she is gathering her flying monkeys again; trouble is sure her intent 

I do not care

The Eliza compartment/parallel story continued

 

there is such emptiness, the fear is it will consume everything that matters

Eliza

The first year after went by in a rushed daze. No sooner had she escaped a stalker that she found herself having to jump and rush every time “the duke” bellowed. Or “dukie” as she silently preferred. 

Why was he called the duke? She did not know nor care because he exhausted her. At first she had taken great pity on him but he wore her thin fast. It was not just the sleep interruptions for all his demands that were in actuality far from emergency and by the way he yelled you would think that he was on fire but it was his constant heckling and suspicious temperament that kept her constantly on edge; one ear always tuned for his shout and —the fear of her safety

So that first year she did not sleep more than three hours together a night. 

While it did keep her from thinking of herself. And it kept her from going anywhere too. And maybe after the first six months she had recovered from the stalker but the anxiety attacks were constant.

Those hours he took his daily naps she would just sit and rock for hours. On the floor in a ball with her arms wrapped around her knees. She would rock. Just like that. For hours. It kept her body from trembling because it just never stopped. 

What happened to Eliza? How did she come to be there? What happened to that extinct family? Cast at sea she was

There had been a poison unleashed by a family member and blood feuds have a way of destroying your will to go on 

But after the first year, the thaw began.

 She started to remember herself 

and it started with anger 

not for herself. It was when the duke set up traps and trapped an animal and then he left it in agony for hours before he finally put it out of its misery 

That animal signified herself somehow, like dead roadkill 

and it made her really angry. Only then did she realize she was also trapped and wondered how long before he’d shoot her to put her out of her misery

And she became very ill. The nights without sleep having to jump at his call and all his demands of chores to satisfy his cares after experiencing the trauma of being a hostage to a so -called friend made her so ill. She looked like a scarecrow, she was so thin and her skin was like parchment and almost gray in color. She caught her own reflection. Mortified. Literally. And only by seeing this she said to her reflection, 

“What have they done to me?”

 but…. After a time in brooding thought ….. 

she decided she’d had enough of playing the pawn 

pawn; fawn….

and so it dawned.Because the best place to hide is in plain sight. And how can anyone reach her, if she was hidden in high ground?

as I reconsider the bland and rural flat farmland with roads called “Slaughter Road” and now with fresh eyes, I start to see it as the perfect model in which to get a glimpse of a Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen rural life

As Milan Kundera wrote in “unbearable lightness of being” “if I had two lives I could see which choice would be better.”

reasoning & scientific method

upon considering the philosophy of reincarnation 

in particular —why certain lives are selected for that individual. as I’ve said, I don’t worry if my views could be thought total madness. this is a documentation I have journaled all my life through all my diaries and mediums. I’ve been on the course and followed signs so, this has been a work with reason and thought 

and I will only say that I know and always have that it was with intent it was picked; not always do souls reincarnate as their own descendant but I know this was part of closing the circle —I think once the burden is lifted that it was not guilt for shame per se but rather the necessary experience required 

it is like a reshuffling of cards 

and wonder if this may be the way back to Persephone or them —as I’d thought I was made redundant to that life 

pages; notes for research

There is this odd thing about me where I must always finish what I start. Must always keep my word. Must complete the circle 

So what do I do?I listen to no one. I go to the servitude of being indentured because I must keep my word to an fbi person.he has cornered me; manipulated my conscience. And as I reflect on life and stand between the plains of life —I look at them in my mind. I see the ancestors in my mind abd I look around at the land imagining —the Russian-doll linage of a patchwork of so many cultures run through my retinal veins and 

stand on the precipice thinking —my ethics are my moral compass which when I am stuck anywhere, this becomes my oracle for which I gauge. and then I think some more as I suspect there is something I still need to see here.something important, like the hinge which all else will make sense

….I am reflecting on the crossing paths of ancestral parentage. And why? because they left impressions ….yes through dna ….”memory” you see? the after-taste, the residual smears of which all traces never completely leave. We carry all this. and I think sometimes for some the gauge I speak of us a tool honed that has proven well to guide to….my next landmark stop

so close to Virginia. and I think it must be where the overlap occurred. You see, first it was layers of crossing hemispheres and then it was the other where one culture stewed in itself for centuries as it imagined power beyond a little island. I must complete the circle. I began this quest in search of what has propelled me

to search for ….it has been like fog to see through but I think it means I must not look with eyes but see with my inner vision what is true and who and why ….it has mattered 

to leave a land of civilization in the 1600’s and go to a new world. to do it for what —power, wealth, religious freedom, to escape feudal law?or to build an uprising to avenge a royal blood feud?

I have said that I believe that our obsessions are from those unresolved dark horses that were never set aright in that origin to that DNA’s lifetime and —once we identify this affliction we may figure a course in which may lead us towards peace and resolution 

I have a bag fetish. I have written before here how I think it is from having to be on the run through generations. The most necessary thing to have is a reliable method to transport your worldly goods. one day it occurred as I am constantly repairing my hiking backpacks like some inborn natural inclination I never consciously made —sewing, repairing my bags as preparation to leave; as armory; as combat mode hypnosis ….

Sometimes when I walk ….I can feel it in the swing of my hips and remember this same motion of walking endlessly for hours upon days upon days …,which I think is why I love to hike. It is my home I guess as I am more at ease between the worlds anyway 

The heavy fossil I found in England as a student there with my class and now seems so long ago but seems it must have ensnared then, that day that I so poigentky recall —has made me look, search, research and look back again and again to recall my elusive, lost lineage —as key; as key to what —we search for as humans 

they searched.

did we forget why or did we never think….or not think about why enough as it is easy to be lured into greed and lust and power

 and repeat the things you ran way from 

I think often about that Welsh lord whose bloodline landed them in a colony named after a queen who would have been his enemy and consider what a plantation would have meant to him and serving the crown then becoming a forefather of the country. 

I think I understand why I turned out the way I am. I can trace an aristocratic lineage of Normans and Franks on one side of one —but a bastard—with —of whom crossed with a native Indian tribe and on another, a proud line from the tribes of the east which means I am made more tough from resilience and fortitude. I have worn it on my face, I look of all these things as I have never blended, especially not growing up in that house, but I learned to wear it like armor  

Lately, I keep hearing my mother calling my name. It makes no sense. I will actually stop short stunned in what I am doing. It intervenes whatever task. I will think she expects me to answer or go to her and start to—until that part of my mind that addresses logic instantly throws cold water at me. It has happened more than just once or twice. In fact, it’s been happening a lot and at various locations. She had different ways of saying my name, different tones where her pitch would rise at the end, like a kind of opera howl or another where she is using her coaxing to entreat me to go somewhere with her; and this too has varied in these instances where it seems she is calling me