Do you dream of finding True Love or your Soulmate...of Fate, Karma or Kismet?

How it Began

2012-01-27T00:07:00.000-05:00

Cherie's Journal, Jan 20, 2010

   It is icy this January, in this new decade. My name is Cherie Halapthorpe (nee Martinson), and I am sitting in the bleary headquarters of the NYC District Attorney's office (even Crime-TV couldn't have dreamed up the cinematically-appropriate blandness of this place) in the more or less decrepit neighborhood of lower Manhattan.

   I have led, until recently, what one might consider a reasonable life. This was in no small part due to the patina of success radiated by my union with my likeable stockbroker ex-husband; but I was likewise thought to be a respectable, relatively modest, well-intentioned, and happy individual. If I was considered to be a bit of an iconoclast by my fellow suburbanites in Eastern V., it was only in the creative sense, and of course, because I was originally from New "Yawk." I have not, to my knowledge, ever been considered desperate, unhappy, delusional, nor in any sense a victim. Now, I visit a distorted reality as I peer into the looking glass version of my once relatively happy and productive self.

   To understand events that led to this I had undergone a review of the previous days and months with the assistance of a therapist, probing my marriage and the subsequent weeks in which I left my home and family, only to fall into a torrid affair with Victor, the man who had so suddenly entered my life, and with whom I thought I had found the fulfillment of perfect love. But the exhumation of my past proved insufficient, despite the dogged assistance of my therapist. To get to the bottom of what was occurring between Victor and myself required a different approach, she suggested, a truly rigorous investigation of previous factors effecting my relationship with Victor. This exploration would include not just the periods encompassing my marriage and youth, but stretching back still further, to those times prior to my birth in this existence. She was talking about the lifetimes in which Victor and I first met, fell in love, and began to enact our karma together.

In other words, it may not be a matter of who I am, but who I once was.

   It was an unorthodox approach, she admitted. But she was game, if I was.

   In due time my therapist and I began to unearth the details of Victor's and my history together, in its every phase, of every lifetime, in all our varying incarnations together. The goal of this was to understand our relationship's place in this existence, and to determine if the karma between us was finished and thus we were meant to move on from each other, or if our union held the promise of a love that was the fulfillment of that rarest of phenomenons: True Love shared by reunited Twin Flames.

   But I shall get to the details of the regressions shortly. For now, it's best to start with how I got to where I am now.

Cherie

http://pastlivesregressionreincarnaton.blogspot.com

Chapter 8: Two Halves

2010-02-13T14:06:00.000-05:00

Cherie's Journal

They say the longing for our perfect mate is a need ingrained in our DNA. Plato, in his chats on love, wrote of a time when there was a third sex, which was the union of male and female in one body. Others have called this twin energy, or twin flames, two people in separate bodies that once shared the same soul.

Supposedly, we spend much of our time on earth trying to reunite with this soul in order to again become our full selves.

Until we unite with him or her, we feel a deep sense of incompletion. This can manifest in a yearning for a type of union we may not even be able to define. For most of us, we barely dare dream of this kind of connection and are satisfied to be "content."

Still, at our core we know something is missing. We can not fool this part of ourselves no matter how hard we try. That is because this yearning, this lack of completion, stems from the deepest part of ourselves. It is a need to experience Love in it’s fullest form. To fulfill it's promise is to stake our place in the divine.

When these halves do meet each other it is a rare phenomenon. If they are ready for each other, it is an experience like no other. All the passion, elation, fireworks, bliss, exhilaration, triumph, relief, joy and rapture available to two beings revolving in the universe become solely yours.

But, if these two halves should meet before they are ready, it can instead become a nightmare on earth.

April 26, 2008

"I have no idea what I'm doing, so you tell me what the fuck you want to know."

"You had this whole thing about art being created through antagonism. People are--"

"Well, you pissed me off, so I'm gonna like, you know..."

Victor pulls me toward him, aware of, if not wholly sympathetic to, my frustration.

"What do you want to know, baby?" Victor asks in a lolling voce. "What can I tell you?"

"What was our fight about tonight? We're having one at least once a day," I point out, upset.

"Control. No, not once a day. Only in the last few days, we've had one, one a day, and it's due to control issues, deep-seated control issues on both our parts."

"So? You mean it's my fault, right?"

"I don't know exactly what it is. I mean, I'm facing a wall."

"Excuse me. Why do you think you're facing a wall?"

"I'm facing the Cherie Halapthorpe nee Martinson wall."

"Oh, not the Cheri Martinson wall."

"No, the Cherie Halapthorpe nee Martinson wall. Because with Cheri Martinson, the true Cheri Martinson, there wouldn't be a wall."

"That's because Cheri Martinson is pretty much somebody you've made up."

"Which is obviously another bone of contention, because I don't think Cherie Halapthorpe nee Martinson is ready to become Cheri Martinson."

"And you're the one who decides this."

"I know what I see. That doesn't mean I'm correct."

"What about your control issues?" I demand.

"Well..." He laughs.

"Ha ha ha ha," I retort.

"Well, we still haven't finished with yours, but anyway, come to me, come to me, baby."

I nestle into him despite my reluctance to give up my irritation, and he continues.

"It's, well, I like to have input in my relationship," Victor explains. "I don't like to be put in a situation where I have to be quiet if I see something silly."

"But you have so many things that you consider silly. If things don't concur with your perception of things, they're automatically 'stupid,' 'silly'…'don't make sense."

"Well, a lot of the things you do don't make sense."

"See, in your opinion. They make sense to me."

"I just think that we would be better off working together than we are as separate individuals."

I pull away from him. "Yeah, but to be together, then I have to conform to what you feel is the right way."

"It's not about conforming, it's about working together. It's about being open-minded."

"And this applies to both you and me?"

"Of course."

"Oh?"

"Absolutely." We both laugh.

"Ah."

It was eleven weeks and counting since our first meeting. Sometime before this I had decided to make detailed notes of our relationship patterns. Call it the scientist in me, but having come from one hugely spoiled pairing that dissipated into pure nothingness, I wanted to make sure that whatever transpired in this one could at least be documented for posterity, and for that purpose I bought myself a digital recorder.

"Ah."

"It can hear me." He checks the recorder. "I'm holding my hand in the air like I just don't care." He hums, nonchalantly, into the speaker.

"Well, we should mention that this is week ten..."

"The beginning of the eleventh week."

"Okay. So do you want to start--"

"No, actually today is ten weeks, because...anyway, ten weeks from when we first spoke and you heard my lilting accent. Well, what are we talking about? You and me?"

"Yeah, where do you wanna start, do you wanna go back to the beginning?"

"Well, that is what this about, right?"

"This is going back from the beginning, to the present."

"What is this going to be for, eventually?"

"This is notes.. for my book," I joke, "book two."

"For book two? What's book one?"

"Book one is how I got to book two." Now it's my turn to laugh.

"From what period?" He adopts a look of discomfort.

"Uh, from November when I left Alan 'til the end of February 08."

"So, you're gonna write a book about those four months."

"Yeah." Seeing his look, I regret my words.

"And you're gonna write about all those other guys."

"No…."

"And all the other stuff."

"It's about, uh--"

"How you entered the sex zone."

"No!"

He takes pause. "What the fuck is it about, then?"

"I'm answering your question, relax."

"I'm not gonna relax." The dragon's thorny spine was showing itself.

"Give me a second," I demand.

"You relax, witchy woman."

"You have everything on the tip of your tongue."

"Witchy woman."

"You don't give thought, or maybe you do give thought, maybe that's what you're doing out here while you're painting, twirling things around in your mind. But when you ask me a question--"

"You're a witchy woman."

"--I'm actually thinking about the answer before I respond."

He picks up the recorder and shakes it. "Would it be a shame if this wasn't recording properly? Because I have that horrible feeling...can you see if it's recording?"

"Yeah, the red light's on."

"It doesn't mean it's recording, though."

"It's not notes for a book. I was kidding about that. I want to document how a woman who--"

He shakes the recorder harder. "Can you see the--"

"Yes!" I take it from him and place it between us, on the ripped cardboard box that serves as an urban-style coffee table.

"It's about a woman who what?"

I search for an answer, not knowing how to respond. "It's about a woman," I say, "who is growing in self-awareness."

He pauses. "Sounds like that's the first chapter of a book to me."

"Oh, are you gonna tell me how to write my book?"

"No, this is what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna say whatever the fuck I want, whenever I want to, and you better get used to it 'cause that's just the way it's gonna be."

"You are very pushy."

"Pbfff, I don't give a fuck."

"You're an egotistical megalomaniac who has to have his ideas accepted by all. Your, 'Let's sit and talk, Cheri,' really means, 'Let's sit and adopt the Victor Oris way of doing things. And that's why I revolt, and that's why, in the car before, which is my domain--"

"You get all crazy. Yeah, now we're getting it. It's the domain of the Cherie Halapthorpe."

"What? Okay, so Cherie Halapthorpe nee Martinson versus Cheri Martinson, because I'm quite aware that..."

