tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59832296548306174002024-03-05T12:16:12.435-08:00Past Lives - I remember mine and you can, too!After a trip to London as a teenager in 1986, I started to spontaneously remember living in the eighteenth century as the wife of a popular Irish musician. Many years later with the advent of the internet, I was able to match the details I recalled with a real person, Mary Carter. This blog will chronicle how I was able to regress myself and remember details about my past life.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-1608503047349627072011-07-23T17:11:00.000-07:002011-07-23T17:54:31.066-07:00Nookta?With my latest book published and no job in sight, I find myself with time on my hands. And just what does Ms. Kamp do when she has time? Research past lives, of course!<br /><br />Having recently spent so much time in Canada, I've been thinking about my Indian past life a lot lately. I remember very little about it at this point, having only had two memories, one of which I forgot to write down (let that serve as a lesson to ALWAYS record any information you recall). Here's the memory which did get written down:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">September 20th, 1993<br />....Indians in British Columbia. Huddled in a make-shift house, my legs bare. The girl I wanted, with a mostly beautiful Indian face. The water’s edge, at high tide, lapping a few feet below the top of the near-vertical rock face with the trees almost overhanging into the water. My canoe, carved and painted at the bow, primarily in black, white and bluish-green. Going out with the whales, others with me in other canoes, the whale charging and easily overturning my boat, the whale’s white under-face turned green by the water and the teeth coming at me, silently—this was very ordinary, as if it couldn’t possibly be happening, and yet also I felt urgency, some sort of panic at the back of my thoughts. These animals were revered by me—I loved them as sacred, even though I was going to kill one, I meant it no harm. I realized, watching this, feeling this, over and over in a vague replay, that we, the Indians, were hunting the whales and they were defending themselves. I don’t know if I died—it seemed like I did. I couldn’t get the image of that green and black face coming at me out of my mind.</span><br /><br />So, with all this free time, I did some searching for which First Nations Groups hunted whales, specifically killer whales. It seems the Nootka, or Nuu-chah-nulth, were the only real whale hunters...so that narrows down my location to the western side of Vancouver Island (excluding the Makah on the Olympic Peninsula because the landscape doesn't look right). I've read that only the chief was allowed to strike the killing harpoon blow, that only the chief's family was allowed to hunt whales, so this suggests that, if my memory is correct and we were actually hunting, then I would have been a member of the chief's family. In the memory I failed to write down, my father in this life was a little, old, gray-haired Indian man in that lifetime, very chief-like, although this could just be a confusion with one of the characters in Daniel Day-Lewis' <span style="font-style:italic;">Last of the Mohicans</span>. Also, from what I know about killer whale behavior, they seldom attack or molest boats or kayaks unless harassed, so odds would be good we were actually hunting in this memory.<br /><br />While I was in Canada, I had a chance to see an iron "slave killer" knife in a local museum there. I had written about just such a knife in my first book, <span style="font-style:italic;">The Last Killiney</span>, and it was surprising to find out how accurate my description was, and how much resonance I experienced upon seeing this artifact. Since iron was more plentiful amongst the First Nations Groups after contact with the fur traders -- and the Nootka were among the first to make contact -- it seems likely my memories date from after Mary Carter's lifetime, e.g. after 1830. <br /><br />I will need to conduct some past-life self-regressions to learn more, but right now this is where I stand in my research. All very interesting. Now I'm thinking about getting in my truck and driving up there, maybe visiting some of the places one can actually drive to, Tahsis and Gold River. *adds to To-Do List*J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-90999555382835836592011-07-22T19:51:00.001-07:002011-07-22T19:57:47.203-07:00The Wager is now available!My latest book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005DUAWAK">The Wager</a>, is now available for sale! Huzzah!<br /><br />You can find it <a href="http://about.me/JJayKamp">here </a>in both Kindle and Nook formats, as well as links to all my other books in the series, too.<br /><br />Thanks for taking a look!J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-42542642339543284782011-07-19T21:51:00.000-07:002011-12-04T17:12:13.025-08:00Another book....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUnBpuNWQdhlI2UCYvBgSBz8NVVi99pYvRc9EgchdFJZ0s-xjfXp6rp6shLgm1_hMpJMefOnCMngzQ5x27IBikJI9ElisuqobJKh-0JVQa_iAyQobLK4z-pYA4cp1gdDlQDBtiv46ge0/s1600/The+Wager+cover+final+outside.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUnBpuNWQdhlI2UCYvBgSBz8NVVi99pYvRc9EgchdFJZ0s-xjfXp6rp6shLgm1_hMpJMefOnCMngzQ5x27IBikJI9ElisuqobJKh-0JVQa_iAyQobLK4z-pYA4cp1gdDlQDBtiv46ge0/s400/The+Wager+cover+final+outside.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631299621235310834" /></a><br />Well, I've been gone all spring and summer, holed up in a cabin on the edge of the sea in British Columbia, Canada. I've been working on the third book in The Ravenna Evans Series when in fact I should be searching for gainful employment. But since the chances of securing a job seem slim, I find myself on the brink of publishing my fourth book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wager-Ravenna-Evans-ebook/dp/B005DUAWAK">The Wager</a>.<br /><br />The first book in this series, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006AJQ3GU">The Last Killiney</a>, is a time-travel romance featuring a hero based on/inspired by a mish-mash of Bono and Thomas Carter. It takes place mostly aboard Captain Vancouver's voyage to the Pacific Northwest in the 1790s -- a setting I thought was just a fun idea when I first began writing this story in 1992 (or whenever it was, so long ago now I can hardly recall). However, I've recently learned that one of the main participants in Vancouver's voyage was actually Mary Carter's neighbor's nephew, so the setting it seems is also a reflection of my past life. Funny how these things crop up (because the subconscious always seems to know about our past lives even if we don't).<br /><br />The second book in The Ravenna Evans Series is called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004QS96C0">The Bayman's Bride</a>, and it's a straight historical romance with no time travel or reincarnation theme. This story takes place in Belize during the 1790s, and it's about a Spanish sea captain who falls in love with his employer's wife. Lots of sex, lots of funny bits. I know I'm biased, but I think it's a really good book.<br /><br />Now the third book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wager-Ravenna-Evans-ebook/dp/B005DUAWAK">The Wager</a>, is finished. There are some references to my past life in this one, too, what with Thomas Carter's interest in Irish independence from British rule, as well as his drinking, social life, and eventual death. But that's not really what the book is about; instead, it's a story inspired by Johnny Depp.<br /><br />Famous for playing a listing, kohl-eyed pirate, Depp is someone whose name incites lust in females everywhere...but how many women really know much about him? Or even care what kind of person he is? If they were trapped on a desert island with him, how long would it take for the lust factor to wear off, and how many would become bored with him? <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wager-Ravenna-Evans-ebook/dp/B005DUAWAK">The Wager</a> is a story about just such a man: too beautiful to be seen as anything but a piece of meat, and thus never finding real and lasting love. Of course Ravenna, the heroine of all three books (in The Bayman's Bride, too, though in disguise) learns to appreciate Bill Wyckham for his personality, deeds and good heart, not just for his looks. However, she finds a few obstacles in the way of this new love -- her dead husband, for instance. Because when one possesses a time-travel potion, the possibilities are endless.<br /><br />Stay tuned for a release date for <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wager-Ravenna-Evans-ebook/dp/B005DUAWAK">The Wager</a> (hint: it should be within days).<br /><br />Thanks for reading!J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-77634955894053589042011-04-18T11:39:00.000-07:002011-04-18T11:49:30.647-07:00My book is out!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rrH-oesev4VUKqtLdZ9yAn4lFUDsjckLbiAsYBmtepubisdnj0qh528cQx4EP3K3RYI0t7mgsm3gFrpZE6es5cEHKnBvAzST80r1taYqrAaDzYrI5ckRjL3fCPMe2dxg5heLsbWGM-k/s1600/Singer%2527s+Wife+cover+outside.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 301px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rrH-oesev4VUKqtLdZ9yAn4lFUDsjckLbiAsYBmtepubisdnj0qh528cQx4EP3K3RYI0t7mgsm3gFrpZE6es5cEHKnBvAzST80r1taYqrAaDzYrI5ckRjL3fCPMe2dxg5heLsbWGM-k/s400/Singer%2527s+Wife+cover+outside.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596995826996511570" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">A true case of reincarnation as told by the person who experienced it, this book chronicles the life of an eighteenth-century glee singer's wife, and offers supporting evidence that the author is in fact the modern incarnation of a reverend's daughter and Georgian housewife, Mary Carter.</span><br /><br />Have you ever wondered if you've lived a past life? Ever thought about why you enjoy a particular talent, or what draws you to a certain time or place?<br /><br />That was me in 1986. I'd always been an Anglophile, always enjoyed Georgian art and architecture, but I had no idea where those preferences came from. Then, during my first trip to London, I was overcome by a feeling of familiarity. I knew I had been in England before, and spontaneously I began to recall living there during the eighteenth century. Wandering the streets of Westminster, I had surprising flashbacks to the 1790s. I remembered being in love with an Irishman who wore poofy shirts and played the piano. When I got home to Seattle at the end of my stay, I began looking into the possibility that reincarnation might be real. I searched for proof that this dandified Irishman had really existed, and that I hadn't made the whole thing up.<br /><br />I found that proof.<br /><br />It turns out that I did live in London during the eighteenth century. My name was Mary Carter, and I was madly in love with my husband, Thomas, an Irish singer who performed for royalty.<br /><br />How do I know this? Because, via self-regression and self-hypnotism, I've been able to recall a wealth of information over the last twenty-four years. I've matched these memories to real events and actual locations. I've since visited those places, delved into archives, researched the people I remember, and confirmed via a network of interwoven facts that I was the wife of a Georgian glee singer.<br /><br />My story won't be enough to satisfy the skeptical, but that's not what my book is about. What is imperative is getting the word out there: that you, too, can recall your past life, and via careful journaling and further research, you can confirm what you've seen. It's possible. It's kind of neat. And if you're into self-discovery and questioning the meaning of life, it goes a long way toward explaining why you've landed where you are.<br /><br />Does love last forever? In my experience, the answer is yes - if not forever, then at least two hundred and eleven years.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WXFMC2">The Singer's Wife</a> is available now in the Amazon Kindle store.</span><br /><br />.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-53157834532718983092011-02-03T20:26:00.000-08:002011-02-03T20:48:20.932-08:00Past Lives: A Session With a Hypnotist<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGgKStX5AAc7KeRt_tbBOTl5ue3kVKiRLcTQoSEoMGNX_czHtceBodf9GfNBdy2Dd1lRJanydObso_-mRganFNbsj78bMt49YsbspzhiDs9LXZO820jt-1tBJVtozp_dTCdBotGZirNE/s1600/Taplow+Court+with+stucco.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGgKStX5AAc7KeRt_tbBOTl5ue3kVKiRLcTQoSEoMGNX_czHtceBodf9GfNBdy2Dd1lRJanydObso_-mRganFNbsj78bMt49YsbspzhiDs9LXZO820jt-1tBJVtozp_dTCdBotGZirNE/s400/Taplow+Court+with+stucco.