easily dismissed. Rage and contempt survive the threshold of physical death.
A career in eternity does not hold significant historical analogy.
It is therefore heavily discounted as of recent centuries.

General Morgan led some battles in the Revolutionary War.
He had success with directing sharp shooters in insurgency operations.
Emphasizing the skirmish line and individual marksmanship.
His efforts in leading the 11th Virginia Regiment were well coordinated and gave decisive
outcome in enemy engagments. I carry a vague and nagging impression of being a part of
this regiment. Sharpshooters carried actual rifles as opposed to muskets.
To harass and hound the enemy formations through skilled flanking or pursuits of confusion
served this light infantry who were designed to travel quickly, attack, and weigh immediate
outcome for possible further ingress.

I directly resonate with the sharp instincts involved in this type of warfare.
It is still a part of me, and holds some value when faced with danger.
I also remember a vivid scene of an ambush. As I lay in wait prone in the brush with rifle
aimed. The order was given. I shot. I saw a man fall. He was at one moment serene and
peaceful on his march. I destroyed his peace, his dreams, his life in an instant.
It all occurred with such inner disgust and regret because it was as if I had killed myself.
I wanted to help this soul and reach out my hand to him and convey the sorrow and remorse
for my act. But, I could not break rank. I was forced to witness the passing of a man in the
prime of life, not yet prepared for such a fate. I could read the disbelief in his face as he lay
dying. It was so hard and so sad. I never forgave myself.

Copping A Plea

I must say that when this months topic was posted, I shuddered at the very thought of writing about a subject which totally confuses me. I had intended to simply blow it off, after all, February is a short month and one could easily miss the posting deadline. Then out of no where my special muse (yes, you, Susan) inspired me to take on the project with my usual cynical, sarcastic, irreverence rather than puzzle over it's seriousness.

Ah.....the thought of having lived one or more past lives truly terrifies me. After all, I have barely stumbled my way through this life making one wrong choice after another. Doesn't seem like I've learned much from all that experience. If in fact I have gone around this block before, than surely I am an old soul and this is my last run at it all. I'm simply too tired to do this again. Just between you and me, I get the feeling that no matter how many times I do this, I am never going to get it right!

On the other hand there is another theory out there drifting along the edges of quantum physics, and it intrigues me. What if instead of past lives, we were actually living several life experiences, at the same time only in different dimensions. Each life experience based on the choices we make within that dimension. Like those juvenile novels which give the reader the opportunity to change the story by answering a simple question at the end of each chapter. "If you think Jane would steal the locket, turn to page 33 and continue. If you think Jane puts the locket back, turn to page 29."

What a grand idea! Somewhere out there I'm living a truly blessed life because I've made all the right choices. Somewhere I got it all right! Now I don't have to feel quite so bad about the dumb mistakes I make here. One thing is certain. If I get to choose, I'm going to plea bargain for plan "B, (alternate dimensions) instead of plan "A" (past lives.) Why? Because plan "B" offers me a life sentence served concurrently! Now that's a deal in any courtroom.

Untitled WIP

Here's something I wrote a couple weeks ago, and shelved in lieu of other projects/homework. Maybe I'll post more in a few weeks when I finish, maybe not. I would love to hear your thoughts on the beginnings of it, though. Cheers.

This is Nick.

He is single, 53-years-old, and he lives in the newest prefab home in Riverton. It's seven blocks south of Maple Street, which is two blocks west of downtown, but it is a better street because it's where all the bars are. All of them is only a phrase used to make Riverton sound bigger than it actually is because there are only two bars in Riverton. Nick's home cost $40,000. It's 927 square feet and has a detached carport. Nick doesn't use the carport; his truck is too big.

His neighbors are probably jealous. They don't talk to him, and Nick assumes it's because they're jealous.

Nick doesn't know what happens when you assume. But that doesn't really matter because Nick doesn't like any of his neighbors -- or he wouldn't if he talked to them. If Nick talked to his neighbors he would know that the family next door had three children, but the baby died last december from SIDS and the middle child became the youngest child -- a familial role that she is still trying to grasp. Today is her birthday and Dad took the family to Chilis. They would have described their evening as bourgeois if they knew what the word meant.

Nick would also know that the young, redneck couple that lived in the double-wide trailer across the street were actually named Dale and Brandine. He would have remarked how he thought those things only happened in the movies. He would also know that Dale was laid off today from his job at the auto-body shop, and he hadn't told Brandine. It was a Friday, so Dale figured he could put off the news all weekend and call in sick on Monday if he didn't find a good time to tell his wife. But Nick doesn't talk to his neighbors, so he doesn't know any of this. Nick only knows about the things he does each day and he knows the things he likes.

He likes: Grocery shopping, the sound car tires make on gravel, and punching men in the face. But only men, and only men that deserve it. And only after three or four shots of whiskey at Dockside Bar which isn't located at the docks -- there are no docks in Riverton. There is, however, a river, but it's Nick River. A man with a wife and six kids.