He takes a deep slug from the wine bottle he is holding, distracting me.

"You want me to put a nipple on it?" I ask him.

"Yumm, Trader Joe's $3.99 Shiraz from France. Pretty delicious, I have to say."

"Where are we? Okay, so I'm quite aware that every time you call me Cherie Halapthorpe, it's a dig."

"Well, it is. It's because you're not yourself."

"How do you know what myself is?"

"Well, if you're Cherie Halapthorpe, you better get off the couch, go down 95, go back south, baby, that's where you need to go. Go back home to your horses and your sheep." He laughs.

"I'm glad you find this all very funny."

"I find it whatever I want to find it, and you can't control it. You wanna interview me? You want to know what I think? Then I'm gonna tell you what I think, and I'm gonna be the way I wanna be, and you're not gonna, in any, shape or form--"

"I am not modifying, putting any kinda stamp or groove to it. But the way you're talking is the same way you talk whether there's a recorder on or not. So if I react to it, you've gotta just--"

"I'm actually saying more than I would in our relationship, because you know why?"

"I'm not able to handle it," I answer, greatly incensed.

"'Cause you get so fuckin' angry."

"But you can't handle things, either."

"I can handle it all." He puffs out his chest. "You know what the biggest thing I can't handle with you? Is the fact that you shut off. You shut down, you shut the conversation down, you shut everything down. And you know what? I don't do that to you."

"You hopped out of the car before. What was that?"

"Because you're off your head. You don't listen to sense. You are so involved in your fifteen years of frickin' being Cherie Halapthorpe and being in control and being by yourself in a relationship with a man who would rather hit golf balls than talk to you--"

"Because I don't make sense to you, or your version of common sense?"

"Well, you're in a relationship now, baby. Get used to it."

He was right. Being present in a relationship was not something I was used to, nor had I experienced it with Alan. We had considered ourselves a loving couple, but in truth we never bared our innermost selves to each other except for a few brief moments in the beginning, which failed to anchor us when things duly fell apart.

"You're right. Alan and I didn't know how to talk to each other, didn't even know where to start," I admit.

Victor barely paused. "You know what I think?" he announced. "I am transitional guy."

"And just would transitional guy be?" I ask, caught off guard.

Well, I'm helping you find out what you're really about, and to find out how to have a relationship, so that when you do meet whoever your soulmate is you'll know what to do."

"Or when I meet my true twin flame."

"Yeah, exactly."

My eyes flick to the bottle of wine he was in the process of draining.

"Because your true twin flame wouldn't drink alcohol, he'd be completely sober." He fills my glass from the second bottle.

"You know that for a fact?"

"No, twin flames don't drink."

"Well, you're gonna die of thirst, then." I take a sip and recoil. Oh, this one's woody, isn't it?"

"Don't know. I have the other one in my glass, still."

I take another taste. The full force of what it means to be drinking $3.99 wine, albeit an organic one from some unknown region in Europe, hits me. Alan with his $100 1997 Mascarello Barolo would flip over in his golf cart right now, if he knew.

"You want the first one back?" Victor asks, gamely offering his glass.

"No, no, it's okay, it's just strange. From the first one to this was like, 'Whoo. Yuck.' "I can't even pronounce this word, it's Shiraz and Tempralino. Is that anything?"

"It's fucking Italian shit. No, it's actually Spanish. Oh, that's why it's so bad."

He sips from my glass. "You're right. It's is woody."

"It's like licking a forest."

He shakes his head. "Inhaling a burnt forest."

"Drinking up the pine floor." We laugh. I like it when he's like this.

"Ugh, I'm gonna stick with the one I have," he says.

"Maybe if it breathes a bit. I reach over to retrieve the cork from the bottle.

"Do that again," he orders as I lean over. "I want to look at your large breasts."

"We could plug that one up and open the other one," I offer, trying to ignore his ogling.

"Really? You're very artistic when it comes to wine and food." My shirt is suddenly, whisked over my head. "You're amazing, he remarks, throwing the shirt aside, "and you have the best pair of breasts I've seen in many years."

"It's the last pair of good breasts." I angle myself so that he can't likewise rip off my bra.

"Well, considering the A-cup I was involved with..." He laughs again. "Okay, so, do you wanna go back to the start? 'Cause that's what this is all about, right? But I don't know if I want to be involved in this book, unless you use my name."

"Sure, I'll make it all about you."

He moves closer upon the futon in order to sit closer to me, and the makeshift couch, being "genuine leatherette," squeaks embarrassingly as I shift my repose. I am grateful that it's not July when I'd be wearing shorts instead of jeans, for then I'd be leaving layers of skin behind me as well.

"You're squashing my leg," I complain, not minding at all. I add reflectively, "the book's tentatively entitled, 'How I Banged 500 Chicks in Seven Years."

"What about 'Ten and a Half Weeks?" he suggests. "Or maybe, it should be about how I go on an art tour, bang loads of chicks, and you know, then come back to you...?"

"It actually could be my life post-Victor Oris."

"Where you meet the--"

"The true love of my life."

I'm relieved when he laughs.

"Well, you know, when it comes down to it, you women just need the money."

"Yeah, right. Is that what you think?"

"Well, you're constantly worried about money."

"Just women, we women--?"

"I'd say, 95% of women out there want security, yeah."

"Oh, and the other 5%, what do they want?" I fear this line of inquiry, but am too intrigued to let it go.

"They want to give and receive love. They're creative beings."

"So creative beings don't care about security."

"They make their own money, they don't give a shit."

"Oh, 'cause they've already made it."

"Or they're making nothing."

Like him.

"So they don't care about heat or rent or food?" I venture.

"There's women out there who make a lot of money, but they could never be with a man that didn't make money, you understand? Well, let me finish. There are women out there who need to be with a man that makes money, even though they might be superiorly wealthy."

"And this is 95%. Of the women you know?"

"You've got women who are educated and well-off, and they want a man who's at least comfortable. Then you have women who are creative women, that have their own money, but they need to have a man that's at least financially equal, if not better off than them. Then there's a very small percentage of women, very small, who are either artists or who are independently wealthy themselves, who make their own money, and who don't care about the fact that their partner has to, you know, have a certain amount of money for them to be with them. But it's a very small percentage of all the women on this planet."

"And they have money, these wise women."

"No, not necessarily. Some are artists who don't have money, but don't care if their partner has any either."

"So how do they pay the rent if they're both impoverished artists?"

"You are being bombarded in the Western world, with what you have to have, what car you have to have, what house you have to--"

"But I'm asking you about specifically, how do you pay rent, electric, phone, gym--and hey, you're from the Western world too," I object.

"No I'm not, I'm from up there." He points up. "Anyway, gym's a luxury."

"Okay, Starman, computer equipment."

"Computer equipment's a luxury."

"No, it isn't, not if you have to create your art, for someone to see it."

"You can fucking draw. You don't need anything but a hand and some dirt to draw."

"You need paint brushes and canvas--"

"Very cheap."

"No, you need good brushes, you need the right watercolors, I've seen you browsing the shelves at Pearl Paint. If you're a musician, you need instruments--"

"I've painted a bit, honey, okay? I know what I'm talking about."

Of course he did. Half painted canvases, unfinished sketches, and crumpled up drawings littered the floor and walls like so many termites in a tenement.

"Anyway," I continue, "if you're a musician you have to have instruments, and whatever electronic equipment you need. If you're a writer, you need the internet and the computer. I'm saying all these things that it takes to create your art--"

"Oh, you can't be a writer with just a pad and a pencil?"

"And a computer to research."

"You think that you need the computer, that you need the internet, that you need all these things to write. To write, you need a pad and a pen, that's it. To create art, you have a fricking pencil--"

"We're gonna have an argument over semantics here?"

"And a wall, and then you can make art."

"Then why don't you make some?" I add, despite his lowered brow. "Mr. Unrealistic. If you want an agent, you have to be online. If you want to get shows, you have to be able to put your creation online and send it to somebody, or be able to communicate with them. This is common sense. But put all that aside. You need to clothe yourself or your children."

"I'm not talking about what you're talking about!" Victor rises and paces. "We're talking about two different things. I'm talking about the 5% of women whose main objective in a partner has nothing to do with how much money he makes, or if he's on the path with his artistic goals. You can be an artist where you do embroidery. You can be an artist where you sketch. That doesn't mean an artist is necessarily selling his work around the world on the internet or has an agent, or has a whatever whatever whatever whatever whatever!"

"All right, I'm not asking that--"

"Then what are you asking?"

"I'm asking if you're thinking this through."

His sharp look is supplanted with one of peace. "I'm thinking that you're one of the 5%," he says.

There he goes, in one swoop, taking my breath away as well as my irritation and carefully-constructed self-armor. If only he would do that all the time, instead of us both erupting. Then maybe I wouldn't be so angry, or so guarded. Maybe then, I could admit the truth in his words, and we could do as he says, work together as one. But I have too many layers of fears for this. In fact, I secretly suspect that I am one of the 95%, and not one of the 5%, as he says. Yet I won't admit to it, for he sees something better in me that I want a glimpse of too.