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569690180595860354" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Taplow Court in the 1840s.</span><br /><br /><br />I went to see a past-life hypnotist back in 1989. This session, my second, happened to bring up quite a few hits that I've since documented via my research:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Cottonwood trees, rutted road, big stone house, trees on one side with ornamentation on the corners, square white sash windows, gray, interior is dark wood. Breakfast table from Dangerous Liaisons. Big rose-colored satin/silk/taffeta swishing dress. 1750, young woman, brown hair, stiff knot-looking hairstyle on sides of head, embroidered front of the dress, flat-chested. Mother is very young. Big dark thick table. White dirty stable. Winter? (He’s wearing a) white shirt, long hair, longer than I thought, dark, rich, reddish-brown, stockings, blue breeches, hair has a cowlick in the front, dark skin, taller than I thought. I’m obsessed with him, and it’s not a good feeling. He’s not nice to me. See piano slam. He’s a passionate person, temper tantrums out of nowhere.<br /><br />Medieval looking house with dark, oak paneling, Elizabethan interior, outside is rough stone, stucco is dark gray color. Older father, fat guy with a wig into hunting. Feel that I don’t know the father, he doesn’t speak to me. Stay out of his way. He’s in government in London. This is earlier 1700s. I’m in Southwest England, twenty miles from London.<br /><br />The staircase from Batman. He plays piano but he has a lot to do with horses. My father is speaking to him. He must be a friend. He’s very sure of himself; he’s come from London. He walks around the house arrogantly with graceful gestures. He wears a sword; he’s a rake, not a musician by living. He’s here to visit another man, not my father – they ride together. I go with them sometimes. I’m the younger sister. They don’t want me around. He fools around with me, but it’s secret. <br /> <br />In front of a window that goes down to the floor. I’m upset, really depressed about him. Arms folded in front of me. I went to another house on a hillside, to another man, a husband, some years later – a man with a library. Had children with him. It was an impassionate marriage, polite but bored with each other. I died abruptly, not in my house, but an accident while driving; it was an accident on the road, but not necessarily a broken wheel. Turning around abruptly and screaming.</span><br /><br />This session seems to describe Taplow Court, for it was a gray stucco-covered house in the 1780s and ‘90s, and quite outdated on the inside. It lies roughly twenty miles from London, although more west than southwest. The stable I saw was probably at Ellesborough, and the dark complexion on Thomas would be correct if he’d just spent over a year aboard a ship on his way home from China. In Calcutta, he did have a lot to do with horses, and once again, the arrogance shows itself in these earlier regression images, for I keep describing him so. And of course Thomas was of noble blood, but still forced to work for a living – not only at music, but at selling coal, too – and to hide his true paternity from the world. He could have known Dr. Wells before Mary, and he and Mary certainly could have ridden horses together around Cookham.<br /><br />If you'd like to remember your past lives, take a look at my <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">instructions for past-life self-regression and self-hypnotism.</a>J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-31397422955863797162011-01-22T08:38:00.000-08:002011-01-22T09:09:19.442-08:00Past Lives: My Fifth Past-Life Memory via Self-HypnotismRecalled July 20th, 1988<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">This man comes to call, dressed very plain, unlike the musician. To match, he says only what is needed in public, is quiet, thought of as a kind of odd, unsociable, knowledgeable, businesslike person. His clothes are plain, pale colors, his hair is blackish and loosely wavy, short, and he wears high boots instead of the high-heeled dandy shoes (Carter) wears. He wears a sword. All I can see of his face is that it is thin, and he has a nose that is somehow remarkable, I can't really tell why. He has come to see my father. I am sure in a very polite, civil way he is courting me, or has intentions of marrying me. We don't really like each other – maybe we don't know each other at this time, only speak politely in public.</span><br /><br />The identity of the Napoleon-like man is uncertain, but he might be Mary Wells's neighbor in Cookham, George Monck Berkeley. George owned a large library, wrote and published several books, received a bachelor degree in law from the University of Dublin, and was a member of the Inner Temple, London. His mother spoke several languages and his grandfather was a noted philosopher, so one would expect George to be a bit of an odd duck, although Mary’s father was on good terms with the Berkeleys (as evidenced by a letter in the British Library’s collection ). Given all these things, it would seem fitting that George Monck Berkeley might propose to Mary Wells.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHB7WbYI5qoCo7OCndv83ma7YmH3KnR-oibhTU_oVvvf0gcF5HTv7xmsD4vghCDYBwlUF-xhchG3qCMfiPvEEY3RF8yss_2tkzELLZCrVWJiTODYzoO0QJGwB0rPWwa8VENjkq1wbsC00/s1600/Berkeley%252C+Bishop+and+his+family+by+smibert+c+1731.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHB7WbYI5qoCo7OCndv83ma7YmH3KnR-oibhTU_oVvvf0gcF5HTv7xmsD4vghCDYBwlUF-xhchG3qCMfiPvEEY3RF8yss_2tkzELLZCrVWJiTODYzoO0QJGwB0rPWwa8VENjkq1wbsC00/s400/Berkeley%252C+Bishop+and+his+family+by+smibert+c+1731.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565057152633077026" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Bishop Berkeley (George Monck Berkeley's grandfather) and his family c1731.</span><br /><br />If you are looking for instructions on how to recall your own past life via self-hypnotism, please see my page on <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">do-it-yourself past-life regression</a>.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-14923959775080142642011-01-16T11:46:00.000-08:002011-01-16T11:46:08.832-08:00Past Lives: Finding the People You RecallI vividly remember several unidentified people during my past-life regressions. There's an older gentleman, whom my husband and I visit in a rich, Adamesque-decorated house in London. There's a younger gentleman, whom I am greeted by boisterously as he comes in our house saying, "Where's Carter?!" And there's a young woman of whom I am terribly fond, a woman who is with the young gentleman and waiting for me at New Wardour Castle before a musical party. <br /><br />How do I figure out who they are? Well, I've discovered that, of all the scores of scenes I could see from my life with these people, I am shown something very specific. Something that, in just the right combination, will lead me to these peoples' identities. I just have to put the pieces together. <br /><br />Easier said than done.<br /><br />The older gentleman, for instance, has a paternal feeling for Thomas, my husband. He's at least 50 years old, fat, probably tall, has bushy eyebrows, and what looks like a bulbous nose. The front of his house is on a wide street or square, and when you enter the front door, you can see a staircase rising beyond the entry hall. If you turn to the right (staying on the ground floor), somewhere in his house you will find a room with at least three windows, and this room will have sparing, Robert-Adam-like decoration and a dark-colored carpet.<br /><br />How many people match these specifics? That Thomas Carter knew? Not many. I've currently got a short list which includes the likes of East India Director Sir Theophilus Metcalfe, the Marquess of Buckingham, and Lord Chancellor Edward Thurlow (among others). For the moment I've settled on Thurlow because, not only does he have the big, bushy white eyebrows, but he had a house on St James's Square that was situated at the corner of King Street. Thurlow loved music, and was the main patron of R.J.S. Stevens, one of Carter's good friends and musical colleagues. Thurlow also knew Edmund Burke pretty well, and Burke himself was a best friend of Carter's father, the Earl of Inchiquin, and Carter's mother, Abigail Aston. In addition, Thurlow was fond of the Margravine of Anspach, who was the hostess for Carter's friends at Brandenburgh House; and the Margravine's son, Keppel, matches precisely the personality and image of the boisterous young man who would visit us, saying, "Where's Carter?" <br /><br />In 1781, Lord Thurlow was described this way: "In his person Lord Thurlow has an air of dignity, and a formidible appearance, when dressed in his senatorial robes, and attended by the pomp of office. But when relaxing from public business he throws off the trappings of state, he looks like a Kentish yeoman, or the master of a coasting vessel, so unfavorable is his external aspect, having a saturine complexion, large black eye-brows, a stern look, strong muscles, and a stature above the common size." Thurlow's eyebrows are reported by Stevens to have turned snow white soon after the clandestine elopement of his favorite daughter. The word <span style="font-style:italic;">saturnine</span>, according to Johnson's famous dictionary, means gloomy, grave or severe.<br /><br />Here are my memories of the mystery man (separated here from the other memories that were recorded on these dates):<br /><br />January 24th, 2003<br />Then, out of nowhere, a vision: a man, seemingly small and corpulent and flat-nosed, with bushy brows and moles, a man sitting at a writing desk in a London room. Rich house. Sash windows to the floor and covered with sheer curtains to dim the day outside. A turkey carpet under his feet of primarily red and blue, and he's wearing a frock coat that won't meet in the front, buckled shoes, hose, waistcoat, feet splayed out on the carpet in front of him. He's turned toward Thomas beside me (to my right), calling him "my boy." He hands him something. The room is fairly large, and nothing else is visible to me except the wooden chair and writing desk he's sitting at, a small desk. Thomas is taller than me, wearing hose and heels and maybe a green coat. His hair is pulled back. I'm wearing dark colors. I could see the man handing a piece of paper to Thomas. The man's hair was grey and a little unkempt. <br /><br />April 13th, 2003<br />In the room with the old, fat man again. Thomas wearing green. The man is writing something on a piece of paper. "Give this to him, my boy, and you'll be admitted..." Or something like that. Definitely a paternal feeling from the man. Bushy eyebrows. Messed, white hair, short on top, and a squidgy, wide nose. We're excited when we leave. We are in a London carriage with the piece of paper between us somewhere, or it's in our thoughts, and we're thrilled about what lies ahead. Something about the Prince of Wales enters my thoughts at this point. <br /><br />November 27th, 2010<br />Saw the house of the older man, and it either took up a corner of a block, or it occupied the whole block, in front of either a wide street or a square. The front door was reached upon ascending about three or four steps, and it seemed to have white columns on either side of the front door, or something white, while the building itself seemed yellowish gray. Inside, there seemed to be narrow corridors, and the room where we met the older man was to our right upon entering the house, not facing the street from which we’d just come, but the cross street. The room seemed extraordinarily bright, which didn’t seem right to me, given the windows we were facing (a row). I could see no details at all about the room. The man himself seemed to have white hair, very messed and short on top, and his nose seemed big, his eyebrows bushy but not overly so. He seemed to be wearing a medium blue-colored frock coat, very plain, and white hose and shoes. He was pretty large, and when he was standing, he seemed taller than me and Thomas. He shook Thomas’s hand. I was reminded of the King’s advisor in <span style="font-style:italic;">Amadeus</span>, only with white hair. He sat down to a writing desk on the right side of the room facing the windows. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ882K5RzwQY9IpnMw6RqMUuVKSmy_uBZJjCXVPMxze8iZRVZZR0WyqPv7VJTah4wcvv9qdz8PHqryHR42PtKiybXQtaFONWUUSVBx7gON0AfdMc4S8aEY_5SNrOleHYtlIF_Wp9gnZ4c/s1600/Kappelmeister+Bonno+-+Amadeus.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ882K5RzwQY9IpnMw6RqMUuVKSmy_uBZJjCXVPMxze8iZRVZZR0WyqPv7VJTah4wcvv9qdz8PHqryHR42PtKiybXQtaFONWUUSVBx7gON0AfdMc4S8aEY_5SNrOleHYtlIF_Wp9gnZ4c/s400/Kappelmeister+Bonno+-+Amadeus.