my life as a artist
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Out of pocket
Tuesday 13th March 2007 8:06 AM
Yesterday I went to see a past-life therapist in York. I hadn't been to see one since I was a heretic monk in South-East France in the twelfth century. She was very good. I think it was the same bloke as last time. Some of them are very expensive and inclined to deceitful flattery… they'll say things like, 'Ooh… you were Cleopatra and then you were Socrates.. after that you were Merlin and then Joan of Arc and after that you were Cliff Richard.'
This woman charges very reasonable fees and seems more realistic. She helped me process a difficult incarnation that I underwent in the late nineteenth century in Northern India, in a town called Mussoorie. It was during the Raj and Mussoorie was developed as a hill-station for the wives and children of the British officers, its sudden elevation offering respite from the crushing heat of the northern plains.(When the middle classes of Delhi are planning a holiday they like to look at brochures full of people frolicking in thermally-lined chunky knitwear)
My short and troubled incarnation in this place, much to my amazement, was as a snooker ball. She told me I was a red. I respected her for that. In my humbled state I would have been susceptible to deceitful flattery. I wouldn't expect to have been a black or a pink but she could have said I was a green or a brown without arousing suspicion .
In the incarnation prior to being a snooker ball I had died of an overdose of opium and strong hashish. It's said that we choose our incarnations to help aspects of our soul that need development. These choices are usually taken from the clearer vantage point afforded by the hereafter. However, in my case, because I was still enjoying the effects of the opium and hashish, I chose to be a snooker ball, for a laugh.
The first twinklings of consciousness in this new incarnation were quite traumatic. I thought I was dozing in my bed after a particularly heavy night, completely unaware that I'd died and that my eternal soul had transmigrated into the small, spherical, ivory body of a red snooker ball. The violence and shock of that first break! The crashing of ivory bodies and the dreadful spinning! The confusion subsiding and being replaced by the sickening realisation that I was a snooker ball!
Such was the trauma of these terrible memories, that not only did they stop me being a happy and fully integrated snooker ball, they carried on and influenced subsequent incarnations. However, despite the pain of those first few moments, my life as a snooker ball was not without reward.
Many of the other snooker balls were sentient, and over the years, as beings do when surrounded by a bewildering universe, they had evolved a cosmology. The white cue ball was seen as the Christ Force, the cue as the Holy Spirit and God was the The Snooker Player That Plays Himself And Never Wins Or Loses.
Although the colours were often aloof and superior, there was much camaraderie, and often romance, between the reds. However, in the headlong foolishness of youth I developed a powerful erotic yearning for the pink. I'd often admired her rosy glow from afar but the first time I actually SAW her was when we lay next to each other on the balk cushion. The firm pink roundness of her body and the shiny smoothness of her ivory skin was an intoxicating mixture. One magical game I was fortunate enough to kiss her by the middle pocket. In my excitement I thought I was going to snooker her, but Christ came along and broke us up.
The past-life therapist said that the unfulfilled erotic love that I'd had for the pink might affect me, in the long run, as much as the birth trauma of that first break, and she recommended that I come back for another session next week. I'll let you know how it goes.
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Posted by embroidery machine , on Saturday 8th December 2007, 7:13 PM
This is REALLY good Andy
Posted by Steve , on Friday 23rd March 2007, 10:17 PM
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