But it's a doubt that plagues me.

Chapter 7: Past Life Regression, Normandy

2010-01-25T23:29:00.012-05:00

Normandy, 1183

Cherise Montegue enters the giant hall. Towards the center there is an immense hearth with a lit fire that is big enough for her to walk into. It's arched, made from stone, and like the manor house she calls home, it's very old and performs its function well, in this case to provide heat and the means for cooking meals for the manor's occupants.
The planked wooden floor is painted in a black and white checkered pattern that leads off to the distant windows. All around, there are upright timber beams leading to the rafters, above. There are vines hanging from these rafters; at first Cherise thought they were grapes, but soon after coming here she realized they were herbs and other growing things used for cooking.

She thinks it a very elegant room, with a simple kind of rusticity.

On that day she wears a lovely a reddish velvet dress with bell sleeves and gold trim. There is a rounded neckline, and it fits her snugly to the waist, tapering gently below in keeping with the style. It is a dress which suits her well, setting off the glow of her gently flushed complexion as well as the red of her burnished-honey hair, which today she wears in a long tail. She is quite comfortable in her attire, though it at times it still seems new to her, as well as her surroundings.

Her eyes twinkle with merriment over something, and those around her take enjoyment in this. They consider her very beautiful. At the juncture of this writing she is 28 years old, and to the servants who call her mistress, very young at heart.

Though she is at home in this manor, it wasn't always that way. At first she thought it an intimidating place. It was far different than the warm little home she was born into several leagues from here. Where her father, a squire, and she led a quiet and peaceful life.

A servant shuffle through the doorway, her head bowed low. Cherise can't who it is as she is dressed in a robe which covers her face, but she knows it is Mary from her particular scuttling type walk. The fact that the servants always have their heads covered unsettles Cherise. The effect is very monastic and, she thinks, disquieting in an inequitable way.

There are others around as well, but they do not make themselves known. As servants they are supposed to be unseen. Occasionally, she sees their faces as they meet her eyes for a briefest moment, but mostly they keep a respectful distance. She has come to accept this, as they have come to accept her. Though they are always accommodating, for Cherise there is an extra layer of warmth in appreciation of her youthfulness and her kindness.

Cherise is still in the hall. She stares at the large windows at the end, arched, with a crossed inner frame. They look like giant cathedral windows to her, minus the colored glass. The checkered floor is gleaming from its perpetual polishing, although it's warped from several generations of use.

In the middle of the room there's a large wooden staircase, and this she ascends now.

Near the top, she perceives a strong light coming from a room ahead. She moves closer, and peers in.

The room contains a four-poster bed. He's in the bed. She halts.

Suddenly, she turns her face and giggles. She can't see his face because she's hiding her face behind her hands. She opens her fingers.

He emits a golden, delighted chuckle, and looks.

Drake lays across the bed, one foot propped on a bended knee. He pops a grape into his mouth, acting nonchalant.

He's attractive, exceptionally so. As always, when he is around her, her heart picks up its pace.

Though he's acting like his thoughts are elsewhere, he's intently watching her. There's nothing casual about the look which burns into her, as much as he pretends to hide it.

"One, two, threee...how many grapes can I fit in my mouth? Fow, fiw, seex..." he chews, exaggeratedly.

He's got a smallish frame, like hers. His dark hair is long and rakish, and his goatee adds to his raffish appeal.

"So, my love has decided finally to pay her husband a visit. Well, then, perhaps I will just act like she is not here and go in on eating my grapes and daydreaming about what I would do if I had a wife who was interested I spending time with me!"

At this she rushes to the bed and he tumbles over her. They roll around, tussling with one another. In a moment he has her pinned, defying her to break free, which she does. He grabs her about the waist, swinging her back to him, both of them laughing with enjoyment. Then, she is below him, facing up. The look of him burns into her heart.

"I love you beyond endurance, he says, and he takes in the flush to her fair cheeks, the swell of her bodice, and her splayed out honey hair with its reddish tints.

"And yours inflames me with desire!"

"Where is my blushing little damsel of a few years ago?" he teases. "Where has she gone?"

"She is banished forever. In her place is a desperate wanton lady, who wants nothing more than her husband's love."

"That you have forever," he promises.

"As you have mine."

He kisses her fiercely, and soon they are lost in the force of their passion.

It has always been this strong between them, this love, since first laying sight on each other as he came for the tithe from her father's fiefdom.

She had just turned eighteen, and had known immediately.

It was him.

It was very extraordinary, the feeling that surged between them like gush of a rain-filled river. She felt the strange intensity of love, and it has not wavered since.

He was a lord of the principality then, though before their wedding he became a viscount, by dint of his sworn military allegiance to Henry, their King.

She hadn't know exactly what viscount was, only that it was something important. She thought him too young for a king, or an earl or a count, for despite her inexperience, she perceived that there was too little worldliness in him--only some, a very little. Though he wasn't a count yet, she believed he would be one day. She knew that viscount brought a lot of power, and that it was militarily oriented.

After his first visit he came within days to visit her father's home again, just to catch sight of her. Their ardent glances proved their devotion. He asked for her hand at once. Her father was glad to further his daughter's happiness. They wed in mere weeks.

Her new home, she learned, was a stately manor that stood atop a great hill. She was to have servants at her disposal, though she scarcely knew what to do with them. To be with Drake was her great passion. He set up work in the parlor room which adjoined to their bedroom, so as to not be apart from her. She watched him as he poured over books and papers, hungry to know what these writings entailed, but knowing her place as his Lady did not include inquisitiveness.

Cherise was very fulfilled being loved by him. He was like a boy, really, in the body of a rigorous, red-blooded man. He was audacious, at times, bold, devil-may-care, and even wild, but he was always completely tender with her.

He was the dominant one, and while she was not completely submissive, she was very feminine, and enjoyed being so. He never made her feel inferior for it, but took pleasure in the girlishness of her nature.

He looked up from the great tome he is reading, and she could see that it had to do with his military work, though she was unsure of exactly how.

He sees where she is looking. She has gathered a little about what he is doing from the offhand things he has said. There is trouble in the King's lands, and a brewing fight with the King of France, for which he will be called into service.

"Tell me how your day was," he offers, closing the book. When she blushes and refrains from answering, he calls her charming.

"Then," he suggests, "how about we discuss some new dresses? We will call in the seamstress." She looks away, but her glance returns to the book he was pouring over.

He doesn't wish to worry her, and returns the book to its shelf. It is a great, archaic tome, that has been in his family for many generations. The way she doesn't want to trouble him with household trivialities, he doesn't talk to her about burdensome issues.

"I don't want clothes or girlish things," she admits to him with more fervor than she intends. "Though I enjoy the clothes you have made for me..."

"Well darling," he asks with that gleam to his eye, "what can I get for my beautiful wife?"

She doesn't answer.

What she wants is the book he reads so much. She wants to learn what he is absorbed in. She wants to be close him. But she doesn't reveal this, for fear of stepping out of her place.

She cups his face in her hands and kisses him.

"All you can get me is you."

They share a profound connection.

They are more honest with each other than most couples, though there are the things he keeps from her and she keeps from him. It's nothing important. It's because they think the other's not going to be interested because it's too trivial, or too weighty to bother the other with. It's quite noble on both their parts.

They both know this and accept it. She wants to know more, but she doesn't want to step out of the bounds of what's right for who she is. So she makes a decision. She is going to study secretly. She's going to learn about war, to be closer to him.

She would never, ever lie to him. She hopes that what she is doing is not untruthful.

The next time he is gone, she pulls the great book from its shelf and with great effort and care brings it to his desk.

His desk. It feels smooth to the touch. Familiar, like him.

She touches the book's worn leather cover. It is enormous and very old. It's pages are as thin as the skin of an onion, and it's filled with hundreds of drawings. The drawings are of war. Bloody battles. Gruesome images of horror. A turbaned man holding up a shorn head, one foot on a decapitated body. It is horrible, these images, and they sink into her soul. Yet she can not help looking. She is filled with a sort of despair, to see the sorts of things men do to one another. She turns page after page.

An image depicts a men holding a cross while others engage in a gory battle around him. In another men pierce each other through the heart with swords. A man victoriously holds up entrails. Women are carried off flailing their limbs. Damsels being defiled. More women, and children also, viciously slain. A baby is cut open! It is too much to bear.

She finds these discoveries deeply unsettling. But they're enlightening. She returns to the book again and again when he is not there.

The sense of war and killing is not just horrific. It's very, arrogant, seemingly done for no reason. It's senselessly aggressive, she comes to realize. Yet despite it's disturbing nature, it is also helps her understanding. The beginnings of a decision creep over her.

There are passages in the book having to do with strategy. Means of formations involving topography. Yes, she finds as she reads, the strategy's very interesting.

There are other books dealing with geography, and recent books which tell her of the Norman kings, and papers which detail the coming fight. These she learns by heart.

But the main draw to her studies is the fascination about learning strategy. There is also the lure of how gory, and completely awful war is. It's a ghoulish fascination.

