Abby's journal

 

 

May 18, 2018

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Steve, looking at the visiting statistics for our respective journals, sees that mine is falling behind. He says I could catch up if I would talk about sex again!

Sex, as you know it, is half from the animal kingdom, and half from our world. Wait until you experience our version in its entirety, is all I can say about that!

This is why sex is best within a soul-mate relationship, and then, it is best if you emphasize the spiritual part of it. I understand that the animal urges must at times be satisfied. You may diet during the year, but at Thanksgiving, you help yourself to everything on the table! But sex which expresses the soul-mate bond, gently and slowly, is my preference. That way, one can make a relatively easy transition to our kind of sex, once one gets here; and one isn't pulled earthwards by the habit of focusing too much on the body's reactions.

Steve could elaborate, but I don't want to go into too much depth on that. I write about such things primarily when someone is struggling with it, to address that concern. Not just for a topic to write about.

So we are wide open for topics, here, and Steve is initially drawing a blank...

He was watching medium Theresa Caputo working, in YouTube clips, yesterday. This is helpful to him, to more firmly establish his faith in the possibility of what we are doing. There is contacting, and then, there is a further step of continuing a relationship across the Great Divide. If contacting is real, and possible, then continuing may also be possible.

Steve is stuck, here, on a movie he saw (while caretaking yesterday evening) called "Brooklyn," of an Irish girl coming to America. A boy in Brooklyn pushes her into marriage, just before she goes back to Ireland for her beloved sister's funeral. There, not telling anyone what she has done, she is matched up with a likely Irish prospect, and finds herself attracted to him. Finally, the town gossip finds her out, via correspondence with relatives in Brooklyn, and she hurriedly returns to her husband.

This, of course, is the long-distance lover's nightmare. But it is what happens when one lover "isn't quite as much into it" as the other. Get him or her in new circumstances, meeting new people, and they can't hold. This is one reason I keep on emphasizing the difference with soul-mate relationships, that by definition, each of them is as "into it" as the other. So you don't normally have this problem (or, a host of other, related problems).

The reason Steve can be assured of my fidelity, is that, besides how deeply I love and respect him (I wanted him to add the word, "respect"), we are soul-mates and we are equally precious and dear to each other.

Now...what else...

Steve has completed his sequel book, about being physically present in the scenes of his past life as Mathew. Now, he finds himself in the world of Portland, Maine in the 21st century, where things have radically changed since Mathew's day. He likes it, but, of course, it is a city after all. I never liked cities--I wanted to remain in the country, but Mathew couldn't pursue his dreams of being a writer in the country; nor could he support me (by being a merchant) in the style in which I had grown up, which he imagined, as a proper provider, he should do. I didn't care, though I did find that poverty wasn't all it was cracked up to be, by idealistic dreamers! I would have been happy with a stable home life somewhere in-between. But it was a point of pride, with Mathew, to someday provide for me at a level that would show my father that he was man enough for me. You see the problem. You can't talk a man out of his masculine pride! But all this meant that we had to live in a city--and Portland was a little jewel of a city, back then, as cities went.

It still is, compared to other cities; but it has lost much of its charm. What is still there, is still lovely. Steve feels often that he has found himself in a sort of fairy-land of old Victorian houses--and so it is. But it was once even more fairy-like. In fact, there is something of the "fae" in it, astrally, which is what drew us to it in the first place. That atmosphere is subtly felt by the inhabitants--it is, in short, a power-place, spiritually, or to be more precise, astrally. This is why Steve has felt interested in the subject of fairies, lately. There is something of that energy there; and it was there long before the white man arrived, as the Native Americans knew all-along.

Did you know that we used to playfully call me a water sprite? Steve started finding evidence for this in Mathew's writing, and in the writing we did, together. He presumes that I must have swum frequently in the Merrimack River, which our small town bordered on. But then he thinks, "It would have been cold, up here..." Yes, it was. But what he didn't realize, was that it was one way I could get away from the bullies! He knows I was persecuted by them, i.e., the other girls in the village; but he hadn't put two-and-two together, until recently, that swimming was a way of getting away from them. They wouldn't follow me, there! It was well-worth the cold.*

So, because I was trained in the occult by my Scottish mother (meaning, in the "old ways"), it was just one more addition to my strangeness, to them. But Matt and I would joke that I was a "water sprite." Look at the poem quotation that Matt added to the top of one of my short stories, when he published it about 10 years after my death:

"Our father says that what before
We told you was not right;
For God has grace enough in store
To save a Water Sprite."

This is because people would shun me, saying I wasn't Christian, when actually I was an esoteric Christian. So Mathew was answering these people, some ten years later, as he published one of my stories.

