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This will be brief as I am getting ready to go to work early. I've completed my most recent round of digitizing and proofreading a large number of my past-life published works, written by Mathew Franklin Whittier. I was going to share one more comparison between his heavy dialect style, with copious misspellings and malapropisms, and his tongue-in-cheek essay style, written at age 15 and 17, respectively. But I notice that when I wrote the previous entry--the second one for Sept. 14th--my daily site visits jumped to 469; and then, within two days, they have plummeted to 251. That second figure, for yesterday, will increase somewhat when the overnight contingent weighs in. But it gives me pause. I don't know what really causes a flux like that, but how it strikes me is, a bunch of people e-mail their friends, "Look at this!" They all look, none of them are convinced, and they go about their business as though nothing had happened. I noticed the same thing, society-wide, when the Leininger reincarnation case was presented to the public. A bit of a flurry, and then everything went back to the way it comfortably (if disastrously) had been. Whereas, if rationality prevailed, that should have upended Western civilization.

Clearly, there is some kind of thermostat which regulates attacks on the status quo, such that any serious threats to the individual and collective boggle threshold is marginalized.

What I'm seeing, is that Edgar Allan Poe was a phony, who had stolen at least three pieces from Mathew Franklin Whittier in a private meeting in 1844. Two he published right away; the third he couldn't publish, for some reason, and it was published after his death. Historians claim he wrote "Annabel Lee" shortly before he died; but he had had it in his possession since 1844.

In 1846, Poe wrote a bullshit essay on how he had written "The Raven," probably because some people were questioning it. Then, for the same reasons, he wrote a poem which was intended to demonstrate that he could write in the same style. "Ulalume" was published the following year, in 1847. When I discovered it reprinted in the 1849 Portland "Transcript," during this most-recent round of research, and read the opening lines, I felt certain I had found a parody. It was only when I got home and looked it up online, that I realized this was an actual attempt by Poe. It is manifestly awful, and Mathew made fun of it, as well, in typical tongue-in-cheek fashion. But in 1849, Mathew, daring to write in his own natural and preferred style, wrote the poem I shared in this blog last entry.

In my first book, I bring up the case of Margaret D.H. Keane, who painted the large-eyed waifs. Her ex-husband claimed the work as his own, and finally, in the courtroom, the judge ordered them each to paint in that style, in front of him. The ex-husband excused himself on the basis of a sore shoulder, while Mrs. Keane produced one of her typical works in about 45 minutes. This example of Mathew's poem, "To the Wayfarer of Life" (shared last entry), compared to Poe's "Ulalume," is a parallel case. Mathew could do it--Poe failed miserably. Failed, that is, to a discerning audience.

All of this, combined with the other evidence I've presented over the past couple of months, as I've run across it, is so compelling that the case is obvious. It makes perfect logical sense. If it crashes anyone's boggle threshold, then, I can't defeat that thermostat. Nor should I have to. That is the responsibility of truth-seekers, to override their own thermostat. Never mind the rest, who are not truth-seekers. They will never get it. This world is a mash of lies; if one isn't intensely motivated and ever-vigilant, one will become lost in it. No-one can pull you out, except there are two solutions: 1) intense suffering, which is inevitable, eventually, when sunk in delusion; and 2) the Avatar. But that's a subject for another entry.

Now, all that remains, here, is the digital archiving. I'm going to work on that tomorrow and the next day, and I think I may go back to studying my Guru's life and teachings for awhile. I've done my best, here. I want to see some e-book sales; not only because I need and deserve the income, but because it will tell me that there are some serious seekers of truth out there. This business of skimming my blog as entertainment is for the birds--the tweeting, superficial birds, or the timid birds. I want the "eagles." If I have to wait two or three generations for them, fine. I'll still be around, somewhere or other.

Best regards,

Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.

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Music opening this page: "One of These Things Doesn't Belong Here," from Sesame Street



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