But the strategy's different. It's absorbing and challenging. It enthralls her.

She takes out her paper and pens. She is going to figure out strategy for him, create plans and drawings.

Soon she is soon working out strategy herself. It is rudimentary, she knows, but she feels she is doing something for him. She sketches out some of her ideas, using topography as a basis.

She is too excited to share what she has learned to keep it from him. She makes a determination to reveal what she has been doing, hoping fervently that he will not be angry. She does not know how she will survive if not in his favor.

But she is not going to tell him about a different decision that she has made, though it effects both of them. This one has to do with the household, and her own person.

"Cherise," Drake queries, immediately detecting her excitement, "what is it?"

Though she is greatly nervous about telling him, she reveals what she has been doing by handing over her drawings. She is wearing a beautiful blue brocade dress that day, one of his favorites. Her hair is loose, and she knows he finds it fetching.

His face betrays confusion and he wordlessly lays the papers upon his desk, looking over them in silence.

The suspense is almost too much to bear. She waits for his reaction. If he is angry with her she just knows she will die.

At last his curiosity is satisfied and he looks toward her with a lowered glance. She waits for him to meet her eyes, trembling.

But no, she sees, he's not angry. He pulls her to him, and swings her around. He's pleased, astonished! Delighted with what she's done.

He kisses her deeply. He is not exhibiting raw passion at this moment, instead it is something more thoughtful. What she has done has touched him deeply. He looks at her with something new. She sees what it is. Pride. Not in her appearance, her charm, or her girlishness, but it's pride in her. Her heart leaps in understanding.

He returns to her drawings, amused, and utterly absorbed. He asks her questions. He looks up with a twinkle in his eye. Yes, it may be rudimentary, but there is something else: he loves her more.

Time passes, and her beloved Drake has gone away, forced to by his duty to the king. A cloud of depression settles upon the manor. Then news reaches Cherise of her father's death, and the destruction of his lands. Some of the servants lose family and the homes they have come from. They hear that Villages are being razed, children murdered where they sleep. The servants stop wearing their hoods at this time, and Cherise grows close to them, especially the motherly Mary. They become tied to each other in a way that turns into deep feeling.

There is something new between them as well: fear. Tales reach Cherise through Mary of increasing tragedies, villages set to flame, of dark invaders who bear grudge against the Normans.

Then, invasion comes to the Manor. Black riders storm the home. With no one to protect them, Cherise and the servants are defenseless.

She is running, running, running...

She has no awareness of what she is running to or from. She comes to in a dark wood, wearing a dark covering over her head. She's dressed in dark clothes. She must have anticipated what was happening, anticipated flight. she has no memory of what occurred.

What happened to Mary, to the other servants? Her heart wrenches, not knowing.

She realizes that she's searching. She's looking for something, someone. She doesn't know what. She only knows that she's alone, that it's dark and she's running from something fearful.

Somehow, she doesn't feel that Drake is dead. She only knows she is no longer allowed where she lives.

She looks upward, back toward the road which led from the manor where it sat high upon a crest.

The manor is engulfed in flames.

She attains some understanding. They have taken the home over and destroyed all that was in it, including Mary and all those living there. How she got out with her life, slipping away in the seconds before, grapping a cloak and rushing out must have been spurred only by the purest instinct to survive. For him. She had to stay alive for him.

That's all she knows.

She's wandering aimlessly again. Then she's walking. Her thoughts are circling deliriously. All she knows is she can't go back to where she lives. She left it because something went terribly wrong there.

And he's gone. He's gone.

She stumbles down an embankment, toward a river. It's a snowy river, with a little stream emptying into it. There's a cave-like hole alongside, and she nestles into it. But she has to keep moving. It's not safe to stay.

She's still looking for something, but she doesn't know what. She needs to keep going.

She's not making an escape, she's already done that. She needs to keep going, keep herself moving because she has no other choice.

She has no place to go, and she's all alone.

She looks back in the direction of what used to be her home. She doesn't know what happened to her servants or anybody else who lived there. She knows she got out on her own accord, the invaders didn't let her out.

Then a macabre sort of feeling creeps over her.

She is childless at this point because it was deliberate. She had decided not to have a child because she didn't know what was going happen to him or them. In learning about the war, she realized it was not safe to have a child. Not yet. So, she took herbs. Now, at least, no children got destroyed. She thanks God for that, and for the fact that her husband was somewhere far away their home burned down.

More time passes.

She's in a small cottage now, and it's very modest. It belongs to a servant related to Mary. She's a distant relation, but it's a connection of some sort. She takes Cherise in because of who she is, the viscountess. When Cherise becomes better they work together side by side. She lives with the servant for some time, surviving, eking out a sustenance as best they can.

Then, the door flies open. Drake rushes in. He is older, thinner, and gaunt.

Cherise is relieved, overcome! She rushes to him, throwing her arms about him elatedly.

"You're not dead! You're not dead!"

But the look on his face is not welcoming. He shoves her aside angrily.

What's happening? What's happened?

He's furious with Cherise. He hits her, hard, and she falls. The servant intercedes, and he hits her as well. He is vicious, brutal.

Cherise doesn’t know why he's acting so harshly. She just can't understand it.

"Why are you doing this?" she cries.

His eyes blaze with fury. She's shocked, stunned. She's never seen him this way.

Then, absorbing the fever in his eyes, she knows why.

He didn't know where she was.

He's like a madman then, throwing things around the tiny room, breaking vessels, whatever furniture was there.

"Searching! House by house!" He was filled with recrimination. "Village by village! To get news, word! No word. You weren't anywhere!"

She cries out to him, distraught. "I was searching in the woods for something, I thought for a way out or a direction. I was looking for you! But you weren't there. I knew you weren't there!" She was crying now, beside herself. "I just pressed on. I didn't know what else to do."

"Everyone in the manor, our home, perished." His brow lowers, and she can see that he's more than just mean and angry. Madness has gone right through him. War has done him damage.

They have been apart for such along while, at least two years. She's 32 now, thirty when she last saw him.

But seeing him this way, now that they're finally reunited, is not the same. He's hard, cold, and mean. She feels continuously alienated by him, and afraid.

"I love you so, Drake." She says this several hours after his arrival.

His eyes fill with blackness. He is angry at this too.

Is there love in his heart still, she wonders, or is it just harder to find?

"I rue the day that I was ever brought to that hell!"

The servant huddles in a corner, for fear of his blows.

Cherise peers into his face. He's vengeful, but she can see that there's love there.

Then, he falls to his knees before her. She cradles his head as he moans. "I thought you were dead. I didn't know..."

He's like a little baby inside.

"Cherise, I did so many terrible things. Things I will never be forgiven for."

"You did what you had to," she comforts, "You did what you had to."

But hours later, in the still of the morning, the truth dawns on her. He was the aggressor. She senses it in him.

As she realizes that he was the antagonist, she knows that the burning down of their home and whatever other things the enemy has done were not committed in retaliation, but in reaction. To teach them a lesson.

It was not to invade.

"It wasn't vengeful, the burning of the house, the houses in the village, everything they burnt down!" she explains to him, imploring him to understand. She knew it was important for him to know this, if he was to change. "It was a lesson: if you are going to invade and conquer, then this is what is going to happen to your home and your loved ones!" She was distraught, knowing that what had happened was somehow his fault.

He doesn't want to think about it or talk about it. He pushes Cherise aside and leaves the house.

So he was an aggressor. She can see the justice of it all, in a sense. Yet, she loves him unconditionally. She goes to him, pulling him back inside.

The servant gives them her bed, and leaves the house.

When they come together, it's two souls joining. She's his sustenance. He knows it. He admits it, in the moments of intimacy between them. These moments are profoundly gratifying and reassuring. But it's temporary. He's soon rough and mean again, treating her harshly.

She realizes then that she's the stronger of the two, despite his warfare. She is coming into her own in terms of moral character and inner strength. She's turned the tide. Before she was a girl in red robes. Now she's a woman.

Meanwhile, he is 40, and while he gives a very strong impression of virility and strength, inside, he's weak and frightened.

He spends hours standing in the doorway or outside the cottage, staring off into the distance. And, despite their coming together and what war has done to him, she realizes something else. He is wanting to go back out there, to get more of the same.

"I hate it," Drake says. "It is like a black sickness curling inside me, eating my entrails!" Yet he looks out over the horizon with a look of intense yearning. It has replaced the way he used to look at her.

Even as he professes to hate it, he wants to go back! She realizes, he is going back.

"If you do that," Cherise warns, "Then expect your just desserts."

"I want you here and I need you to be here," he demands. He says he will return to her in three months.

"By then what will have happened to you, and to them?" She is desperate for him not to go. She knows what will happen if he does.

They are intimate again. But her heart is not in it. The prospect of him leaving infuriates and saddens her. It's tormenting.

It renders her impotent as a woman, and unable to freely return his love. His bloodlust is not rational, and it's a dragging force on both of them.

"If you go back, if you go there…" she wants to tell him that she may not be there when he comes back. She'd like to add that it's wrong to kill people, but she knows he can no longer understand this. War is part of his makeup now. He knows it's wrong on some level, but it's what men do.