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562834039812428882" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Kappelmeister Bonno in Amadeus</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy314cyuYHAYt2Fels5or5S8ZaCoVnhEDRMb_TVFnlpnoa4gYdWHA4u5-ptP6OZSC7iWAg8tIEqIe7Lc9-h1bDMWhlnZ8ufnzrGDyIFJIXLXiYw27VOWiI0LUdgPloIbC-UUa5dscHAho/s1600/Thurlow%252C+Edward+painted+for+George+IV+1803.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 312px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy314cyuYHAYt2Fels5or5S8ZaCoVnhEDRMb_TVFnlpnoa4gYdWHA4u5-ptP6OZSC7iWAg8tIEqIe7Lc9-h1bDMWhlnZ8ufnzrGDyIFJIXLXiYw27VOWiI0LUdgPloIbC-UUa5dscHAho/s400/Thurlow%252C+Edward+painted+for+George+IV+1803.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562860737726813090" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Edward Thurlow by Thomas Lawrence, 1803, painted for the Prince of Wales.</span><br /><br />Since having these memories, I've learned that the Prince of Wales was a great friend of Lord Thurlow's. The Prince used to ask Thurlow to dinner often, and solicit his advice, which the Prince never took and Thurlow always resented. Thurlow never hesitated to give his opinion to the Prince, even if it made the Prince angry, and he somehow got away with putting the Prince of Wales in his place on more than one occasion. If anyone was to provide a letter of introduction for Thomas Carter to the Prince of Wales, Lord Chancellor Thurlow would be that someone. And as it happened, the Prince was renting Crichel House in Dorset, not far from Encombe, where Thomas and Mary Carter went to aid in Carter's recovery from his worsening liver disease. The Prince was at Crichel on and off between early 1797 and early 1799 -- which exactly corresponds with my memories of a musical party within a carriage drive's distance from Encombe at the time my children were three and four years old.<br /><br />See how these specific things shown to me in my self-regression have led me to one specific person? For Lord Thurlow must be the elderly gentleman of my visions. I might not have gotten all the details right, but certainly most of them. I find it interesting that I have been shown exactly the configuration of facts and images that will lead me in the right direction, if only I dig far enough.<br /><br />If you are interested in finding out about your own past lives, you can follow my <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">instructions for self-regression here</a>.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-81181407097035137862011-01-08T13:25:00.000-08:002011-01-09T08:41:29.763-08:00Past Lives: My Fourth Past-Life Self-RegressionRecalled June 5th, 1988<br /><br />First, a man dressed like Napoleon in light colors, white and royal, wide lapels, cloth buttons, high boots, and a tricorn, dark, short, curley hair, more unkempt than anything. Vague image to begin with. I think he might be French, but that may be due to the initial resemblance to Napoleon. <br /><br />Reach down and look at HIS music, hand-written very neatly, on the piano while he's not around. Still wearing the big, rose-colored, flat-chested dress of heavy taffeta or silk. A dog comes into the hallway, light-colored wolfhound, a peacock is in the yard. It's a dark house with many little smatterings of light falling from windows, the outlines of the panes of glass on the dark hardwood floors. All the walls seem dark, maybe wood also. I see members of the household sort of talking/meeting in an entry hall, four or five people, and I'm watching. The cook is a mean woman. The lady of the house is a little older, and she has a calm, cool cruelness to her, very cold -- nothing comes to mind horrible that she's done, still she is not someone you would like. The father, or lord of the household, likes to hunt -- deer or anything else? There are children in the house, mostly they are kept upstairs, but they do run about, chaperoned, two or three of them, all between four and ten. I don't know if I have any special bond to any of them. I see HIM swagger down the hallway with a sword at his side that is just for show, part of his attire.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvlh5oLAPnoztsIF2yOLBfVtDdHoivIaZeSz32GGHWsrYjqyA8wVAxvEPlMfuTRRyw_u3S0Xp3pTrTiIWZsuGUjVXJ1EtyfntKblwPdLnF03UB3O7JiR0dJVmOdLI18ecWacYt9WOTAg/s1600/Angelo%252C+Henry+-+artist+unknown.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 387px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvlh5oLAPnoztsIF2yOLBfVtDdHoivIaZeSz32GGHWsrYjqyA8wVAxvEPlMfuTRRyw_u3S0Xp3pTrTiIWZsuGUjVXJ1EtyfntKblwPdLnF03UB3O7JiR0dJVmOdLI18ecWacYt9WOTAg/s400/Angelo%252C+Henry+-+artist+unknown.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559929928279476546" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Henry Angelo</span><br /><br />Verification of my memories:<br />That Thomas Carter carried a sword when the fashion had long gone out of style (verified 11/2004). This was verified by learning Carter's best friend, Samuel Maynard, was a regular companion of Henry Angelo. This fellow owned a fencing academy in London and shared many interests and friends in common with Thomas Carter. It would be reasonable to assume Carter attained the habit of wearing a sword in Naples, then continued wearing it in the company of fencers such as Angelo.<br /><br />As for the memories of the house and the various people in it, this would probably be a memory of Taplow Court. Lord Inchiquin liked to hunt with the King in Windsor Park, and Inchiquin's house at Taplow was described by a contemporary as being very dark inside. Inchiquin's wife, Lady Orkney, was a deaf woman, and so could possibly come off as aloof or cool because of her inability to communicate. And Inchiquin's grandson, Lord Kirkwall, would've been ten or eleven years old in 1789; he is the only child I know of who could possibly be at Taplow Court at that time.<br /><br />If you'd like to try your hand at remembering your own past lives, take a look at my <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">instructions for self-hypnotism</a>.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-23669214230734440052011-01-01T07:54:00.000-08:002011-01-09T08:43:53.835-08:00Past Lives: Animal ReincarnationI know this is going to sound absolutely bonkers-crazy, but I'm going to say it anyway: my cat is the reincarnation of my previous and now passed-away cat. Yes, I know I sound like one of those strange cat ladies who believes they are the reincarnation of an Egyptian princess. I'm well aware of how off-the-charts nuts this sounds. And yet I find it's an inescapable deduction: my Mickey is the reincarnation of my dear, late Rowdy. Here's why.<br /><br />Rowdy was only four years old when he developed all sorts of horrible medical problems. He had kidney stones. He had an immune response to his regular distemper booster shot which caused his whole body to break out in sores. He had a stroke. Then he developed pancreatitis, and that was the final straw. My dear, sweet little boy had to be put to sleep. He was in so much pain, it was the right thing to do, as there was no hope for him to recover. It broke my heart. And the night before we took him to the vet to end his misery, I told him: you have to come back to me. You simply have to, because four years just isn't enough.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicg8GFtx2Wbsvtqa5dMxJlSwtdkDTFDdM9LQPGLcyPyBWziRRhQpyAgXY9MPIVHXmWNAYJzvvCe57MLSHF_c0HwlM5rAIT_3HAkZKi5pIQ7rH91juYKTIB6uuRzBn9MGmQUdwjBcR2gYg/s1600/rowdy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 376px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicg8GFtx2Wbsvtqa5dMxJlSwtdkDTFDdM9LQPGLcyPyBWziRRhQpyAgXY9MPIVHXmWNAYJzvvCe57MLSHF_c0HwlM5rAIT_3HAkZKi5pIQ7rH91juYKTIB6uuRzBn9MGmQUdwjBcR2gYg/s400/rowdy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557249163157867138" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Rowdy</span><br /><br />After Rowdy was gone, we started to look for a new kitten right away in an attempt to dull the pain of missing our poor little boy. We even found one. It was a rambunctious Abyssinian from a backyard breeder about an hour from our house. We took home this waif of a thing, and discovered he was taken too soon from his mama; our vet said he was underweight, bloated, and could possibly have F.I.P. Wanting to do the right thing for this baby, we took him back to the breeder where he would have the best chance of getting well with his family. And we went back to looking for a kitten.<br /><br />We looked on the internet -- it seems most of my life happens online -- and found a breeder in California whose queen had just been bred...the day before! Of course it would be 65 days before our new baby was born, but we didn't care. The daddy cat (or stud cat) was the very image of our poor Rowdy! Now that turned out not to be such a big coincidence. We learned, upon writing to the breeder, that Daddy was a cousin of our Rowdy; they shared a grandfather. Naturally, missing our departed "son," we couldn't help but sign up for whatever treasured kittens this Daddy would produce. About two months later, we got to watch as our new family member took his first steps in the queen's nest, as the breeder had everything on camera for her potential kitten homes to see via internet.<br /><br />Eleven weeks later, and we arrived at the breeder's home to meet our new baby. She had seven kittens, all spoken for, all running around our feet in a blur, playing with each other and ignoring us visitors. As we talked to the breeder about cat-related topics, watching the "children" playing on the living room floor, one kitten came and sat down at my mother's feet, as if to say, "I'm going home with you." All the other cats and kittens were oblivious. This kitten, chosen by us at birth via webcam from two states away, we learned was our kitten. We named him Mickey.<br /><br />Now here are reasons I am so certain Mickey is actually Rowdy reincarnated: Rowdy's favorite person was my mother, and when he stopped running and playing, it was my mother's lap he would land on. He loved to play fetch, and would play for hours if you kept the game going. We have a box of cat toys at our house, and of all the scores of different toys to choose from, Rowdy preferred one toy over all the others, e.g. "The Fetching Toy." This he would dig out of the box, put at your feet, and wait for you to throw it for him, as he was a very busy cat, and had lots of energy to burn.<br /><br />Rowdy also had a second favorite toy. This one was a piece of sheep's skin, which basically amounted to a huge ball of fluff that no other cat was interested in; Rowdy alone liked this toy, and would pack it around in his mouth. <br /><br />Another of his quirks was that he'd try to eat your food, and when he couldn't, he sit on the back of your chair and put one paw down on your shoulder, as if to say, "Remember me?" When he slept, he would always find a spot backed up to a wall or under a chair, as if he were afraid of being surprised or stepped on; often this would be a cold, hard place, such as a cement floor (and we don't live in a warm climate). If he was scared by something, he'd dive into the back of my mother's closet where he could not be reached.<br /><br />Mickey came home with all of these quirks in place. Right away, he decided that my mother was his favorite person; his habitual spot was right under her chin (but only as long as he remained small enough!) When he discovered the cat toy box, he gravitated right for the Fetching Toy and the sheepskin. He was fetching on his fourth day with us with no prior training whatsoever, as if he already knew the game. If you don't believe me, here's a video I took of our <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/ravennaevans#p/u/8/4-Gh7k6QtDI">eleven-week-old kitten playing fetch</a>. Please note that, although he loved the Fetching Toy, it was really too big to fit in his mouth for fetching, so we used a tiny puff ball instead; when he got bigger, we graduated to the Fetching Toy.