This story is not about Nick River the man. Nor is it specifically about Riverton, where there are no rivers, but there are Rivers. There is not any water, actually, in Riverton. There are only very large pipes buried underground that pump water into the city for its 87 residents. Rather, it's 86 now. Old George Mantooth died last night. (George liked: Peanut butter M&Ms, pin-up girls, and telling war stories about battles he never fought in.) George Mantooth was Nick's father. He hated Dockside Bar.

Nick was in the parking lot of Dockside Bar, which is precisely where his ass landed after he somersaulted out the door. The bouncer had shoved him in the back because he punched a man in the face. But the man called Nick's sister a soft-bottomed floozie, so even though a sweaty asperity dripped off Nick's forehead, everything was right in the world.

But Nick doesn't think like this. Instead, Nick felt good and buzzed. If he was sitting on a stoop with an old buddy from highschool throwing back Budweisers, Nick would sigh contentedly and say, "Yeah, man." Nick, however, was in the gravel parking lot of a dive bar in a down town. He rubbed a dirty palm on his forehead and looked at it. It was sweaty and speckled with blood. "Whoops. Never did get a hang of that tuckin' and rollin'."

There was no one around to hear Nick talk about his shortcomings.

A pea-grean Buick rolled slowly into the parking lot and stopped next to Nick. It belonged to his sister, Brenda. Nick lifted himself into the passenger's seat. "They don't much like you in there," he said.

Brenda replied, "Did Dad say sumthin' about bein' cremated?" Brenda has never been a good listener.

"Well here I thought he died of a heart attack."

"He did. But what are we doin' with his body?"

"I don't know. We never much talked about those things."

Nick hadn't talked to his dad much at all since 2003. Momma Mantooth died the summer of that year. She hated summer. It was too hot and sticky and Momma didn't like those bugs that you can never see but sound like weed-whackers. What Momma did like was: Lemonade, hot tubs, and gin-and-tonics. All of which are more closely related to summertime than anything else, but Momma only enjoyed these things in the fall and winter. She didn't want to look like she was enjoying herself in June.

Old George Mantooth built Momma's casket in the garage after she died. When he was done he hauled it to the cemetery in his truck with a shovel and a tape measure where he dug Momma's grave himself. She was at the end of a long line of decaying Mantooths. There were three more plots in line with reservations for the living.

No one in the Mantooth family had ever been called intuitive. When Nick asked, "Wouldn't he want to be buried with the rest of the family?" Brenda had to think about it for awhile.

"That'd be an OK spot to put him," she said.

Brenda dropped Nick off at his home and they parted ways without talking about Nick's night at the bar. If they had, Nick would have found out that the man he punched was from the city up north. He also would have found out that the man he should have punched was the bartender who broke up with Brenda after a one night stand last Thursday. He may have even learned that Brenda was only at Dockside to drink and flirt heavily with the men at the bar to make the bartender jealous.

There are many things Nick never learned from the people around him.

Nick's home has a new-car smell, but this shouldn't be unexpected. If anyone ever visited Nick, they would notice the smell right away, even before they noticed that the TV was tuned to static. Nick had only the furniture he needed. The kitchen table was small and only had one chair with it. The living room had an upholstered recliner and a footstool. There was a rolltop desk in the corner that Nick used only once a year on the last weekend in March to do his taxes. Nick's bedroom and bathroom were equally sparse and functional. He had a bed and a closet, no dresser, a toilet, a shower, and no bathtub. There was another bedroom, but it was empty and Nick kept the door closed. The walls of the home were white and the trim was Maple. Nick didn't pay attention to these details and if you asked him what color his house was he would say, "I can't recall."

The Bear

gradual...uninterrupted by the motion of the leaves lighting the ocean of trees, the bear stood before me and out of me he began the ways of the bear. i swayed open to the trunk of the vastness of bark which engaged my core and allowed my spine to become one with the innermost climbing oak. the bear looked into my eyes. i saw pure spirit of bear which took my mind to a place of rocky precipices and geysers awakened in the earth. he lay beside the small pool soaking in heat and the day itself, his moans were heard by the sparrows and ravens in the woods where i sit against the trees. his heavy paws engaged his senses to his surroundings, a tender giant in the stone planet. swift twitches to the tickling breezes were his overcoat, massive, heavy and not yet quite dry. soon he would be at the base of the mountain, but for now he settles in thought, quietly fortunate for his ability to smell his next action. blooming larkspur licks the air with sacred scent. familiar with the flowers he gazes upon the petals in comfort and eases dangerously close to sleep. he has much to do still this dry day. the moderate clouds dance near peaks of his den and he glances toward the woods, beckoning me to go with him, toward unspoken destinies ...



*Bear painting by Marion Rose*