The best she can do is threaten to not be there when he gets back.

She tells him that if he goes she is going away too.

And he goes.

But she doesn't go away. She stays, and is tormented.

She throws a fit in the cottage three months later, when he doesn't come back. He's killed a year or so afterward.

The servant and Cherise grow old at heart and of body, and become impoverished.

Cherise gives something a tremendous amount of thought throughout the years, giving it study and contemplation. She feels not that war is bad, that it is necessary, but what is needed is a very clear strategy where people are not unnecessarily killed.

No peace.

No peace...

Her life exists in ripples and rolls, until it recedes.

She feels anger and resentment, though not as badly as before. She resents that he couldn't get over his bestial nature and be the human being that he was and should have, could have been.

He should have risen above it. He was good enough to rise above it. But he let his base instincts give way to bloodthirst.

"I would tell you now, Drake, if you were here to listen, about the meaning of human life."

She speaks to him as if her were there with her, lying in the bed with their arms around each other, now, as her life force falls away.

I would explain to you the value of it, of our love. If war is going to be waged, it must be done in the most honorable, respectful way. And if someone loves you more than her life itself and you love her equally in return it is best not to throw it aside.

Cherise closes her eyes and the servant folds her hands, then makes the sign of the cross.

"I love you eternally," Cherise whispers. "But I may never, ever forgive you."

With that, she dies.

Chapter 6: 11:11

2010-01-25T23:06:00.006-05:00

Cherie's Journal. Jan. 16, 2009 12:00 am

Victor is in jail. He is waiting for an arraignment, at which time he may be released with a restraining order. Perhaps that would be the best
thing.

I meet with my therapist for the first time today, and she asks me to go back to a significant time early in my relationship with Victor.

In order to facilitate the process she puts my under a light hypnosis. Lilly Berman is not your typical therapist. She draws upon dreams and spirituality in her sessions, working not just with inner feelings and past experiences, but the meaning for experiencing them in the first place. She had been recommended by a friend some months prior, but I didn't find her number until the day after Victor's arrest, after I spent the entire day searching for it.

March 11, 2008

Cherie lies on the sand in Montauk. The sky is a vast icy gray and the light, what there is of it, melts into an unfathomably serene ocean. Victor’s face pops into her vision, worn snowboarding cap pulled down over his ears, wicked cherub grin belying his vulnerability. His dark eyes are warm and available, but at the same time inexplicably remote.

Slowly, his eyes converge on Cherie's. “Wanna fuck?” he asks.

The "F" word startles her. She doesn't use the term as a verb; till now, a bare three weeks into their courtship, she's only used it as an expletive. Nonetheless, she realizes the promise in Vincent's question and smiles back in startlingly arousing feeling. Lust. That’s what they called it, she knew.

Victor released the fish that day, relinquishing it to the ocean as he at last surrendered the hold of his father. His dad had been abusive, an illiterate but intelligent peasant with no outlet for his rage The anger stemmed, Victor surmised, from his father being subjected to, at an early age, genocidal atrocities which beset his home country. His father had passed this bloodrage down to his sons, a trait, Victor hoped, that he had defeated.

After releasing the fish we sat for a time afterwards, and meditated on our dreams for the future. That night, I came vaginally for the first time in my life.

At the same moment Victor reeled back and grimaced for all he was worth. It was as if his life force simultaneously soared and was sucked out of him.

“Is...this...usual?” I cried out breathlessly, inner and outward emotions in complete disarray. I had never orgasmed when a man was inside, with no direct stimulation. In fact I had never orgasmed much or with any strength at all before.

"For those who love like us, it is," Victor responded, enthralled.

"You mean people in...love...do it like this, together? All the time?" My euphoria was giving way to the feeling of having been cut out, excised from something spectacular, excluded from a bliss that loving couples enjoyed as a matter of course. I suddenly understood every inexplicable sex scene in movies where the woman cried out in the throes of sensational emotion, scenes I had watched like a bystander before and had tossed off as being impossibly fanciful.

"There is no on else like us," Victor explained.

As I looked at him a question formed on my lips.

He shook his head in response. “I never have before you,” he avowed. "Not like that, together. It's never been like this with anyone but you."

And he had slept with over five hundred women.

I guess this somewhat explains what happened to me afterward.

From Cherie's Journal

Cherie is head over heels and utterly in love.

She is naked in his arms on his mattress on the floor of his lower East Side apt.

She is in his arms on 11^th street as Victor goes apartment shopping with her.

They sip coffee, and share a bagel at Zabars where he accidentally plunges his cup into hers splattering coffee everywhere

They talk endlessly on the phone for hours, until four am one night, when they had already spoken for three hours earlier.

It’s as if they need to know everything about each other, which encompassed not just technical details, but their thoughts, loves, passions, hurts.

Not long afterward, she feels safe enough to ask him the question.

"True Love," Victor elaborates in response, "is when you feel ecstasy by being with that person.

It's like when you die and you’re with God. True Love is like when you go home.

"True Love, is this," Cherie writes his words in her notebook later, "it's when you meet someone and really love them and give them everything. You’re a loving being and you love them and when they love you back you experience ecstasy. That’s what it means. That’s true love."

Though she pretended to understand it, she didn't, not fully. She had given up on it so long ago, possibly during the course of her marriage, but probably earlier, as a young girl maybe, when she had first suspected that there were no glass-shoe wielding princes nor even dukes, only pretenders to the throne. Then of course there were the insecurities of having just come out of that nearly two-decade long stretch (for she had met her future husband when she was still a teen), of never being told that she was beautiful, of not being led to believe that the sun set or rose on her, or not being the subject of someone's infinite desire. Maybe it had been somewhat like that in the beginning with Alan, but somewhere along the way it dissipated, until it finally disappeared.

So why would she believe it now, when Victor told her he loved her like no other and that she was the one for whom he had been waiting all his life? How could she accept that he knew her fully, knew her soul, and loved her so completely that he would never again be with anyone else? How could she accept that he was giving up his lifestyle of sleeping with any woman that sauntered through his field of vision, because he had met her, and that she, in turn, was giving up her plan of vicarious unattachment in the face of leaving an old life and finding a new one, with him, her true love?

Anyone would have done what she had done, she reasoned. Maybe not in the same fashion, but they would have sabotaged the relationship, tested it for all it was worth in order to obtain some sort of equilibrium. Wouldn't they have?

She hadn't consciously known what she was doing, nor what she was doing to him--or more to the point--to them. It was a hugely intimate mistake, something she regretted afterward, and about which she could tell no living soul. Until now.

But there are no mistakes in the universe, only opportunities for change, growth, and perhaps, an opportunity for a new beginning. Right?

Lily nodded. She thought so.

Soon after this mistake, the countless digs, the snide comments, and the arguments, began.

This argument started like every other. Something she said or did ticked him off, reminding him of what she had done, and it burned at him, like a thorn in his paw, until it made him surly-- and like the agitated dragon she was coming to know him as-- it struck back with the full force of eons behind it, eons of being misunderstood, of being improperly loved, and of being endlessly underestimated. But this was different, because the hurt had come from her. It colored everything that transpired between them, and determined everything that happened later.

This fight was no different than any of their others, really. He hadn’t wanted to go out on Valentine's Day, Victor told Cherie during one of their "dialogue sessions," as she came to call them, interviews which centered on what she considered key points in their relationship from his point of view. She had wanted to tabulate it all, to keep a journal as she told him, but really, it was to make sense of it. This was something she had trouble doing while they were in the real-time throes of what seemed to her like perpetual discord.

He didn't have a valentine, he had explained. He didn't want to see it, you know, all the romance stuff. He was lonely, very lonely. Lonely by choice maybe, because he had a lot of girls who wanted to go out, who wanted to date him, who wanted to be with him, as he related, but he was still alone.

“How did this revelation make you feel? Threatened? Jealous?” asked Lily.

“Yes, but--" Cherie paused. "I felt like I needed to reach for the sky. Because that's what he had done in stating his intentions for us so bluntly.” Then she added, "even though sky threatened to come crashing down on me, I still wanted it."

"It's very, very challenging," Lily opined in agreement. "While it has the potential for, well, failure, it also," here she cocked her head as if receiving enlightenment from the universe, "yet, this relationship also has the potential for immense reward."

"Precisely," Cherie replied.

Apr. 19, 2008

“Yeah, there were a lot of girls who wanted to date me,” Victor related with that wry wisp of a smile Cherie was growing to both love and be wary of.

“Yeah, they were lining up on Broadway,” she shot back. The living room of the one bedroom East Village apartment they now shared was lit by a welcoming fire. Near them, the light on her tiny digital recorder glowed red, in this, one of their early recording sessions.

His glance was agonized, and she made an internal note to be less flippant in her responses.

“Some people think I suck at art, some people think I'm, you know, a lot of things that are, not so good." He meant this latter sentiment in the utmost way. He had an ex-wife who undermined and loathed him, and others who by virtue of their jealousy, antipathy, or sheer ignorance--because he was noble, and a very good person, albeit a tad lacking in the diplomacy department (she added this last part herself)--were wont to put him down.