<br /><br />When he came to us, our two other cats acted as if they knew him, and that it was no big deal he'd come into their space. Here's a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/ravennaevans#p/u/9/_Kb4p6SA5kg">video </a>showing Mickey on his third day eating off the same plate as his new brother, Jack. Usually it takes weeks for my eldest cat to accept a new kitten, but with Mickey, not a problem. <br /><br />Mickey will perch on the back of your chair if you're eating, and put just one paw on your shoulder, just like Rowdy would. He sleeps against walls, under chairs, and on the cold cement bathroom floor, and when he's really scared, he'll dive into the back of my mom's closet. I have had nine cats over the years, and only one cat did these things. Only Rowdy. <br /><br />Mickey has one trait that Rowdy didn't: he's scared to death of every little noise. Understand, he was raised by the most loving kitten home one could imagine, as his breeder spent her whole life caring for her cats with no other distractions; I could see this loving attention every day on the webcam as Mickey was growing up. And yet Mickey will run and hide at the most inane of noises. This could be genetics, as his daddy is also prone to hide in the kitchen cupboards when scared. But it could also partly be because of the horrible last week Rowdy spent on earth. Having had a stroke, Rowdy was taken to the emergency vet hospital, where they insisted on keeping him for days, doing an MRI and taking blood for tests. All the while, unbeknownst to anyone, he had developed pancreatitis, which is just about the most painful thing a cat can endure. If I had gone through that, I might run and hide at the slightest noise, too.<br /><br />Do I think of Rowdy when I look at my little Mickey? Hardly ever these days. Mickey has become his own little person, and the memory of Rowdy has faded just a bit. I love Mickey for who he is, not as a replacement for my dear lost boy. But somewhere deep inside, I do feel that Rowdy has come back to us, and that I don't need to mourn him quite as much when he's tripping me, weaving between my legs, the way Rowdy used to do.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ywnFACPPXLXq6-TTVb3TGKh_RStkmq3CvmJmjFOdjrZdj8PftqlFLl_Ln2IsLBZGQ8VQPY1R16JcALq9PNmeZ97RXjj62Byt4KZQlR4kj4MjbHDLZEgGBN8UtGmwu74KBhq_bAKpwlY/s1600/Mickey+12202010.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ywnFACPPXLXq6-TTVb3TGKh_RStkmq3CvmJmjFOdjrZdj8PftqlFLl_Ln2IsLBZGQ8VQPY1R16JcALq9PNmeZ97RXjj62Byt4KZQlR4kj4MjbHDLZEgGBN8UtGmwu74KBhq_bAKpwlY/s400/Mickey+12202010.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557266664996885890" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Mickey</span>J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-78832770124875262852010-12-29T16:52:00.000-08:002010-12-29T17:41:51.845-08:00Past Lives: The Meaning of Life, Part II.I'm having second thoughts about my assessment that karma doesn't exist, and that the purpose of life is to feel. <br /><br />You see, I still believe that past, present and future all happen simultaneously, and that the brain somehow creates our perception of time. However, even if we know this to be true, we cannot somehow escape the effects of time on this earthly plane; we are still bound to it, just as we are bound to the laws of gravity. Therefore, perhaps we can experience the cause and effect of karma, as at least this life is lived in a linear succession of events. <br /><br />The other idea I'm questioning is that we are here only to experience things which cannot be experienced on the other side, e.g. pain, difficulty, unhappiness, hatred, etc. The whole world is geared toward suffering: nature's red in tooth and claw. The lowest common denominator of life is pain, as it preserves survival on this plane; on the other side, all existence is unfathomable joy, love and happiness. Our lives on earth are a counterbalance to endless (and presumably, after many thousands of years, boring) beauty and peace. How else to explain that our world is the complete opposite of theirs, and that bad things happen to everyone and everything?<br /><br />But what if suffering and hatred were the building blocks of something bigger: love. What if -- like T4, selenium and iodine are necessary to make the T3 your body runs on -- we actually need bad emotions to create good, or to make the good more meaningful? Now the first problem I can see with this idea is, Why does a trilobite need love? Love is an emotion that only certain animals feel, and not even the vast majority of animals do feel it -- only a small percentage. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9oxSCVbii-2SmJJR7z5VF8e3aTHB_NdRND5jOf4_J4Wtgm4BHDXX6WG0Uwr0rCrm_zE-hi8a4vcTWAdXc5lhZHBtp_wWTxZPJG4I47A0Fd4O7pAAmhCgTGrIkRFxayaPd85Xf8rD5lU/s1600/Trilobites.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9oxSCVbii-2SmJJR7z5VF8e3aTHB_NdRND5jOf4_J4Wtgm4BHDXX6WG0Uwr0rCrm_zE-hi8a4vcTWAdXc5lhZHBtp_wWTxZPJG4I47A0Fd4O7pAAmhCgTGrIkRFxayaPd85Xf8rD5lU/s400/Trilobites.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556282978890088706" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Photo by Kevinzim on Flickr.</span><br /><br />But if everything happens according to a plan, maybe that plan called for a slow development of species, or vehicles in which to house our souls. What if the plan called for trilobites to build up their emotions and experiences slowly, making their way up to more complicated life forms capable of molding those unhappy emotions into something greater? <br /><br />I do not in any way believe humans are better than animals. Everything has a right to life. We are not the pinnacle of all existence. But what if our appearance on the scene, after many millions of years of dinosaurs, horseshoe crabs and worms, was planned? For a purpose? To create love, perhaps. To make something meaningful out of adversity. To learn the lessons Karma teaches. To feel, yes; but in the more complex animals, to feel love and compassion instead of the mindless fear of insects and invertebrates. <br /><br />These are all thoughts off the top of my head, thoughts which I'm sure will change tomorrow yet again, and I'll be back to believing in a life without lessons or Karma. As always, I reserve the right to change my mind!<br /><br />If you want to recall a past life as a trilobite (well, not really, but it would be interesting if you could!), please see my <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">instructions for remembering a past life</a>.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-32647437226983619352010-12-26T19:16:00.000-08:002010-12-29T19:41:23.020-08:00Past Lives: My Third Self-Regression<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-V1kScSDwwRmRfmPUpyv89Z2waozTLxqMPB5D8v-J61zXCo8MRs-KcEd7Rao-CenXYSaVIlHbc07Cl0S_yBMhrLhFB0lOHzYxkI8Y-2mB-UytNVirZjVcjQseVHBYXXIkIRnEUqcx5s/s1600/Taplow+Court%252C+view+from.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-V1kScSDwwRmRfmPUpyv89Z2waozTLxqMPB5D8v-J61zXCo8MRs-KcEd7Rao-CenXYSaVIlHbc07Cl0S_yBMhrLhFB0lOHzYxkI8Y-2mB-UytNVirZjVcjQseVHBYXXIkIRnEUqcx5s/s400/Taplow+Court%252C+view+from.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555206624065231874" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">View from Taplow Court by Rachel Andrew</span><br /><br /><br />Past-Life Self-hypnotism Session #3, August of 1987:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I start getting images that at first seem to be my mind making things up. Then I accept as "seeing," and I take on feelings along with the images, e.g. someone standing by a large window in a lavender jacket, I think it is him. I look closer at the image and decide if it were him, I'd feel more for this person. Suddenly I'm standing at the window. I look outside, and I know I'm in England, see the trees with leaves boiling in the wind with gray skies beyond, and I can smell it is going to rain, feel the cold in the room, see the dusty floor (hardwood). I get a sense of my entire lifestyle in this cold, English place, though I can't see anything particular; I can suddenly feel the lifetime's particular essence. Then – flash – I am dancing in a memory of some kind, or just an image: dancing with him? Although I can't see his face, I can see his hands, and feel them, feel his cheek against me. Then another image, this one kind of conjured because I was desperate to see him better: of him walking toward me. He still seems short, and when I try to see his face, all I see are blue, blue eyes.</span><br /><br />Thomas Carter <span style="font-style:italic;">was </span>short. And he did have blue eyes, or at the very least, light colored eyes (as it's hard to tell eye color in the painting by Thomas Hickey). The rest of this session was unfortunately lacking detail, so the exact location of this memory cannot be pinned down, but I believe the unhappiness felt in this scene occurred at Taplow Court when Mary was taking music lessons from Thomas. I think she was in love with Thomas long before he fell for her, and she suffered in his presence when she didn't receive his attentions in return. This would've been whilst Thomas was living with the Earl of Inchiquin at Taplow, possibly before Thomas left for India. As for the dancing... I'm pretty sure no one in the eighteenth century danced cheek to cheek.<br /><br />If you want to try remembering your own past lives, try my <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">instructions for self-regression and self-hypnotism</a>.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-59630577737399944612010-12-23T21:38:00.000-08:002010-12-24T00:54:49.256-08:00Past Lives: Karma and Why I Believe It Doesn't ExistThe more I look into the reasons for our existence, the more I am convinced there is no such thing as Karma. Sounds positively blasphemous, doesn't it? Especially since I'm such a huge proponent of past-life investigation, you would think I'd be a believer in Karma and all its implications. But I'm not. Let me tell you why.<br /><br />The concept of Karma goes back thousands of years, and in its simplest terms, means "deed" or "act." It is a universal law somewhat like cause and effect, or action and reaction. Karma is not a punishment, but a consequence; dropping a watermelon from a rooftop causes it to shatter on impact with the pavement below, and this is neither right nor wrong, but a consequence of gravity, much like being murdered in this life is a consequence of your murdering someone else in a previous life. To put it another way, you reap what you sow. You make choices, and the universe conspires to put you in a position to feel the consequences of your choices. If you spread love everywhere you go, at some point that love will come back to you. If you reap hatred, that hatred will catch up to you, if not in this life, then the next.<br /><br />I have several problems with this "reap what you sow" scenario. The first is the concept of free will. Studies have been done which seem to suggest we do not consciously make decisions, but instead all decisions originate in the subconscious; then, to make us feel better, our conscious mind plays catch up and "decides," as if the choice was made deliberately when in fact it was not. Our subconscious is also, it seems, privy to information about what will happen five seconds into our future. At least two experiments have been performed in which subjects were shown a randomly selected photo, and the subjects' physical responses were measured in reaction to that photo. Most subjects had an emotional, physiological response five seconds before unpleasant photos were randomly selected and shown to the subjects. <br /><br />Five seconds. That doesn't seem like much, but in fact, if most of us can see five seconds into the future, then why not five years? People like Christopher Robinson (a UK resident who has had several accurate premonitions) become much more believable when one considers the results of these experiments. And if we can see into the future, doesn't this imply that our choices have already been made? Or that the probabilities are so strong, we cannot deviate from the path laid out before us? In which case, what role would Karma play? And could we really be held accountable for choices originating within our subconscious?<br /><br />The second issue I have with Karma is how it relates to the concept of linear time. If time is linear and constantly moving forward, an effect cannot occur before its cause. If precognition has been proven real, a reaction could occur before its corresponding action (e.g. a person dreams about the World Trade Center's collapse before the first terrorist boards an airplane), and this violates our understanding of time and causes a paradox.<br /><br />According to Irish aeronautical engineer J.W. Dunne (1875-1949), time is an illusion. In reality, past, present and future are all occurring simultaneously, and consciousness somehow experiences this simultaneity in a linear fashion. A good analogy might be a paperback book. You know the entire book exists, all of it, with its many chapters and pages. Yet you are only physically capable of reading one word at a time. The rest of the book, while existing simultaneously with the words you are reading, is outside your consciousness. If it were possible to read the entire volume at once, then you’d be closer to an approximation of how time really operates. We are conscious of only one moment in time, while the past and future lie outside our awareness...or at least that’s how the theory goes.