Friday, March 5, 2010

Sometimes, the voices are actually right.



I have stated a few times that I am not very interested in past-lives. This is not entirely true. I am very interested in my ancestors, and I see myself as a representation of them in both a literal and metaphorical sense. I am quite sure a few would approve of what I do.

Some time ago I decided it might be helpful if I petitioned my ancestors for the wisdom of the past! I designed all manner of crazy sigils, read up on time periods, and tried some astral projection techniques that I hoped would align me with the past in my blood. I'm still not entirely sure it worked. But as of today I know it might have.

The reason for my interest is because like half of all families out there, mine had retained a memory of a “curse.” I've never managed to get a coherent answer about what this curse might be: psychic potential? An entity attached to the bloodline such as discussed in the Old Testament and folklore? People like me appearing every three generations and attempting to amass psychic ability so they can actually effect the world around them in more than mundane ways? Who knows! I certainly don't.

But something always stood out. What I saw when I was dedicating all those meals, in my dreams and on the astral, was at odds with what I'd been told about the half of my family that we know anything about. If one fourth was as noble as my family claimed, why did I keep seeing horse thieves and liars? It remained a mystery as to how such a noble family might give rise to a cambion. Oh, yeah: you heard me right. My bastard father, from whom I am a bastard, his last name? “Breedlove.”

I had no idea what it even was until I was thirteen. When I was finally told, I fell out of my chair laughing hysterically. On some level there is no end to the hilarity of it for me. So I treat the subject semi-fictitiously and just chortle to myself periodically.

Anyway. What I saw fit with the bastard children of bastard children model. Not folks with a French last name that meant Brave Soldier. In fact, I suspected I had no French ancestry whatsoever.

I wrote about it in the semi-fictional way I mentioned above, weaving the mythology into my headspace. I could deal with horse thieves and liars. It was a fitting ancestry for a fellow out to bluff the universe. All the while I worried that I might get caught. It was at distinct odds with what I'd been told, after all.

I got a call from my mother the other day. She was laughing as she told me. We had a singular ancestor that boarded a boat to France from Dublin, Ireland. He adopted a French last name, hopped another boat and headed off to America. At the time our country had an Irish Need Not Apply phase and wasn't accepting refugees from Ireland. So my clever ancestor just made up some stories about where we were “really from.” These passed in familial belief, until my Grandmother recently discovered the truth.

That said: if she discovers next that he had a generation of sons a year apart in age for a range of three years that were hanged as Horse Thieves, I'm going to be a bit freaked out. Because even I think that's a bit much and treat it skeptically.

On the other hand... Who knows? Maybe I'm just so good I'm retroactively affecting the past. There's a spooky thought for the afternoon to be dismissed by 7 PM.

The picture above is not of one of my ancestors, by the way. It's just what inevitably happened to most horse thieves.

4 comments:

Zoe Hernandez said...

I've considered petitioning my own ancestors for the very same thing, but have been too chicken shit to do it. Learning the truth about my own family's past would be more than illuminating, I think...

Dohmnaill said...

Family history tends to be mythic at best...
My family can't fully even decide on our family. I have a great-grandmother who seems to have never existed, most likely for being a Native American Indian... if that story is even true. Just an empty gap in the family tree.

I have considered doing the same, but wasn't really sure if I needed too. Living in a neighborhood that turns out used to be a reservation, that sits along a river my great-grandfather used to pilot a boat on is strange enough.

Rufus Opus said...

I remember all my past lives.

They were pretty much the same as this one. Lots and lots of time spent doing things I'd rather not be doing, a few moments of insight and comprehension of the machinery of the universe, and sprinkled throughout, just enough to keep me breathing, pleasant moments of happiness.

Past life regression has little or no practical value, imo. Long before I visited the Akashic records, I made a talisman out of meteorites to connect me to all the power to change reality that came from all my incarnations' attainment of wisdom and occult knowledge.

It worked. It wasn't the infinite cosmic power I was aiming for, but it was still pretty cool for a week or two. You get about the same results meditating on and writing the affirmation "I am a Master Materializer."

The past life stuff came later, and when I tried to talk about it to a mundane friend, I realized how totally silly it is to people who are struggling with a gambling addiction that's left them owing over $50,000 to shady lenders in Vegas.

Ultimately, it matters shit all what I did as a Priest King of Atlantis (did you really think I would have been anything less? Really?). I'm still the man who used to be the kid who shot snakes in Oklahoma, put a sheepskin seat on a BMX bike in Texas, climbed mountains in Colorado, and who now works in a cubicle for a moody Italian.

All the wisdom of my past lives points to enjoying the time that's enjoyable, surviving the times that are tough, and trying not to die too painfully.

And taking that last boat off Atlantis instead of running after my soul mate. Of course.

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