Sigh...Steve is feeling how much of our personal life he embedded, as Matt, into all his literary work, all through his life. So much of it was a tribute to me, and to our relationship. No-one ever knew--but Steve knew.

Our book of poetry--Mathew's, and then mine--has been rejected by the publisher Steve sent it to back in December of last year. Finally he had to call to check on it, and was told "We don't publish poetry." Sigh...but what poetry (pardon my immodesty). And what a background story, in the commentary for each poem. Steve says they probably didn't even crack the book. But as he also surmises, they weren't worthy. He felt he had to try, and even trying may have had its own significance. Here is what I am giving Steve to feel--maybe someone did look at it--someone who works there. Maybe that person was touched by it, in ways that will not be apparent for many years. Perhaps this contact will come back around to us, or rather to our work, someday--in this life, or a future life. You can never tell.

Steve remembers something similar happened at the television station he once worked for, as a lowly "air operator" (putting programs on the air). Someone had sent in a demo tape to be considered for employment, but it just sat in the in-box, there, above Steve's control panel, for the longest time. Finally, Steve, himself, took time to view it, and found it quite good. So, you never know who your audience is. Perhaps, in the spiritual world, the person you reach with your work is really a more august person than the "top brass," who are ignoring it. That's because in the spiritual world, credentials are spiritual credentials.

The most august, appreciated people here, may have been the lowliest people on earth. But you know that, already.

I will see to it that our legacy survives Steve's death, even if it isn't appreciated in his lifetime. It must survive, because it is going to be appreciated, nay, celebrated, in the future. I already see it there, in the future. The energy-nexus is already there; how history gets to it is still in a fluid state of possibilities, shifting around. But it is already there. That's how I see things, here.

Next in line, Steve returns to his novel about our relationship in the 19th century. He discovered a great deal of Mathew's writing from this early stage of his life, even before we formally began courting. So that new understanding must be fitted into the novel.

Steve, putting clues together, recently discovered one of our fond memories. I won't tell you how he arrived at it; but I am only 14, and very deeply (and maturely, for my age) in love with Matt, the handsome older boy who is something of a lovable town rogue, with a heart of gold. I can see him as a prince in the rough, and I am determined to "clean him up," as they say, now. Well, this is the Victorian age, after all, the age of reform; but it is also a universal fantasy for young girls! But Matt, as I could clearly sense, was my true love, my soul-mate--so in that case, and in that case only, it works. Never try this with a boy who isn't your soul-mate! It's a disaster. Matt really was my destiny, and I felt that very strongly. But I was a child prodigy--a grown woman in my consciousness, but a stick-figure of a girl, in my body. So this was not "puppy love" on my part--but how to get Matt to understand?

So he knew I was in love with him, and he was not unappreciative of my young charms, but he knew that he was a poor farmer, while I was the privileged daughter of a marquis, and he, being friends with my older brother, could not very well respond openly. So what did he do? He did himself up in formal attire, stood beneath my second-floor bedroom window, and serenaded me. But what a silly serenade! Unfortunately, the lines he sang are lost (though of course I remember them well); but one can just imagine, based on the silly poems that Steve has found of Mathew's, what it must have been like. I'll share one of those stories, about the same subject, in a minute. So, Matt wrote a poem about this era of our lives, and he had me "pelting his hat with roses," with my "brook-like laughter" winding among the flowers. But in this poem, I was supposed to have been sitting in a vine swing. Steve could never quite picture it--why would I be sitting in a vine swing, plucking roses and throwing them at his hat? Was I trying to knock his hat off? And did he even wear at hat, on such occasions?

No. He was serenading me, in full regalia, below my window, and embarrassing me horribly! Of course I was secretly pleased, but he was making light of the whole thing. I couldn't tell, no matter how hard I scrutinized his "performance," whether he was serious underneath, or not! But that's how he was. He hid his true feelings very well. So the only thing I could do, in my embarrassment (and nobody gets embarrassed like a shy 14-year-old girl!), was to start plucking the roses that grew on a trellis outside my window, and start throwing them down on him as fast as I could! It was a symbolic gesture, the perfect response. You see why, Steve doesn't have to explain.

Steve contacted one artist online, to see if she could draw this scene for his sequel book, where he discusses how he put two-and-two together to uncover it. But she hasn't responded, and he knows I don't want just anybody to attempt it. So perhaps the reader will have to imagine it in his or her own mind's eye.

That's all I want Steve to write, for today.

Love to each and all,
Abby

P.S. Steve sees I never came back to the courting story...perhaps we will share that another day.

*Steve says, on re-read, it reminds him of how the character "Forrest Gump" learned how to run.