Sorry the next episode is not yet written, you can read here the beginning of "The Book"




LeRenardO remembers...

 

An account of my previous lives and how they interract with the present

INTRODUCTION

This is going to be long and difficult, no one can condense over two thousands years in a few web pages yet I promised myself that it is going to be written all here. This is going to be "The Book" the one and only, that hopefully will not end up causing harm or create dissent among people, this is not the Satanic V  nor the Da Vinci C it is the narration of how I evolved through the ages and how I saw mankind's progression from when I first was there.

It might not all be in chronological order and due to the weight it carries, it will have to be updated slowly, as other vital considerations call for my attention. Some more menial ones, like "what do you do about copyrights ?", will have me burdened to no end. But do not worry, it will not be unaccomplished. This Symphony will be heard.

When composed, I will publish in the space below, one experience, which, in its turn will be  replaced with the next one.

A compilation of all,"The Book" will be accessible online, to approved enthusiasts  through a password gate.

Next  will be about the very first dream I can recall in this present life.

 

EPISODE I     DO YOU CALL THIS A DREAM ?

It is a nightmare. A recurrent one. The very first I ever "saw". The very first I really felt, because at the time I must have had my eyes closed, maybe I was still in the womb of my mother. It was accompanied by a feeling of ever increasing dizziness. A feeling that I was being moved by small soft ripples, like the ones made by a small stone dropped on the surface of a very still lake and then again increasing  both in hight and in turbulence to find myself in the middle of a raging ocean, tossed around by huge mountain waves that would never splash while trying unsuccessfully to swallow me.  I would live this sensation on different occasions, while ill in bed with high temperature, or probably, accompanied with an unsavory taste of blood in the mouth, the day I was being born.

The ordeal of being born. The horrendous experience of being expelled out of the cosy place that has been your home since conception. There was more to come. Apparently It was a breach birth. The then Doctor Costas with a skillful movement of the wrist, manged to push back the extrusion of my little foot and turning me inside the womb, to avoid strangulation by the umbilical cord, managed to bring me out safely. To reality.

A lot was said about the doctor. It was not the doctor my mother was seeing in preparation for the birth, this one  had gone away. It was a "last minute doctor" urgently found for the occasion. He was young and handsome, promised to a great career, yet destroyed by an unfaithful wife and morphine addiction. That was the craze of the fifties, not morphia,  the femme fatale.

As I was growing up I could tell all the makes of cars in the street, from the Citroen to a Studebaker, Dodge Buicks Cadillacs or Chevrolet. I knew all make of cars because  as a toddler, I was often left playing alone in the Citroen of "uncle Y", the then lover of my mother, while they were experiencing each other at home, until one day I released the hand brakes and the car started rolling down hill, followed by neighbors, trying and finally succeeding in stopping the car in its course.

I must have been hardly three years old when left, for the first and last time, for an afternoon siesta, in the care of the goldsmith's neighbor  children, two brothers and a younger sister, I was initiated to the joys of sex.  All siblings participating. I pass on the crude details as such writing is not subject nor limited to adult reading, but my mother recalls the episode with horror.

That was not really my first experience. It was certainly in the earlier part of my life. The fact of being taken off  the bed  in my deep sleep and deposited  all alone in  a cot. Yet with the room  filled with sexuality,  I was sensing powerful urges. Nor was it the last with the goldsmith daughter, she kept on coming to visit me at home, where , holding my index finger she taught me how to perform clitoral massage. I must be grateful, though, I suppose she gave me the taste for the right sort of occupation and my love for women.

This was not the dream. The dream starts here.

Very odd and until now unresolved.

I see this young couple, in their early thirties. The woman is slim, smart and wears a smart light brown suit with skirt of the 1940's. She has her long wavy brown hair on her padded shoulders, the same type and colour of hair as my mother's, my sisters,  my daughter's and mine. The man is wearing a shirt and tie and is carrying. his jacket on his forearm. I do not see much of his features. They are being forced at gunpoint by soldiers, in full  attire, towards the opening of a railway tunnel . They are dignified and walk lightlheartedly towards their death. I am left with a bitter sweet taste of blood in my mouth.  I see the ripples dream again. I am not three years old, there is no television and I cannot read yet. Nobody depicted this scene to me. It was brought with me at birth. That woman,  was me in my previous life.

The first of dreams to tell me there is something else, beyond reality.

With age I started associating this dream to the horrors of the second world war and Nazi's atrocities . Who was this woman and who was her companion, why the railway tunnel , why the soldiers with weapons on two innocent civilians? Were they persecuted jews ? Should I be compelled to travel all the countries trying to find that tunnel, or would I recognize the vegetation around it?  It would take me a lifetime of research through archives and historic papers  with no warranty of ever finding out.

No, the answer is me. It is deep within myself that I would find any clues to this horrendous episode.

Was I reborn to make this thing right ? How ?

 
 
 
 
To read the "FOLLOWING WEEK'S EXPERIENCE"

An illustrated compilation of the whole, "The Book"  will be accessible on line,

only to "registered enthusiasts"  through a password gate.

OBTAIN GRACIOUSLY  YOUR PASSWORD FROM: lerenardo@mail.com