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12/24/24
Did you read all of yesterday's entry? You didn't?
Yesterday evening, something happened that's only happened to me once before--a podcast stood me up. But this was a major one, i.e., "The X Zone" in Canada. No message from them this morning, either. There are any number of reasons. My last message to them on the Skype interface, after waiting half an hour and quadruple-checking to be sure I didn't have something wrong, was one word: "drones?"
Their canned invitation came in an e-mail with their Christmas greetings. It had only been a couple of months since I was on with them, before. But that was Halloween, and my "claim" to be the past-life author of "The Raven." Now, I wanted to talk about a different subject, i.e., my "claim" to be the past-life co-author of "A Christmas Carol." It's possible they were disgusted with me for taking advantage of their automated system to attempt two appearances within so many months. Or, they could have had a blizzard internet blackout, or...
I go along with such people, and play the clown to a certain extent. Rob makes a show of theatrical skepticism for his audience, and once I let him do that, he's happy and we can get to business. Or, that's how it went down last time. I need the publicity, and you know what they say about any publicity being good publicity.
But it looks like I won't get it this time. Some of these paranormal show hosts appear to be closet Christians; and this topic may have struck a bit close to home. People simply cannot wrap their minds around the fact that the man they have emotionally tied to "A Christmas Carol" was its plagiarist, being a world-class scoundrel. Let's try another metaphor. An easy one drawn from real life (Google it).
You get to know Walter Keane, and you deeply admire what he claims are his paintings of large-eyed waifs. You attribute to him all the qualities of the kind of person who could create this artwork. He must be sensitive, and caring, and talented. He plays along, and in time you consider him a personal friend. You love him for the qualities which you see in his paintings.
But Mr. Keane is an imposter. Neither did he paint those waifs, nor does he have those qualities. In fact, he has a very different set of qualities, which belong to a person who is pathologically dishonest.
Now comes the court trial, when his wife, Margaret Keane, demonstrates for the courtroom, at the direction of the judge, that she is the real artist. Walter excuses himself from attempting to draw one, because he has injured his shoulder.
This is what you have with Dickens, vs. Mathew and Abby Whittier. My evidence is basically as strong as that courtroom demonstration. But everyone, down to "Cindy Lou Who, who is no more than two," is in love with Charles Dickens. They have been taught from when they were Cindy's size to love him for "A Christmas Carol."
This is who they are unknowingly loving--Mathew and Abby Whittier.
I rest my case. Abby, as I understand her in our channeling, wants me to cease all my outreach efforts after today. This morning, I will make my online "rounds" one last time, looking for people to write to and comments to leave. Very few of these are answered; and when I get an answer, it is usually a brief, patronizing, starchy-polite one. Or, occasionally I am flamed, in social media, or given an arrogrant brush-off (as I was this morning by a prominent preacher, who clearly does not understand "A Christmas Carol" as well as he thinks he does). On very rare occasions, someone timidly gives a "like."
I have one more podcast interview coming up, a live one on the 2nd with Jeremy Scott of "Into the Parabnormal" at 10:00 p.m. And, my second (chronologically, first) interview with Richard Syrett is being posted on his homepage for Strange Planet (strangeplanet.ca). It seems to take a day or two for them to be playable when they are first posted. Hopefully by Christmas.
And then it's a matter of battening down the hatches to see what's coming down. I may or may not be writing this blog. I might even take it down, for a while. You ten people who read this, or some portion of it, may wish to buy my books. Both of them, together, would be about the cost of a cheap dinner out these days. Most of the material you've seen here has been drawn, piecemeal, from those books. Believe it or not, I am about as reluctant to toot my own horn as I was in the 19th century, when I was Mathew. These e-books, "Mathew Franklin Whittier in his own words," and "Mathew Franklin Whittier in his own world," are very well-written (as you might expect) and utterly fascinating. It's some of the best detective work you've ever seen, albeit I'm proving a reincarnation case and reclaiming two literary legacies which have been lost and extensively plundered. There are no murders. This has been Edgar Allan Poe's contribution--after him, people have to have a murder in order to appreciate detective work. It's like someone who has to shake salt over everything before he can bear to eat it.
But there are other kinds of detective stories, and mine is an exceptionally good one.
I wish you a Merry Christmas, and I want to thank every single reader who has ever taken me seriously--if only for an unguarded moment.
Sincerely,
Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.