"But I am definitely good at one thing," Victor went on. "Meeting women. I'm very good at. Always have been.” He stated it not with pride or malice, just as fact, the way he stated everything.

“So you tell me over and over again,” Cherie answered uneasily. She wasn’t quite as talented at meeting the opposite sex and it was her propensity to hide anything she thought insufficient about herself, from herself. More to the point, she disguised what she considered her insufficiencies with the blithe comment, the small elaboration, or the outright hyperbole, as was her right in being a good writer, she reasoned. It was a way of keeping her spirits up. Why allow in thoughts of lack? Just turn it around and make it good, or funny, she reasoned.

The discomfort over this particular sentiment of Victor's arose from some vague need to compete mixed with jealousy--not just of his past conquests, but also of his 'talent' in this arena. It threatened her in some indefinable way. As usual, the need to hide her feelings was overwhelming. She didn’t understand all of this yet, in fact she didn’t comprehend a lot of things pertaining to them, yet.

“Well, just so you remember that because—“ Victor responded.

Cherie looked up in expectation. He cut his threat short and took a good gulp of wine instead. “Anyway, that's not the point. The point being was I obviously met a lot of girls since my divorce, since L.A. But I never dated anybody, maybe two dates max. When I got here, the same thing. And, then I went through a stage where I started to become, well, I started to do the hermit thing again.” He didn't like the hermit thing, he explained, it was too much being with nobody but himself doing the reading he was doing, and having been just forced out of his home it was a bad place to be.

Cherie knew about this. Sliding into the hermit thing was as natural to her as breathing, and was a habit developed in a childhood where she felt mostly left out of things, and sometimes shunned. Though helpful in the research profession, which could be very solitary, the tendency to withdraw into the company of one's self often left her feeling numb and forgetting how to make direct contact with life.

Victor went on. “I was scared because I did that on the other coast. As time went by, I went inward. I was spending far too much time with myself, and with this," he indicated his glass. "I didn't want to do that here, 'cause I could see the danger signs of where I might end up, and I was already doing the drinking at home by myself kind of thing.”

“It’s very bad,” she replied, careful not to dwell on the amount of wine that was fast slipping by his lips. She had been raised in a family of teetotalers, and was intolerant of alcoholism, though by her own admission she had learned to become a "drinker," in college. For the fist time experiencing the attentions of a wider range if men than what she was used to, she had become someone who could not only drink large quantities of alcohol, but, as she liked to think, someone who could hold it better than her male compatriots. It was both a survival tactic and a point of pride, however delusional it may have been.

“The worst thing you can do is drink a lot,” Victor offered, reading her mind. He yawned fully then, with his whole body, like the awake but sleepy dragon that he was. “I think it was in the afternoon, February the 14th, and for some reason I just had this feeling I should put an ad on Craigslist. It was like someone was telling me, ‘Put an ad on Craigslist, put an ad on Craigslist.’ So I posted this ad.”

“Had you put an ad on Craigslist before?” she asked, knowing the answer.

“I put ads on Craigslist L.A., where I met lots of psycho chicks.” He took pause at her ensuing guffaw.

“You know what I found? That the women in New York are just as psycho as L.A, except it's a different town, that's all.”

“I was just imagining the kind of women you must have met off of that, that's all,” she offered in defense.

“New York is smaller in terms of, not people, but in terms of, you know, you can meet somebody and you'd have to drive 25 miles to...”

“To what?” she demanded, alert now.

“You know, it's just different. So, I felt like I had to do this, which was very strange. I wouldn't normally have done that.”

“Posted an ad looking for next year’s girlfriend, you mean?”

“It was looking for my Valentine 2009. I remember writing that. I can't remember if I put in that I was British. "

“Oh, I think you did,” she prompted, remembering too well. That comment was probably what had landed her here in the first place. She certainly hadn't been looking for a boyfriend or anything pertinent. She wasn't looking for meaning, or permanence. She was simply trying to fill a gaping hole in her soul.

“You said you were an artist from across the pond,” she reminded him.

“Anyway, Cherie, looking for next year’s girlfriend was how I felt at that time, and the feeling behind it was genuine. I wasn't feeling well physically, and I just put it out there, you know? I got two replies.“

“Only two?” She had to be watchful all the time and was growing weary of it.

“One was from this Asian woman, and there was no way I was going to reply to her. It just wasn't going to happen. I've never dated an Asian woman, just not my thing.”

“I'm surprised.”

He caught the defense in her tone. “Well, I'm too busy with all the other women after me, so I have no time for Asian women. They're a bit too quiet, in the corner, you know. Anyway, you replied, and you didn't have a picture, you just had a—“

“I sent a picture." She reminded him, "11:11."

The flash of recognition lit his eyes. “Oh, you did send a picture. Yeah, yeah. A very dodgy picture, actually."

“I don't dislike that picture, I like it.”

“I was joking. I like that picture. I mean, you look different to that now because you're constantly frowning, and you weren't frowning in that picture. You're frowning right now, that's why I said that.” Then, he added, “there was something about your eyes that got me. And obviously, the 11:11, which was like wow! With all the stuff I'd seen with 11:11, that struck me, but then you also seemed very compassionate. Of course, later on I found that you were completely uncompassionate.”

Her laugh was derisive.

“Bitch. No, but no, you had a very compassionate face, and you replied at 11:11, and you sort of described yourself, but you didn't go into much detail. ‘Curvy in the right places," I think you said.

“Otherwise they think you're fat. Curvy means fat, you know.”

“Not to me.”

“In online lingo, curvy means fat.”

“Well, everybody lies on Craigslist, but, yeah, there's a lot of fat women on Craigslist, I have to say.”

“And they would describe themselves as zaftig or Reubenesque, or curvy? I mean, if they could spell?”

"Well, most of the fat women, and a lot of them are fat, describe themselves as BBW, big beautiful women. Most of 'em are pretty honest, I find. Maybe people are realizing you might as well be frigging honest, because there's somebody for everybody.”

“Oh, really?” she didn’t believe that there was someone for everyone on Craigslist, and in no way did she suppose that people were honest. Even Victor had lied, she reminded him.

“Anyway, I liked your eyes. I was hoping they weren't blue, because I didn't want a blue-eyed girl. You said you were 5'8" and curvy in the right places. Yeah, your message was not very interesting at all.”

“You know what? I wasn't really sure I wanted to respond to your ad.”

“I'm sure you didn't, but then why would you say that in like the defensive way that you say things?”

“Because if I really had gone after the kill, there would've been a different response. Maybe one you would have found more interesting.” She knew he was right about being defensive, but considering the subject matter she thought she was doing rather well.

“After the kill?’ After the kill what? Are you fucking nuts? Why are you trying to kill, what, what's that fuckin' mean? ‘If I wanted to go after the kill.’ You are such a fucking egotist.”

“Me? The egotist?” So much for geniality.

“Yeah, you are, you're a fucking—”

“11:11pm on Valentine's Day is when I responded or 11:11 AM?” she demanded.

“PM, Valentine's Day, because you were fucking obviously out.”

“I don't think I responded on Valentine's Day at all.”

“Oh, 'cause you went out Valentine's Day? Had to be later?” His slitty dragon eyes were blazing as well as the dissociate personality. “You went out on a date. You went out on a date on Valentine's Day! Why didn't you tell me you went out on Valentine's Day?”

“Well I must've been home by 11:11pm,” she responded as calmly as she could.

“Cause you went out on a date. Why are you keeping that a secret?”

“You never asked me.”

“So who did you go on a date with?”

“Somebody I didn't like very much.” Her attempt at mollification incited him. In fact, anything she said would have provoked him then. He had their infant relationship in his craw, and was going to shake it to it’s death until it flopped on the floor and screamed for mercy.

“So, did you sleep with him?” he demanded. “'Cause that's what you normally did on the first date, right?”

She would have stopped him, if she could have. Instead she continued the alleged dialogue with an inane laugh.

“Shut the fuck up.” Victor’s anger crackled through.

“I did nothing to warrant that.”

He paced, his tall spiny vertebrae exposed, with each step his dragon’s tail snapping with sharp bite. “Yeah, you did, because you never told me that you went on a date on Valentine’s Day.”

“You never asked. I never thought it would be pertinent.”

“It is fucking, it's very pertinent.”

“Do you know why I went out on a date that night?”

“Because you're fucking lonely."

“Because of the anniversary of marrying Alan. I did not want to be alone.”

He paused, his glowering tail falling back into place.

“I would've accepted a date with an orangutan to not be home alone that night.”

He sat on the couch beside her. “So you went out with an orangutan?”

She should have seen his tail snaking back around; instead she focused on the relentless irises of his unblinking eyes. “Yeah.”

“That's your fucking problem. You're an idiot. You're a lonely, middle-aged old woman, and you fucking--

“That's so nice, thank you, and kind too, and talk about compassion, boy, you are—”

“I said you were compassionate, I never said I was compassionate.”