<br /><br />If time does not really exist, then lives aren’t lived in succession, making the concept of reaping what you sow null and void. Karma doesn't make sense in a world without time.<br /><br />The third issue I have with Karma is how this law relates to animals. Unless human souls only came to this earth recently and began attaching themselves to animals in order to feel, then all laws of physical existence must apply to all animals, in all eras of our earth's history. Karma must then apply to both dinosaurs and trilobites, slugs and human beings.<br /><br />To say that animals progress upwards (by exhausting bad Karma) into human form is to say that people are better than animals, which we are not – just different. This seems to me to be some left-over Imperialist, Victorian, white-man’s view, only the Imperialism is lording over animals instead of Indians or Blacks – such people can only aspire to be like us. The reality is, we are all equal in the eyes of the universe. We are all just animals, some of us with more complex social systems than others.<br /><br />Slugs do not make moral choices; therefore they cannot reap what they sow. A slug might make a choice to preserve its own life -- diverting its course away from a beer bottle, for instance -- but this could hardly be considered an action worthy of reaction, unless you count keeping the slug alive at that moment. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgG8mide3RwDaRJAtV33ljEhktICb9-cQ4zVxFqF21UV4y1u95KpqOqw-PLCQi4_mNaP_r-ukkWRYUgEOk2S1bgjvXSuHe5xlAl92rT8S9_YwhaKQZm7U2ETpPLx5nqI-zNaUgQrsWVk/s1600/slug.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 336px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgG8mide3RwDaRJAtV33ljEhktICb9-cQ4zVxFqF21UV4y1u95KpqOqw-PLCQi4_mNaP_r-ukkWRYUgEOk2S1bgjvXSuHe5xlAl92rT8S9_YwhaKQZm7U2ETpPLx5nqI-zNaUgQrsWVk/s400/slug.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554169318270360386" /></a> <br /><br />In a world where time does not really exist, where free will is an illusion, and any laws of cause and effect would have to apply to the lowest of creatures, Karma does not make sense. Our object on this earth is to feel. And that's it. There is no other reason to be here. Love, hate, fear, pleasure, anxiety, compassion...the list goes on. The more complicated the social life of the animal, the more capable it is to feel all the emotions.<br /><br />Just what we do with these emotions is the million dollar question. They obviously benefit our own souls, but how? Is it specific, in that we feel, so we raise our vibration level and enlarge or strengthen our souls? Or is it simply that we long to pass eternity doing something other than sitting around in the exquisite beauty of the other side, surrounded by love, having no cares or worries in the world?<br /><br />I welcome your comments.<br /><br />And as always, if you are interested in learning how to regress yourself to a prior life (prior being a term I shouldn't use, as I don't believe in the concept of linear time), please visit my page about <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">past-life self-hypnotism</a>.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-78264134782451580502010-12-22T22:19:00.000-08:002010-12-22T23:09:42.373-08:00Past Lives: Do You Remember Them?If you have alighted at this page, then you probably believe in reincarnation at least a little bit already. But do you remember any past lives of your own? Please comment below and let me know how many, if any, past lives you can recall at this time. I remember four different past lives, although they all seem to be interrelated; for instance, I remember two lives in England, and two lives had something to do with sailing ships. I also have had two lives -- including this one -- that are anchored in the Pacific Northwest. Confusing, I know, but the point is this: we remember the lives most that have resonance with this one.<br /><br />How many past lives have you uncovered? If the answer is none (yet!), don't worry. I've got directions on my blog for how to <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">remember a past-life via self-regression</a>, and soon you'll be recalling your own past life.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-37973566735889172202010-12-22T20:21:00.000-08:002010-12-28T14:07:34.815-08:00Past Lives: Steps for Self-Hypnotism and Self-Regression<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsf5pZZFajcPnUjlNm7vPSFr2CYeXrsl9X0kh2p_WZ5S9aO143nr6yaN9hjY7wVucMOyf1xk-_uLuR5ruB6mCSfzuUsstViYGV_-Ldd9Or0KsfOnIqqK9FNH76VoAMLYrQWA2RtEobxA/s1600/A-Corridor-In-The-Campo-Santo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 391px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsf5pZZFajcPnUjlNm7vPSFr2CYeXrsl9X0kh2p_WZ5S9aO143nr6yaN9hjY7wVucMOyf1xk-_uLuR5ruB6mCSfzuUsstViYGV_-Ldd9Or0KsfOnIqqK9FNH76VoAMLYrQWA2RtEobxA/s400/A-Corridor-In-The-Campo-Santo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553731865157359442" /></a><br />Sit or recline in a quiet, dark place. Choose a time when you are alert and not sleepy, hungry, or distracted.<br /> <br />Lie on your bed, or wherever you’ve chosen to conduct your self-hypnosis, and relax for a few minutes. Close your eyes. Make sure you are comfortable. Lying on one’s back usually works best. Keeping your hands at your sides seems to help, too, simply for the fact you won’t feel your limbs rising and falling with each breath, creating a distraction. Pay attention to room temperature, and plan for staying either warm enough or cool enough during the next half-hour – you don’t want to find yourself shivering just when you’re beginning to see something spectacular! <br /><br />Protect yourself from harm: While you’re lying there in your comfortable, inanimate, warm position, imagine a white enveloping light all around you. See it in your mind’s eye, shining on your feet, your legs, your knees, your thighs, your torso and arms, your neck, your face, your head. This white light is protecting you from all negative influences. It represents love and warmth and enlightenment in a dazzling mistiness all around you, cocooning you in its brilliance, protecting you from anything bad. See it in your mind. Feel it. Invite it to wash over you. All the while, as you envision these things, say to yourself over and over, "White protective light, keep me safe...White protective light, keep me safe..." Or whatever works for you. Take the next color that comes to mind, and repeat.<br /><br />Imagine yourself in a long hallway, with a big door at the end. See this hallway in as much detail as you can, whatever comes to mind. Your hallway may be all gold and filigree, or gothic like a cathedral, or entirely constructed from gemstones. It doesn’t matter. Make something up, and use the same visualization each time you try to remember a past life. Imagine this hallway with the expectation that when you get to the end, when you reach the big door and turn the knob, you will see something about a past life. Take each step down that hallway with purpose. See your feet touch the worn, smooth flagstones, and visualize every aspect of your journey as you approach the large door. When you finally reach the end – when you feel you are ready and not a moment before – take hold of the doorknob. See yourself doing it. See the brass knob turning. Give the door a gentle push... <br /><br />Accept the very first thing you see on the other side of that door as something from a past life. It might be something as abstract as the color yellow, or as clear and vivid as a much-loved child nestled in your arms. Your job is to take whatever you see and expound upon it. Conjur it up. The color yellow? If you hold the imagery in your mind and open up to it, accepting anything that pops into your head, you might find that yellow becomes a carpet. With a little more prodding, you might see sunshine spilling onto that carpet. You might suddenly realize that yellow carpet is in a London house...and so on. You may doubt yourself at this point, but be reassured; you are remembering a past life. <br /><br />If you see nothing, try thinking about something you've always enjoyed, a favorite hobby, skill, or travel destination. Ask yourself, "Why do I like this? Can this be past-life related?" If you still get nothing, try the shoe method: Look down at your feet, and go with the first pair of shoes you see yourself wearing. Expound upon that. You might see sandals, and then realize you’re wearing a tunic. You might see little pointy shoes, and realize you’re wearing a big silk gown.<br /> <br />Once you’ve remembered something - even if it's just a pair of shoes - and if you’re pretty certain there’s a grain of truth to it, you can start your next meditation from there. Always begin each session with something you’ve already seen. Always work from the known to the unknown.<br /><br />Accept what you see. It will seem like you are inventing these images. Sometimes you are, and you must accept that as part of the process of trying to remember a past life. But these visions almost always have a shred of truth at their core. You will only know for certain when you’ve done a significant number of past-life meditations, and you begin to see patterns and details repeated over and over again. In the meantime, you must choose to believe that what you see is genuine; if you don’t, you will never get anywhere. Your analytical mind will simply shoot down every image as a product of your overeager imagination. <br /><br />Unless you’ve had to remove yourself from an unpleasant memory, usually what will happen is that you will simply run out of steam. You will find the images have stopped coming, or your analytical mind has been inadvertently triggered by something you’ve seen...and then you’re done. You have no choice but to open your eyes. If this doesn’t happen, simply imagine that doorway where you began. Open the door. Return down the length of that gemstone hallway – or whatever you visualized – and tell yourself that when you reach the start point, you will be refreshed, and you will remember your past life in perfect detail and clarity. <br /><br />When you open your eyes, resist the temptation to lie there, ruminating over all you’ve experienced. Get up, find a pen, and start writing down everything you saw. Be sure to note the date and time.<br /><br />If you have recalled something as a result of these instructions, I would LOVE to hear from you. Please leave me a comment or drop me a line!J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-70591414755307250422010-12-21T23:18:00.000-08:002011-03-24T16:12:49.035-07:00Past Lives: Reasons Your Regression Might Not Be Completely AccurateJean Millay, who wrote a fabulous book about ESP and remote viewing called <span style="font-style:italic;">Multidimensional Mind: Remote Viewing and the Evolution of Intelligence</span>, has made a list of things which can detract from your ability to remember accurate images. My images, I've found, are almost always somewhat tainted by this life, yet they retain a kernel of truth within. For instance, Thomas Carter does not exactly look like my description or drawings, but there is a similarity:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifiE8p5VnYXjoIVCPLXQ8YHjngBRLUObRmQIe7_NYVo1YkTA1eTgjyG-nVWBkpIW1C3Lh99WgFcQaY9orXvQzUmUdUY8Yx3v7vjZxyHeLQSVUZ7zoibBh01MS-_4OhZHJvyA-ANouEd_U/s1600/Carter%252C+Thomas+-+sitting+on+sofa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifiE8p5VnYXjoIVCPLXQ8YHjngBRLUObRmQIe7_NYVo1YkTA1eTgjyG-nVWBkpIW1C3Lh99WgFcQaY9orXvQzUmUdUY8Yx3v7vjZxyHeLQSVUZ7zoibBh01MS-_4OhZHJvyA-ANouEd_U/s400/Carter%252C+Thomas+-+sitting+on+sofa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553411029798329090" /></a><br /><br />Here are some of the things Jean Millay says can alter the past-life visions you receive and make them less than accurate (which I've put my own spin on, by the way, since she wasn't talking about regression in her book, but instead ESP and sending/receiving target pictures -- but the mechanism is the same):<br /><br />1) Things in your immediate environment; a dog barking in the neighbor's yard may cause you to come up with an image of a dog in your past life that really wasn't there.<br />2) Your own self-confidence; you might not have enough faith in your own abilities to trust that what you are seeing is real, and you then dismiss the image or feeling.<br />3) Anything you think about often in this life can influence what you see in a past-life regression and taint it.<br />4) Sleepiness, which inhibits reception of any ESP-type phenomena.<br />5) Resonance with the sender, and an emotional relationship between you, is crucial to receiving ESP; so, too, you must have resonance between this life and the past-life you are trying to remember.