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It's evening, and I've just completed my caretaking duties, at 8:30 p.m. I'm exhausted, but I have something to celebrate. Today, I finished incorporating all the new discoveries from my latest round of research, into my book, "Mathew Franklin Whittier in his own words." The source, this time, was the New York "Constellation" of year 1832. Mathew saw his 20th birthday this year, on July 18th.

I had mentioned that there was a potential discrepancy in dates and authorship attributions, inasmuch as I also knew (or believed) that Mathew had been submitting work, including book reviews, for a monthly Boston young men's magazine. That began on a regular basis in February of 1832, so I expected that Mathew's tenure with the "Constellation"--which began in December of 1829--would end just as his work for this magazine commenced. No dice. Mathew's work continued in the "Constellation" right up to the point that the editor resigned, in September. But that doesn't negate his proposed work for the Boston publication. He must have been traveling back and forth, and submitting occasionally to the magazine. His courtship with his future wife, Abby, was clearly heating up, based on two of his poems discovered in the "Constellation." So obviously he was traveling frequently to be with her. Boston is not so far away from Haverhill, Mass., their home town.

As said, I found two of Mathew's young love poems to Abby. They are highly evidential, but that's obviously not what makes them important to me, personally. By evidential, I mean, there are clues in them which identify both people; which means that Mathew was, indeed, writing for this paper as I have said he was, and so-on. I am actually kind of tired of the whole proof thing. I've proved this case a thousand times over, and either nobody believes me (i.e., in my own lifetime), or nobody cares.

I'm am sure I haven't found all of Mathew's published works. I am probably well over 800, now. But I wouldn't be surprised if I have tapped all of the major "veins." There might be a piece submitted to this paper, and a piece to that.

So it hit me in a flash, today, the feeling that it is like dying, as Mathew, a second time. He has come alive in me as I have immersed myself in fresh sources of his work, and in his life. His emotions are uppermost; the feeling-tone of his personality starts to seep in and color my own.

The other thing that occurred to me--as my rational mind took over--is that I could probably go on for a lifetime discovering more of Mathew's lost works, but I think that now the story has been told. There aren't any more facets to explore, or subplots of Mathew's life to reveal. It seems as though when Abby (now, in the astral realm) has been leading me to new discoveries, it has been for the express purpose of revealing another of these facets of Mathew's life.

When, and whether, people will appreciate this, I don't know. This evening I was watching re-runs of the British sitcom, "As Time Goes By." The character "Lionel" is the author of a boring book about his life in Kenya, entitled "My Life in Kenya." Even his friends have to admit it's dull, and hardly anyone is interested. Nonetheless, from the way it is portrayed in the series, "My Life in Kenya" sells better than my book does. I think I can still count on one hand the number of copies sold, over the past several years.

I'm glad of that, actually, because it wasn't ready. I have said this 20 times over the past few years, but I think it may be ready, now. Abby is the only one who knows for sure. She knows whether there is some other facet of Mathew's life to reveal, with new evidence, or whether we have essentially told the story. I get the feeling that we have.

Personally, I am unaware of anything so good, which has been so studiously ignored. Of course, I don't have a publicist, I don't advertise, it's a very long e-book, it is exclusively an e-book (but I am charging physical book prices, or, I would say, cheap real book prices). Like "Lionel," I abhor hype. Google seems to have taken me off their results (whether maliciously and deliberately, or through some fluke of algorithms, I don't know). And reincarnation is a very hard sell. First of all, everybody thinks it is a belief. And given that they think it is a belief, they think they know all about it--or at least as much about it as they need to know.

It isn't a belief. And they have no idea how desperately they need to know about it. Then again, everybody has seen books about reincarntion. But they haven't seen this book. The books they have seen are fantasy novels; or they imagine that people can reincarnate as animals; or that all incarnations exist at the same time, and can communicate with each other. Or, on the other side of the coin, they suggest that only a very few exceptional children around the world remember their previous lifetime, and no more; or that reincarnation isn't personal, but rather, that souls "extrude" from some "spiritual vat" in heaven. Or, where someone has attempted to prove their own past life, the author has relied entirely on coincidences, such as "I moved to Nebraska when I was five, and he, also moved to Nebraska when he was five." Set aside the hundreds of books which follow along these lines, and you have a handful (or 10, or 15) left which are as accurate and as interesting as mine. There isn't nearly the competition there seems to be, at first glance.

Well, the work is done, now, I think, or essentially done. Everything I do, I turn over to God. I learned to do this when I was just out of high school. I still remember it--I would take a book--in this case, the Bhagavad Gita--with me to Fairchild Tropical Gardens in Miami--sit out on a little island (a peninsula, actually) on the lake, and read and just be in Nature all day. Krishna taught, "Do your best and leave the results to God--that is the secret." And so my job is to do the work--my job is not to be concerned with the book's reception.

Word to the wise, it's excellent. If this is all I accomplish the rest of my life, I'll be satisfied. But are there any "wise" out there, to give the word to? One wonders. I have explained this project from every conceivable angle. I've proven that, like Mathew Franklin Whittier, I can still crank out a high-quality essay every other day if necessary, month after month (so that you can see that past-life talents have carried forward). I've given snippets and samples of the book, and explained them. I've shared material (like the previous entry) which didn't even find its way into the book, for lack of space. I've honestly shared the book's flaws, and honestly set forth its strengths. I even have remnants of Mathew's sense of humor.

Nothing. No sales, nobody even looking at it on my online store for weeks at a time; no radio interviews, no inquiries, nothing.

But I bide my time. I have quite a bit of archiving work to keep me busy. Over 800 of Mathew's works are digitized, many are photographed in their original form, while I own a number of physical copies. I also have originals of most of the images used in the book. All of this has to be catalogued and stored, against the day when, hopefully, I can pass it along to people who understand it as I understand it.

Meanwhile, the opportunity to study me, or to interact with me, or to question me, is passing as I get older, and eventually pass on, myself. Of course there will be more cases, once investigators know what to look for. But this is one I think they will be sorry to have missed.

I think for Mathew to have died unrecognized and little appreciated, was a shame. I will have done my best to rectify that mistake. Whether or not people remember me, has never really been a concern.

I'm too tired to be writing--I'm not even making sense to myself. Time to stop. Perhaps I'll erase it all, tomorrow--but then again, this is me, uncensored. Here it is--I think when you manifest power, and genius, even if you aren't an egotistical person, you think that your work will be noticed in due course, and in due time, and that your life will be understood and celebrated in due time. When it doesn't happen--when lesser lights steal your work, and claim your accomplishments, and nobody ever understood you (except for your soul-mate)--then it starts you musing about the whole thing.

I think the truth will out. But I also think that sometimes it takes a lot longer than one might expect. Mathew actually expressed all of this in a poem, better than I can do in my current exhausted state. Well, I won't share it, here. It's in the book.

Best regards,

Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.


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