“No, you're not, you're not even remotely compassionate. Now you're gonna just lash out, and try to make me pay for whatever you're, you know, whatever it is that you decide that you want me to pay for.” She was under this weird impression that people in love treated each other with kindness. “I certainly wasn't about to go to bed with him, just in case you wanna know,” she added, chafing.

“You did plenty of that in your life.”

“It doesn't come close to what you've done, since you brought it up.”

“The point, the point I'm trying to say to you is that since you came to this town, you've been out there big time. Desperate to find a fucking date, desperate to find somebody. Well, you went out on loads of dates.”

“And where's the desperation?”

“Well, because you were lonely.”

“Maybe I was seeking something. And for that matter I 'd much rather be alone than be out—”

“It didn't sound like you wanted to be alone to me.”

“I mean I'd rather not be alone, but I'd rather be alone than go out with the wrong people. And sometimes you end up--”

“Hold on, you just fucking contradicted yourself. You said you would've gone out with an orangutan on February the 14th.”

“February the 14th was my anniversary! The day Allen and I got married.”

“Only that day, yeah. Why are we discussing what you think, anyway? This is about what I think.”

“Let me just finish this. You can turn off the recorder if you want.” He made no move and she continued. “I wanted to make sure that I was out that night. I would've taken a date with an orangutan, yes, and I had close to it. That's all.”

He took pause. “Did he look like an orangutan?”

“Maybe a little. He wasn't very attractive.”

“Was he a black guy?”

She pushed down her anger. “No.”

“So he was a white guy that looked like an orangutan.”

“What is it with you, why? I never led you to believe anything. I was never duplicitous, it's never come up.”

“Anyway,” he stopped her from finishing, “so you get home from a date."

“Must've been a really good date, huh?”

“What, so if he was a good date, you would've been home at like five in the morning?”

So much for trying to litigate the situation.

“You paint me as whorish.”

“I think you are desperate.”

“I won't be abused anymore.” she really didn’t want to be abused.

“So, censor me, then. Okay?”

“You may absolutely say anything in your heart. You have my complete word that I will not censor you.”

“You're bringing in shit that doesn’t belong in our relationship, challenging what I 'm saying, whereas you should be interviewing me.”

“You're bringing up too much stuff.”

“Okay, so I'll just keep my mouth shut, which is—“

“I don't want you to keep your mouth shut. I want you to talk.”

“You want to censor me.”

"You're attacking me, calling me desperate." What were they, she wondered, four-year-olds?

“You can't have it both ways. Either I can say whatever I think and what I wanna say or I shut up.”

“Then continue.”

“So, you get home, you see my ad, you send the thing, right? You reply to my ad.”

“Yeah, must've been what happened.” she wasn’t going to correct him now.

“So I replied back to you.”

“Yeah,” she replied, wondering how she could ever have thought that was a good thing.

“I sent you my picture, and the next day I think you replied back.”

“Yeah. That was some accurate picture.”

“So, that was it, then we spoke. You can fill in too.”

“I thought I wasn't allowed to respond.”

“You're the worst interviewer in the history of the planet.”

“Only with you."

“You know why? You know why you're bad with me? It's because I 'm challenging you and you don't like it. When you interview other people—“

“You're not challenging me, you're calling me names. You called me desperate and— "

“That's not a name. If you were desperate, it doesn't mean that's calling you a name. Yeah, I do get the impression you're desperate. I think you had a very desperate life.”

“I think you're very inaccurate.”

“Well, then you're great, everything's okay.”

“No, it's not okay, it's really not okay. But anyway, keep going. So what was the conversation—“

“No, I 'm gonna stop here, because you know why? Because this was an interview that was supposed to be nothing to do with our relationship.”

“We said earlier that this would help get to a lot of stuff, and it's absolutely about our relationship and getting to the heart of things between us. Absolutely. And so I 'm gonna pretend that I haven't heard these things, is that it? It's nothing you haven't said before, it's just reiterating them, which makes it okay? I mean obviously that's what you think.”

“Well, there's a lot of other things, but we can’t go into that.”

“How much do you think I can take?” she asked later, as he pulled her to his lap and melted her defenses with a sensuous hug.

“You don’t have to take anything. You don’t have to be here if you don't want to be here. But I'm certainly not gonna sit here with you and, and have you tell me to shut the fuck up, which is basically what you do constantly.”

“I haven't said it once.”

“You imply it all the time.”

“What else do I do that you think that's so, so awful?"

“It's not so awful."

“Well, so awful that I can't hear it or handle it. I have not intimated for one second that you should shut up."

“That's because you're getting what you need."

“Meaning?"

“Meaning if that thing wasn't recording, you would have gone, ‘I 'm not listening to this,’ or shouted me down. But because you're recording—"

“Then turn it off."

“No, because you should record yourself how you really are, 'cause I'm saying what I wanna say, but you're not recording yourself how you really are, and that's the truth. What you say to me, you ain't recording now or ever."

“Look, I’ll turn it back on now. The little light flashed back on.

He laughed, his mood dissipating.

“Okay. Actually, you sent me the floor plan of an apartment you were interested in and I was—“ he caught the look in her eyes. “Wow, you are really angry now. You are upset. Do you really want me to finish?”

“Oh please do.”

“So where were we?”

“Desperate, whorish and getting off on strange men, I believe.”

He laughed again, his disquiet having now transferred to her.

“Well, not quite like that exactly. Anyway, after your date with the orangutan, you emailed me back, then I emailed you, and then you emailed me, and then I emailed you, and then we exchanged numbers, and then I think you called me, something like that. And then we spoke on the phone. Oh, and I looked up your, uh, email, that's what I did. through your email I did a search for you, your name, so your website came up. Uh, I wasn't sure because I think your email was different to your real name, and it came up, uh, Cherie Martinson.

“Whatever."

“So I found out stuff about you, what you'd done, what you'd worked on, and the Romanian connection. It was pretty unbelievable, that you had written a book about my parent's people. Then of course there was 11:11...”

11:11

He would see it everywhere, once he became conscious of it, Victor explained. "On clocks, license plates, billboards...once you start wondering about it you realize that it's not by coincidence that you see it so consistently. Then, when you look into it you realize its about spiritual awakening.

2012 at 11:11 am is basically the end of the Mayan calendar and we are now less then four years away from it.

Every time is see something like that I say, 'Well obviously, I need to look into it. It triggers me. But then, I've been seeing it at least 5 or 6 years, maybe longer. So when I saw your email I said that this is someone that I need to give an opportunity to. Before a picture or anything I thought I had to pursue it, investigate your body. It was a sign to me, a clarification that sometimes things happen, and basically I'm one of these people that it happens to.

Also, it confirms to me that I have something important to do. I cant give up and do something different, I have to do this—I have to pursue my message through art.

Anyway, 11:11 is about people waking up and realizing what this planet really is"

"Where are you from, anyway?" Cherie marveled. The only ones she knew who spoke like this were herself, and the occasional spiritual whack-job.

"The Plough," Victor answers, pointing up.

So, before they had even met the synchronicities had begun. In due course they became as endless as the fights.

Chapter 5: The Englishman

2010-01-25T22:49:00.004-05:00

Cherie's Journal. Feb. 28, 2008

We spend countless days on his floorborn mattress, days which turn into weeks. I am shaken from the changes that were occurring in my existence, and had barely begun to process it by the time Victor
came into my life.

When he says, "I want you to be with me," I take it as my invitation to do something I have never before done, to lie lazily under the covers with someone while listening to the sporadic rumbling of outside trains, occasionally rising to peer at the crisscrossing skyline of buildings and bridges through the cheap burgundy curtains flanking the windows of his flat. Once in awhile my ringing cellphone brings us out of our reverie. I work on my upcoming exhibition in snatches, and write in my journal. But the pace slackens then dissipates, until I can barely garner the desire to answer the phone unless I see it is one of my children calling.

At these times I slip away and speak to them privately, not yet willing to reveal to them that I had joined with a relentlessly loving and impoverished artist in his walk up apartment on the Lower East Side. It was not for fear of their disapproval, I tell myself, but rather the brashness of it having come so close on the heels of my break-up with their dad.

We make love endlessly, as if there is no other reason to be in the world but to do this.

The reasons for my indulgence with Victor are not selfish: I simply find myself loathe to do anything other than be with him.

Mar. 3, 2008

I am getting use to the balm of his arms and body, and to the feeling of desire which forces me to become entwined with him, not just physically, but emotionally as well.

He is exactly what I need, and I am happy to be all that he needs for him. Neither of us is here by default.

"I was ready to leave, Cherie," he said today.

What did he mean by this? He pulls me close, his eyes betraying his need to be understood but not judged.

"I wanted to leave this place. I wanted to go."

"But you're young," I bring up his relative youth naïvely. He is five years younger than I am, and I can't understand this need to leave.

"But," he continues, "You saved me. I want to stay here with you, to be with you. And because of you, I can finish what I have to do."