<br />6) Your mood can influence the mood of the past-life visions you see and taint them.<br />7) Memories in this lifetime can taint your self-regression images, and pop up instead of past-life material.<br />8) Dream-like symbolism that has to be interpreted, and is not taken literally, can confuse your self-regression.<br /><br />It's important to remember that, although many past-life memories are primarily visual, those same visual elements can be tainted by passing through the filter of your current personality. Almost nothing gets through without being contaminated at least somewhat by your current concerns, likes, and thoughts, yet there is nearly always some core truth to these memories. Practice can help weed out the false information, and bring the true past-life visions into focus. If you're looking for a method for regressing yourself and remembering who you were, check out my page about <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">past-life self-hypnotism and self-regression</a>.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-81390751711834052162010-12-21T13:03:00.000-08:002010-12-22T12:17:55.501-08:00Past Lives: Why Do Bad Things Happen?I got into a fight with one of my best friends the other day. She was, I believe, my sister Salisbury in my life as Mary Carter, and she and I have been friends in this life since 2002. That's a considerable time for a friendship -- not as long as my other best friend Samantha, whom I've known since I was four, but still eight years is nothing to sniff at. This friend, whom I will call Joy, is the most precious person I've ever met. She's outgoing, engaging, funny, insightful, and loyal. Still, she has some bad habits, and these habits had hurt me a time or two in our nearly nine-year relationship. I usually let these things roll over me, and I say very little about what she's done that's hurt me. Last Saturday, I didn't. Like Chinese water torture, I had endured the very final drip that pushed me over the edge, and I said something. I said a lot. Very nicely, mind you, and couched in the reassurance of how much I loved her, and how I was only telling her what she'd done to be truthful, as all relationships should be founded on truth. After all, I'd want someone to tell me if I were inadvertently hurting someone over and over again. <br /><br />Let's say her response was less than favorable. Let's say she was downright hostile. She no longer wants to be friends now, because of the things I very nicely and gently tried to point out to her -- things that, if she listened, would make her happier in the long run as well as me. <br /><br />Now, friendless, I ask myself: Why did this happen? I could have chosen not to tell her these things, and could have continued to endure her thoughtless actions again and again. But I really do think there was no other choice. There is a school of thought that says we do not make choices, that everything is already decided based upon what has come before. When we look back on our decisions, with hindsight, there really was only one choice to make. Joy's last insult was the final straw, and I could take no more. It was all laid out beforehand, and there's a reason this is happening now, right before Christmas, right when she is at her weakest, and she's lost her job, and she's leaving her husband. There is a reason for everything, and I am following a plan that we all agreed to before we were even born -- or a plan that we are all privy to because we are all interconnected by God, M Theory, or what have you.<br /><br />Did I mean to ruin her Christmas? No, most definitely not. Do I want her back as a friend? Absolutely. But there's a reason this is happening, and I have a feeling that I'm only its tool. When bad things happen in groups, as if your luck has gone horribly awry and the universe is against you, there must be a bigger reason. Since I do not believe we have choices, and subsequently I do not believe in Karma (and the lessons that seem to be implied by Karma), I am of the belief that the reason things happen -- especially bad things -- is to feel. We are put on this earth to feel what we cannot on the other side. And how do I know what it's like on the other side? Well, that's a story for another day.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-54033991139076464882010-12-14T21:05:00.000-08:002010-12-22T22:44:14.681-08:00Past Lives: My Second Self-Regression<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf5dTItbBH-PI_-nldHXEBlX8hv8Xi0gF9hIaSn5dYbs4CtC059Yfxs8NH9vwrOazZtRDxME_hGKNW5BFNJO7zdz2hm6iPmzx8HqzhNcpCcjr_zPsTPwwDszCZPAeG8LCds_hutJkLgIM/s1600/Burnham+Beeches%252C+Bucks%252C+England.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf5dTItbBH-PI_-nldHXEBlX8hv8Xi0gF9hIaSn5dYbs4CtC059Yfxs8NH9vwrOazZtRDxME_hGKNW5BFNJO7zdz2hm6iPmzx8HqzhNcpCcjr_zPsTPwwDszCZPAeG8LCds_hutJkLgIM/s400/Burnham+Beeches%252C+Bucks%252C+England.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551501173968331874" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Burnham Beeches, Buckinghamshire</span><br /><br />My second self-regression didn’t take place until February 16th, 1987:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">He is sitting in a high-backed, light-colored chair, turns to me, says, "What is it that you want?" Appearance similar to drawing, slightly more fragile looking. Gets up from the chair, walks across the room in a measured, dignified manner, takes something from a wooden box on a table, stands before a white marble fireplace and talks to me all the while in a measured, dignified way – snobbish, smug. Looks glancingly above the mantle at a picture above. Fireplace has carving on either side, room is light, and outside it is perhaps ten or so in the morning. Windows are tall, and to the right of where I'm standing, outside there are views of rolling green hills. Door is on the left side of the room, room is approximately twenty-five feet high, large room. Piano is in the left-hand corner behind me. It appears more brownish now than black, with flowers. As he stands looking above the mantle, his coat is silken (brocade?) and there are white stockings, and his hair is light brown and long, straight, but curled slightly at the ends. Sleeves are decked in lace, as well as having gloves, maybe? I was mad at him a bit, but patient, and patience about to run out. Also I had the desire for him to play the piano. Ceiling painted, I think, with a big picture. (Steve Perry of Journey with cheekbones and blue eyes.) <br /><br />Riding in a stand of thick, small trees – cottonwood or vine maple or something. Path overgrown, horse galloping out of control, hands before my face, shielding from branches whipping past me, shouting, "Wait! Wait!" Wearing a long dress, riding a Palomino or light brown or white horse. Ribbons in my hair. He falls back suddenly beside me (after much panic), horses trot, and I yell at him. He's smiling. Day is overcast but warm.<br /><br />In a white barn – this is a row of long, low-ceilinged stables open to the air. Dirt and straw piled in the walkway. People are distant. He's unlacing my corset and I'm resisting a bit. His face seems more rounded with hollow cheeks, olive skin, his hair dark brown but with the same loose, straight quality, and it smells of memories of him. <br /><br />In the dark, possibly still the barn – maybe same incident, maybe different. I feel an incredible agony and melancholy as in love, and love for him, as if we weren't supposed to be making love, as if I'd been without him for a while, months or years, and he was cheating on his wife or something for me, and this one moment of total love for him as all my life was accompanied by the agony of having been without him and knowing I could probably never have him again. He wore a white, loose shirt, unbuttoned, his body small and of small frame and delicate. He was of strong temperament, sometimes arrogant and mercenary, sometimes decent and civil, sometimes passionate but demanding. His touch was soft. I felt what it must be like to love someone totally whom you already love of mind anyway, but haven't been able to have.</span><br /><br />Verification of my memories: <br />In the first months of 1992, trying to find an Irish musician who matched my memories, I discovered Thomas Carter in a book at the Public Library, "Anglo-Irish music, 1780-1830" by Ita Margaret Hogan. This musician matched what I knew at that point: <br /><br />CARTER, Thomas (b. Dublin 1769, d. London 1800) Chorister of Cloyne Cathedral. Patronized by the Earl of Inchiquin. Travelled in Italy, eventually reaching Naples where he was under the protection of Sir William and Lady Hamilton. In 1788 he went to India, and became musical director of the theatre in Calcutta, but the climate affected his health and he was forced to return to England. In 1793 he married a daughter of the Rev. Mr. Wells of Cookham, Berkshire, and had two children. He was a member of several musical societies in London, and was 'justly regarded as the choicest feather of their wing.' He wrote some songs and music for the theatre which achieved considerable success, but died prematurely of a disease contracted in India. <br /><br />Once Thomas Carter's name was found, eventually I was able to verify several things from the above recorded memory: <br /><br />That Thomas and his wife Mary spent their courting years in Cookham, an area (the Burnham Beeches nearby) famous for its beech forests (verified 1992). <br /><br />That Thomas left for India (verified 1992) in the spring of 1786 and did not return until July 9th of 1789 (verified 05/05/2002). Having been aboard the <span style="font-style:italic;">Lord Camden</span> for over a year and half, naturally he would've been quite suntanned when he arrived back in the Cookham neighborhood. <br /><br />That Thomas was small (verified 05/05/2002), as described by William Hickey in his memoirs (edited by Mark Argent): "Upon going in the tavern, I saw in the large hall, amongst many strangers, an uncommonly vulgar-looking little body, whose face I thought I had seen before." (By vulgar, Hickey means common, like a farm laborer instead of an aristocratic gentleman.) Also, Hickey refers to him as "little fellow," "my little Irish guest," and "Little Carter." Edmund Burke also calls him "Little Carter" in a letter to a friend (verified 12/06/2001). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFOsl1ftmR4T7NQtsUSZI2jc4sGB7kcAuAMVcNdCCl9VlEoyOMAQnWBUhT_JO5xwyq6SpiyTy7Y3-AMhkurPgAQt7UWrxx8j-TQg994to6R7bt8yN78Rg3QwpPlZtXZRUbRONG6TowQ0I/s1600/Rowlandson_Stag-at-Bay---Scene-near-Taplow%25252C-Berks%25252C-c.1795-1801.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFOsl1ftmR4T7NQtsUSZI2jc4sGB7kcAuAMVcNdCCl9VlEoyOMAQnWBUhT_JO5xwyq6SpiyTy7Y3-AMhkurPgAQt7UWrxx8j-TQg994to6R7bt8yN78Rg3QwpPlZtXZRUbRONG6TowQ0I/s400/Rowlandson_Stag-at-Bay---Scene-near-Taplow%25252C-Berks%25252C-c.1795-1801.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551501512967732626" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">A Stag at Bay, Scene Near Taplow, by Thomas Rowlandson c1795-1801</span><br /><br />If you're looking for help in remembering your past lives, please see my page demonstrating the <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">steps for self-regression and hypnotism for past-life recall</a>.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-78317208632550040052010-12-13T23:19:00.001-08:002010-12-22T21:07:11.296-08:00Past Lives: Ideas About the Meaning of LifeApparently nearly everyone has the ability to see into the future, begging the question, Does time exist at all? And, Is everything predetermined? Do we have free will, or is this just an illusion? And how does remembering <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">past lives</a> fit into all of this?<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mindpowernews.com/ExploreFutureConsciousness.htm">Here </a>is a really good article explaining scientific experiments that seem to suggest we all have the power to see our own immediate futures.<br /><br />My own conclusions are: Time does not really exist. Time is an illusion fostered by the brain, which is a computer designed to funnel consciousness into time (as evidenced by those with temporal lobe epilepsy who experience déjà vu, and who also can experience episodes where time speeds up or slows down at a measurable rate -- see <a href="http://www.mysterious-america.net/anthonypeakeinte.html">HERE</a>). Therefore, if those with epilepsy can predict what people will say or do because of a distortion in time, and if most people can sense five seconds ahead whether they will be shown a disturbing or happy picture, the future is either predetermined, or it’s following the strongest probability, which we can access and compute somehow. Maybe on some level, we are able to compute the likelihood of an earthquake or airplane crash based on probabilities; maybe we sign up for a certain life before we are born based on probability. <br /><br />If everything is somehow predetermined, and if all decisions are made in the subconscious (as shown in <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2007/01/02/science/02free.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1">THIS </a>article) and we have no free will and no choices of right or wrong to make, then Karma does not exist -- which explains the lack of moral choices presented to mollusks and fish and whatnot. Whatever rules apply must also work in a world before human beings, and Karma would seemingly be meaningless amongst dinosaurs or trilobites.<br /><br />If Karma is not the reason for life, then something else must be. That, simply put, is to feel: pain, fear, pleasure, and for the higher animals, empathy, compassion and love. Since our fates are written and our choices are made, we are only here to experience what can't be experienced on the other side (where all is placidity, happiness and oneness with God, and there is no adversity, save for those who are stuck on a lower plane). All life on earth experiences two things: the need to preserve one's existence, and pain (which helps to preserve life). These are the lowest common denominators, and when combined with the need to sleep which is universal in some fashion amongst almost all animals, it seems that our purpose is to feel, and to feed back that feeling and experience to the soul during sleep.<br /><br />At least, these are my current theories on the subject. As usual, I'm sure I'll have a different theory tomorrow! (I reserve my right to change my mind.)J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-89427197984634641492010-12-13T22:34:00.000-08:002010-12-13T22:52:22.239-08:00Past Lives: The Reason We Don't Remember ThemThere is a reason that paranormal things are not able to be proven: the same reason that ghosts always make noise in the next room (but not the room you're in), and ghost boxes and psychics don’t tell you the lottery numbers. We cannot, as humans, know empirically that life exists after death, because to do so would ruin the whole reason we came here: to forget about the millions of lives that came before, to forget that death is not to be feared, and to experience emotions on the physical plane that will feed and grow our souls. We can get hints of the truth in paranormal things, and we can believe in them, but we cannot know them scientifically and absolutely. To do so would mean people leaping to their deaths in droves, which would go against everything we came here to do.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-88410235498173556522010-12-12T22:33:00.000-08:002010-12-22T21:09:12.725-08:00Past Lives: A Convincing Case of Reincarnation<iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/lB_j-chZvR0?fs=1" frameborder="0"></iframe><br /><br />I found this video earlier in the year, and I was astounded. Here is someone with a story very much like my own: Robert Snow is <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">hypnotized and recalls details from a past life</a> which he then goes on to match to a real person, a painter who died in 1917. <br /><br />What's astonishing about this case is the way Mr. Snow found the key piece of evidence identifying his former life. His wife just "happened" to want to visit New Orleans; they just "happened" to visit a certain art gallery, where a painting by his former self just "happened" to be on display for the first time in seventy-five years, and it just "happened" to be the very one he saw in his past-life regression. I can't help wondering what this means: Are we all truly linked to everything in every time, and we all have supernatural knowledge? One could say Mr. Snow was led there by an angel or spirit guide, but really, what's the difference between us and them? Very little. Spirits are on the other side, but we have access to the very same world they inhabit, if we try. <br /><br />There is no question that Mr. Snow was meant to find evidence of his past life; I've had the same thing happen to me, where I have stumbled upon things seemingly against all odds. But the question for me is, How did the knowledge of that painting find its way to Robert Snow? How do we have access to such seemingly unrelated information? Thought provoking indeed. And the other question I have is, What is the purpose of remembering these lives? Now that I know I was once Mary Carter, what good is that to me? Or to anyone? Other to confirm in yet another way that there is no such thing as death?<br /><br />I only wish I knew the answer.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-62448891634651886282010-12-12T18:15:00.000-08:002011-03-23T11:40:07.293-07:00Past Lives: Murrough O'Brien, 5th Earl of Inchiquin<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9WxR6SG_TFWd6Oq4I4hD1Dqbl0m75BnYHOqZ71YOM-gFZy-9ZOsqMzOOe2acdDo05Y49pCU6KK0WR8iDkX6ON6y0-xdgkMLBC8ZjGWRzCSdyi0pIcgdk9CcV2Qgp0vlYyXpYDdPyCi_0/s1600/Inchiquin+-+Thomond%252C+Marquis+-+John+Hoppner+after+Samuel+William+Reynolds.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 312px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9WxR6SG_TFWd6Oq4I4hD1Dqbl0m75BnYHOqZ71YOM-gFZy-9ZOsqMzOOe2acdDo05Y49pCU6KK0WR8iDkX6ON6y0-xdgkMLBC8ZjGWRzCSdyi0pIcgdk9CcV2Qgp0vlYyXpYDdPyCi_0/s400/Inchiquin+-+Thomond%252C+Marquis+-+John+Hoppner+after+Samuel+William+Reynolds.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549985121130294370" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Murrough O'Brien, 1st Marquis of Thomond, 1808, print by Samuel William Reynolds after John Hoppner, © Trustees of the British Museum.</span><br /><br />Murrough O'Brien was a friendly guy. Just about everyone who met him liked him, although some said he talked too much. Fanny Burney called him ugly; but then, she'd never actually been in Murrough's presence when she reported on his attractiveness or lack thereof. Polite, cheerful and amiable were words used to describe the Irishman. He was reputed to be a big drinker, and a great friend of the King's. He also knew the Prince of Wales, who once came to visit Murrough and stayed until two in the morning, at which point he left for his mistress's house. Murrough had many friends, foremost of whom was Edmund Burke the great Irish statesman. Other friends included the Duke of Portland, John Cox Hippisley, Joseph Farington, Dr. Charles Burney, and Sir Joshua Reynolds, whose niece Murrough ended up marrying after the death of his first wife.<br /><br />Murrough owned the famous house of Cliveden in Buckinghamshire near Windsor. He also owned the neighboring estate of Taplow Court, as well as Rostellan Castle in Cork, Ireland, and assorted smaller properties in England including Bradwell Grove, Broadwell, Baylis House, and houses in Albemarle Street and Leicester Fields, in North Parade at Bath, and in Phoenix Park and Grafton Street in Dublin (although some of these town houses he may have leased). In short, Murrough was a very rich man, although he tended to have trouble with his money, and married Reynolds' niece both from mutual friendship and from financial difficulties which her large inheritance immediately quelled.<br /><br />Murrough was extremely generous with his money when it came to his illegitimate son, Thomas Carter. First he brought Thomas to England in 1780, telling all his friends how he'd agreed to take Thomas off the hands of his tenants in Cork who had too many children to support; Thomas was thirteen years old when this occurred, so one imagines this is a bit late to have done the family much good. One of Thomas's friends mentions this story of Thomas's origins in his memoirs, and he also says it was widely believed that Thomas was Murrough's bastard son. Murrough paid for Thomas to study music in Italy, and also to sail to India, where he pursued a musical career in the Calcutta Theater. When Thomas returned from the Indies, he loaned all his money (several thousand pounds) to Murrough in aid of his financial troubles; he lived with Murrough at Taplow Court until his marriage in 1793, when Murrough repaid him all the money loaned to him in order for Thomas to set himself up in the coal business to support his new family.<br /><br />Murrough married first his cousin, Mary, Lady Orkney. He married secondly Mary Palmer, the niece of Sir Joshua Reynolds. This match caused quite a stir in the neighborhood apparently. Edmund Burke writes of the Aston sisters -- lifelong friends of Murrough's -- as being extremely upset that one of them was not chosen as the new bride. Of course Mary Palmer was in her forties, while Abigail Aston and her sister, Salisbury Haviland, were Murrough's age and entirely without fortune. Abigail was probably Thomas Carter's mother, given her especially devastated attitude about the marriage, and Burke even goes so far as to call the sisters "abandoned lovers." Yet they all remained friends, and the spurned Aston sisters eventually welcomed Mary Palmer and called her a friend, too. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiie8DL4IjW-Ok-HUPlyKJ325DkrPk3tVfUlmNSj3LVU4KskVJKSjCyYwfw9X41QbN2bN7SyoF7Oa-4cKHt4vqgpIIachdgtnhxwKjY-Pn4utMT31c8Noowxhu_O1pHV9YrTNTO9ZftQAI/s1600/Inchiquin%252C+Mary+countess+of+-+very+bad+pic+by+lawrence+she+hated.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 331px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiie8DL4IjW-Ok-HUPlyKJ325DkrPk3tVfUlmNSj3LVU4KskVJKSjCyYwfw9X41QbN2bN7SyoF7Oa-4cKHt4vqgpIIachdgtnhxwKjY-Pn4utMT31c8Noowxhu_O1pHV9YrTNTO9ZftQAI/s400/Inchiquin%252C+Mary+countess+of+-+very+bad+pic+by+lawrence+she+hated.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550001101071598162" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Mary O'Brien, Countess of Inchiquin, by Thomas Lawrence c1797.</span><br /><br />Murrough and Mary sold all of the paintings inherited from Sir Joshua Reynolds, and from this they gleaned many thousands of pounds, enough to support them in the style to which they were accustomed. Joseph Farington advised them on the sale, and while he was staying with them at Cliveden, a picture was painted -- maybe by Farington, maybe by John Hoppner or Benjamin West -- showing Murrough, Mary and Thomas fishing on the Thames with Farington and possibly Benjamin West.<br /><br />Murrough went on to become elevated at last in the English peerage in 1801; he became Baron Thomond of Taplow Court, and was the Marquis of Thomond in Ireland. He lived another seven years, and died in a horrible accident in 1808. He was riding in Grosvenor Square when his horse slipped on the ice. Murrough fell onto the pavement, right in front of an approaching cart, which ran over him and killed him almost instantly. He was in his early eighties.<br /><br />If you would like to try recalling details of your own past lives, follow these steps to <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">hypnotize yourself and recall your own case of reincarnation</a>.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-36103291695296540992010-12-12T00:26:00.000-08:002010-12-22T21:13:29.436-08:00Past Lives: Thomas Sings at Drury LaneIt is often mentioned in biographical entries for Thomas Carter that he performed just once in a London theater: On March 3rd, 1786, when he sang a vocal part in Handel's <span style="font-style:italic;">Messiah </span>at Drury Lane. This statement isn't exactly true. I have found two further advertisements for his participation in events at Drury Lane, all in 1786 and all right before he boarded a ship for the six-month passage to India. He performed in <span style="font-style:italic;">The Prodigal Son</span> on March 8th:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZMhgQ4_j_d5SbLZ9bhD-kp3qKRQInENv9E5HBHDXfZBx20Q9Am_8hWIQb5PHP5g-nbuZmMEj55Lqs679LTNwcXZfEqmMRZyIWPUqw3MlrN3mNodOzvHpRM6GZ81kdVZZkshpMdV04OE/s1600/Carter%252C+Thomas+-+performs+Prodigal+Son+-+Mar+8%252C+1786+Daily+Univ+Reg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 342px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZMhgQ4_j_d5SbLZ9bhD-kp3qKRQInENv9E5HBHDXfZBx20Q9Am_8hWIQb5PHP5g-nbuZmMEj55Lqs679LTNwcXZfEqmMRZyIWPUqw3MlrN3mNodOzvHpRM6GZ81kdVZZkshpMdV04OE/s400/Carter%252C+Thomas+-+performs+Prodigal+Son+-+Mar+8%252C+1786+Daily+Univ+Reg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549711205915508450" /></a><br /><br />And he sang at a second performance of <span style="font-style:italic;">Messiah </span>on March 24th:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAS6Xn8eZ6MEY9ZXQC0Q9iiVQ_3-L1cvM6fdiQflPrjKqzDOL6OVe1QlkOsueM53uXXXJ11f2hCrzm17Ugo0HgVpaY4mVVeNHoGyA9GvlgC8euLKJxYyCYWaJcgqNI0d87bKli_Bqmc6Y/s1600/Carter%252C+Thomas+-+performs+Messiah+march+24%252C+1786+Theatre+Royal+Drury+Lane.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 330px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAS6Xn8eZ6MEY9ZXQC0Q9iiVQ_3-L1cvM6fdiQflPrjKqzDOL6OVe1QlkOsueM53uXXXJ11f2hCrzm17Ugo0HgVpaY4mVVeNHoGyA9GvlgC8euLKJxYyCYWaJcgqNI0d87bKli_Bqmc6Y/s400/Carter%252C+Thomas+-+performs+Messiah+march+24%252C+1786+Theatre+Royal+Drury+Lane.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549711546158458130" /></a><br /><br />After this, he disappears from the London scene during his stay in Calcutta, where he was in charge of the musical department for the theater. He didn't return to London until 1789.<br /><br />If you're interested in <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">remembering your own past lives</a>, see my page about self-regression technique.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-49516013181771152212010-12-11T23:20:00.000-08:002010-12-22T20:44:56.137-08:00Past Lives: How to Recall a Past LifeIf you would like to begin remembering your own past lives, it's very simple to do. It doesn't cost any money. It doesn't take any special talent. You just need a quiet place to lie down, a reasonable assurance you won't be interrupted, and an open mind. That's it, really. It helps if you only perform these meditations when you are not sleepy, distracted or in a bad mood, but actually I've remembered things in all three of these conditions, so it's not a necessity. An attitude of acceptance, and willingness to suspend disbelief, is crucial, however. If you are the kind of person who must have absolute proof, who doesn't believe in any sort of religion or myth or otherwise mysterious event or object, reincarnation probably isn't for you -- but then, you wouldn't be reading this blog if you were narrow-minded, huh?<br /><br />If you don't happen to have any meditation or physic phenomena-type books lying around, then this video is an easy and free way to get started with remembering your past life:<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ppT5_tAUVUk?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ppT5_tAUVUk?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />This video (and #2 or #3 of the series) isn't mine, by the way. I merely found it on youtube, and thought it was a pretty fair approximation of the process I go through when trying to recall a past life. I do it a bit differently, in that I go down a corridor instead of a staircase, and I don't enter a garden. Instead, I tell myself that I will see something the instant I step out of that corridor into the light beyond; I will go with the very first thought that enters my mind, and expound upon it, and let it unfold in my thoughts without judgment. After the memory, I write down everything I can recall, trying to be as detailed as possible about positions, colors, backgrounds, just...everything. You never know what detail will prove important later on.<br /><br />For more about how to perform a self-regression, see my page about my own methods for <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">self-hypnotism to recall a past life</a>.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-9423739420030789162010-12-11T22:27:00.000-08:002010-12-22T21:14:20.270-08:00Past Lives: My Very First Self-RegressionThe first time I actually succeeded in regressing myself was on December 20th, 1986. I had a few books on psychic phenomena, and in one of these, there were listed the <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">steps to self-hypnotism</a> and meditation in general. I followed the steps, not knowing what would happen. It was an exciting time in my life, being just twenty years old. I was at that stage when one is just starting to form opinions about things like religion and politics -- you know, that age where you are just starting to figure out who you are and what you're about? I had a mentor, an open-minded aunt-of-a-friend who had suggested to me the possibility of reincarnation; she and I had talked about my trip to England, and she had given me some of those psychic books. It was largely because of her that I was investigating the idea of past lives, and after a trip to a professional hypnotist (suggested by her) had failed to produce any evidence of a former life in London, I took my friend's aunt's advice and tried self-hypnotism.<br /><br />Flash-forward twenty-four years: I now know that I did live in London in a past life, and that everything I suspected on my first trip there turned out to be true.<br /><br />The steps one follows to self-regress are basic meditation techniques: Relaxation, concentration on the inner self so one blocks out all external stimuli, and most of all, visualization and paying attention to stray thoughts are key. I saw myself walking down a long corridor, visualized every step, surrounded myself with protective white light, and "went with" the first stray thought that entered my head when I reached the end of that imaginary corridor. Upon coming out of the experience I wrote down the results. It's full of problems, mostly because at that point I didn't know anything about English history, and so didn't have the words to describe what I was seeing. Yet the kernal of truth was there, even from that very first session:<br /><br /><i>A medieval castle in the late 1600s to 1800s, judging from the baroque trim of his coat as he sat behind the piano, immersed in turbulent music. I interrupted his playing as I walked into the room, but I didn't walk, I was just there, and then he looked up, and his hair was an ash-brown-blonde and styled in the manner of an English or French gentleman of the time, straight and slightly more than shoulder length, cut with short bangs in the front. He looked maybe a trifle upset at being disturbed, and his face was full of a serene quality, although his eyes seemed full of intensity. His features were decidedly masculine, but his eyes were still beautiful, John Taylor-ish of Duran Duran. His hands were masculine, too, and his silk coat was of a sky blue and patterned, in the style of a long coat and knickers, white stockings, and buckled shoes. I was a woman dressed in white and I had wanted to see him, had to see him. I stood at his side at the piano, and when he stopped playing, there was a silence and tension between us.</i><br /><br />This man was Thomas Carter. The painting I have of him doesn't show bangs in his hair, and his tresses are more red than brown; it's still him. I drew a picture, too, which was heavily influenced by my association with someone else in my life at that time, but again, it's still Carter: the chin is strong, the nose small, the eyes well-formed and handsome.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiGlqHmCZXqf5RXm-xrnwt-w6Q0ftNrUnMTHDva0KTELTMuMbD9tcZQBH3uF3S7QRwEYhuo7Vs9BBwEGYIpdYe9_mLgcoE1yTG_ADLhHAvAFbdwi0bLM8_L00A6oiur0p7nrXyFVX2-Cg/s1600/Carter%252C+Thomas+-+drawing+1986.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 229px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiGlqHmCZXqf5RXm-xrnwt-w6Q0ftNrUnMTHDva0KTELTMuMbD9tcZQBH3uF3S7QRwEYhuo7Vs9BBwEGYIpdYe9_mLgcoE1yTG_ADLhHAvAFbdwi0bLM8_L00A6oiur0p7nrXyFVX2-Cg/s400/Carter%252C+Thomas+-+drawing+1986.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549681234035043954" /></a><br /><br />He bears a strong resemblance to Johnny Depp in <span style="font-style:italic;">The Libertine</span>, a movie that came out a good twenty years after my initial past-life memory. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioB446wXukkLKma2PwtSorp7BHuHxm9cMWNL9CeJ1lz_JjCiM6zmnhPqYNDA61_793iGXVdjJyzBmIHD3aI_W63w5o_BUQdECVqRxe2wa_qyyfNyXniO3qsLv8Ts-ZOdUoTzOd0XQJhAs/s1600/libertine-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioB446wXukkLKma2PwtSorp7BHuHxm9cMWNL9CeJ1lz_JjCiM6zmnhPqYNDA61_793iGXVdjJyzBmIHD3aI_W63w5o_BUQdECVqRxe2wa_qyyfNyXniO3qsLv8Ts-ZOdUoTzOd0XQJhAs/s400/libertine-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549686368413216130" /></a><br /><br />The portrait I have of Thomas Carter was painted in his youth; I am willing to bet that, when I finally find a picture of him in later life, he will be wearing the bangs of my memories and bear a much closer resemblance to Mr. Depp than the portrait by Thomas Hickey shows. Bangs were very popular in the late eighteenth century; just look at this portrait by John Singleton Copley of the Western boys from 1783:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYgajRmLb9-8Ziu3x5Y-ZyoaVc0Qd_nUygailIDpc3i1e8JgwhwAP7cCfNRpfdx6hK_0c1oAy6SK-15Fy2OfOO9TeojYiK7pBfiB2E8FcF_-EXvi9CXQdNREmJOUeB8ZPqW9-Nxem97Y/s1600/Charles_Callis_Western_and_His_Brother_Shirley_Western_1783.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 323px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoYgajRmLb9-8Ziu3x5Y-ZyoaVc0Qd_nUygailIDpc3i1e8JgwhwAP7cCfNRpfdx6hK_0c1oAy6SK-15Fy2OfOO9TeojYiK7pBfiB2E8FcF_-EXvi9CXQdNREmJOUeB8ZPqW9-Nxem97Y/s400/Charles_Callis_Western_and_His_Brother_Shirley_Western_1783.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549684842554941250" /></a>J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5983229654830617400.post-9416513979907966402010-12-11T16:29:00.000-08:002010-12-22T21:18:30.893-08:00Past Lives: The Earl's Little Secret, or How Thomas Carter was Born<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkWbW_LzIlHPJjZgWWZpJwGkm1wsJ0DxbVjCfxDO7Ir5jihfcq0tbiN5OcMR-nXVomQg2oxpt5sMDc_7EWWaiclqOrXLN8n2V6aq6f__HXyYG-3yO8FpsB9IgQxjR6hwZ_7UyUO4UQ0_M/s1600/Carter%252C+Thomas+-+Thomas+Hickey+1787.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 232px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkWbW_LzIlHPJjZgWWZpJwGkm1wsJ0DxbVjCfxDO7Ir5jihfcq0tbiN5OcMR-nXVomQg2oxpt5sMDc_7EWWaiclqOrXLN8n2V6aq6f__HXyYG-3yO8FpsB9IgQxjR6hwZ_7UyUO4UQ0_M/s320/Carter%252C+Thomas+-+Thomas+Hickey+1787.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549596150665572818" /></a><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">Thomas Carter by Thomas Hickey, 1787.</span><br /><br />In 1766, Murrough O'Brien lived at Rostellan Castle with his deaf wife, Mary, who was also his cousin. Rostellan was owned by her father, the 4th Earl of Inchiquin; this man had no sons of his own, and so he set up his nephew to marry his otherwise unmarriageable and hearing-impaired daughter. Thus Mary would be provided for when Murrough inherited the earldom from his uncle and became the 5th Earl of Inchiquin in 1776. And Murrough did provide...but he also cheated on his wife.<br /><br />He and Mary did succeed in having one child, a daughter, also named Mary; she would go on to become the Countess of Orkney in her own right, the title for which she eventually inherited from her deaf mother. But in 1766, Mary was their only child, and one suspects the relationship between Murrough and his wife was not very close. Toward the end of his life, Murrough would boast he had "lived with [his wife] in a manner so proper that he can reflect upon it with satisfaction." Did this mean he treated his wife with respect and did not force himself upon her? If so, he must have channeled his affections somewhere.<br /><br />That somewhere was Abigail Aston.<br /><br />You see, Murrough had a neighbor in Cork, the Earl of Shannon. Lord Shannon's son, Henry Boyle, had a tutor, and this tutor was Abigail Aston's relative. Just how Abigail ended up visiting at Castle Martyr is not known, but she clearly did, and Murrough apparently took a shine to her in 1766. In 1767, a boy named Thomas Carter was born -- no record survives of that birth, so we don't know who was listed in the register as his parents -- and this boy spent the rest of his life being treated as a psuedo-son by Murrough O'Brien. <br /><br />Thomas Carter was supposed to have been born to Murrough's poor tenants in Cork -- this was the official story circulated when Thomas was brought to England in 1780. At some point, Abigail Aston also ended up living near Murrough in Buckinghamshire, as did her sisters, who were also lifelong friends of his. When Murrough died, he left Abigail money. When she died, she left her portrait of Murrough to his widowed second wife. Thus Thomas grew up with both his parents watching over him, and his education and travels to Italy and India were financed by Murrough under the guise of charity. Thomas was living in Murrough's home when he met the daughter of a neighborhood reverend and fell in love.<br /><br />That daughter was Mary Wells.<br /><br />To learn more about your own past lives, try my method for <a href="http://mypastlives.blogspot.com/2010/12/past-lives-steps-to-recalling-past-life.html">reincarnation self-regression</a>.J. Jay Kamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17762540324690265881noreply@blogger.com0