It is a huge responsibility to be someone's earthly anchor, but one I accept. I never wanted to leave my life like he did. Even in my darkest hours I was still filled with hope. Hope is what gave my the strength to leave my marriage, hope for something else, something more fulfilling, and more enthralling.

It is enthralling being with Victor. I relish the physicality of him, of finding him touching me when I least expect it. I'm not a Brad Pitt kind of girl, in fact Victor made me give him the name of a movie star I find attractive today and I was forced, by sheer virtue of not being able to come up with a single name, to reply, "Daniel Day Lewis."

"He's a pigmy," Victor chortled. "Just plug ugly." Then he laughs. "Oh, I get it, 'Last of the Mohicans."

I bridled with embarrassment as Victor adopted an Irishman's fake American Indian accent, "Staiy aliyve! I will come back to yu. Staiy Aliyve!"

For his part, Victor's taste in movie stars runs from Sophia Loren to other smoldering Italian wench-types from the Golden Age. I have that type of body and sultriness, he says. No fake boobs and facelifts for him; he finds these things unpleasant and artificial. It is a refreshing sentiment.

He tells me I fulfilled his list of requirements.

"What were they?" I demand.

"Breast size, D, height, 5'9", foot size--" he checks off the things that he asked the universe for in providing his true love.

"That means you were looking for the physical," I retort, wondering if having a relationship based on raw appeal was really that bad. In that I had only two relationships of any length in my life, neither of which was lustful, I had nothing to go on.

"What we have is not lust," he explained. "Lust is the byproduct. What I have been looking for is 'you."

But he had forgotten to ask for one thing, and he shared that while we lazed under the burgundy blanket he bought down the street to match the curtains.

I was old.

He had wanted children with the love of his life, he explained later, and my age--well, I was old, he repeated. He hadn't reconciled the age thing at all.

I think again to myself, there are a mere five years separating us. "Maybe you're too old for me," I retort.

No, he repeated, I was old for him, and, since he was on the subject, I was lacking any kind of edge, an edge which, if it had been there to begin with, was not very much at all.

What kind of edge could I have after being whittled down to normalcy by years of suburban living with a neo-conservative golf-club wielding husband whose idea of looking sharp was throwing on jeans from Sam's Club? These comments hurt me deeply coming from Victor, and I reacted to them inwardly. I was obsessed with age, and had worried about it before leaving my marriage, my encroaching years spurring me to move quickly, to date and take chances on love before I became decrepit. Like a homing pigeon, Victor had lit onto the things I felt most distressing about myself: fears I had pushed down and tried to suppress.

Now here I was, chugging steadily towards the "f" word--the unprintable one that came after thirty-nine--as assuredly as the stream of trains that grumbled by the window, and my lover was complaining about it. As for the edge comment, it was a hard thing for me to accept, and I denied it for all I was worth. Now my worry turned to fear that I pushed down lest it explode.

Despite these things, he reveled in my body, as well as my mind and creative spirit. My body held infinite attraction for him, and he told my that I in no way had a thing to fear from other women of any age, though the number of those he had been with before us meeting rattled my senses. But I didn't do any kind of examining of this.

Instead I suppressed any doubt inspired by his earlier comments, and chose to revel in him and in the things he said about our future, like how we would conquer the world on the strength of our love.

You're my "Mary Poppins," I tell him. When Jane and Michael wrote down the things they desired in their perfect nanny, their father tore up the list and threw it into the fire. It rose into the ethers and attracted not the nanny they desired--but the one they needed.

I explain this to him as my way of broaching how I felt about him. How can you say anything more when you've only known each other a few days? And yet, by our second meeting I had to keep the "L" word from falling from my lips. For his part, he had brought it up already, inquiring: "is this true love?"

I was terrifically afraid of being hurt. But I would not risk acknowledging it, at least in any normal manner.

Still, as attracted as I was to him physically, it were his ideas that held me in thrall. He was like no one else: he spoke of things outside the realm of normal edification, displaying expanding knowledge on far-ranging topics unrelated to normal earthly experience. I thought myself jaded until I met him: now, I realized, I was an idealist who was disappointed in a world that was at most relatively enlightened, and at worst, selfish and indifferent.

With Victor, I was pushed to the edge of my understanding, physically, mentally and emotionally. As far as my doubts, I preferred not to think of them, leaving them like salamanders under their rocks, until they were ready to be heard from again.

Instead of dealing with these uncertainties, , I pack up my rickety Benz, the former banner of having emerged in middle life somewhat intact after carving out a sort of career while rearing a child. In the backseat were tightly packed plastic drawer units along with coats, dresses, toiletries books and a folding table and computer. My entire life, or what was left of it, was packed in the back seat of my creaky car.

As I pull up to his apartment, he looks at the back seat with a wry grin and asks, "Wow. Are you moving in?"

Maybe if I had faced the things that lay like slimy salamanders under the surface, what happened afterwards might not have transpired.

Chapter 4: 911

2010-01-25T22:36:00.005-05:00

Cherie's Journal. Jan. 15, 2009 12:00 am

He has been arrested for beating me. I wait in the patrol car as they lead him away in handcuffs from the front door of our love nest. His dark eyes are defeated underneath his bowed head and he looks miserable. My palpitating heart wrestles with my spirits as our once unquenchable dreams dissolve. The experience causes me to feel distant from Victor, and not an "open book" united in eternal love. Instead,
we are separate, apart, and wretched.

As he has said, maybe I have always been apart.

As he exits the apartment building with the officers he glances at the patrol car where I watch from the back seat. He doesn't see me. I see him though, too clearly. He is a once idealist beaten down by personal torment and non-attainment of life's goals, a step ahead yet out of place, always wanting what he believes in his heart he is not good enough to have. He doesn't see me because he can't see anything at all at moment except for his blurred future, and the ricocheting past that brought him here to this moment.

An hour previously Victor picked up the knife and flashed it in my direction, ordering, "kill me now and put us both out of our misery!" I backed away and as he came after me I slipped to the floor, my slackening body deadening with its weight, remembering my self-defense training and knowing that going limp would make it hardest for him to grab hold of me. Bitter instinct was kicking in, and despite the surreal nature of what was transpiring, my reactions where as sharp as the knife which now glittered from the parquet floor of the once-lovely low-rise apartment we lived in.

His eyes blazed with a fury I had only previously glimpsed. As he began kicking me with the stiff boots I had bought him for Christmas, I rolled over to shield myself, then he started in on my spine, his screams mangling with my own. The relationship was caught in the death throws. I thought he might kill me as I scrambled away, accidentally hitting my head on the slate of the fireplace, or on its surrounding brick wall, which was located bare inches away. I had in some sense, already killed him, he would later say.

At last, I crawled away and he didn't stop me. It was as if he knew he might exterminate as both if at that moment he didn't let me go. With a glance at his eyes I grabbed my phone and careened out the door, slamming it behind me and stumbling down four flights of stairs. Down the steps out onto the street-- where was I to go? I was ousted from my home and unable to go to anyone who knows me.

I make a frantic call, the numbers jumbling under my fingers, my disoriented thoughts out of control. "311," I remember, for city services.

Somehow, after several blurted explanations, I get a city hospital operator on the line. "I am looking for help, I say, "I'm afraid…"

…afraid he might one day really hurt me. How did I end up here? How did we?

The voice on the other end says that their only recourse is to advise me to call 911. They'll help me there.

My thoughts are zigzagging from the violence and confusion. I was not a child. This shouldn't be happening. I was a self-respecting, successful, middle-class research-scientist. I had a well-adjusted, grown child, and was from a socio-economic background completely unfamiliar with this type of event. My only association with domestic violence heretofore had been a fundraising effort on the part of a battered woman's shelter back home. I had toured the facility then, warmly greeted by the CEO, who expressed gratitude for someone of my "unconnectedness" to be making this sort of effort on the shelter's behalf. I would bring in supporters who didn't have their type of facility on their mental radar, she explained.

Had this been circular continuity of the universe?, I have to wonder now.

I met the women then, cowed creatures attempting to get their moxie back in a cheerful place meant to shelter themselves and their children. At least temporarily, there they could be coaxed into some sort of return to life, without fear of their ex-es, pimps, or fathers finishing the hatchet jobs they had begun. Through my sympathy I still felt very far removed from them, and worlds away.

Now, those women were part of my existence. It was cold this January night with no coat, as aimless, miserable, and without a home I stumbled through the near empty streets. I had nowhere to go. No recourse. I had put everything into him, and into us. If I returned he might kill me, or worse. I wanted help, direction, counsel--isn't that was what women in this situation were due?

It was nearing 11pm, exactly one hour till my 39th birthday. But this didn't occur to me then: I was thinking about the hours before.

Jan. 14, 2009 3pm

Sandy and her journalist friend, Jess, had shown up unexpectedly, dropping off some equipment left over from the exhibition we had just finished, then staying in the excitement of my recent move and in the unexpected delight of me having a balcony. As I pulled out the folding chairs, I asked Victor if he wanted to make drinks. He was reluctant, and I was angered by this, because I had had little contact with friends at this point and was so desperate for outside connection that I would put everything on hold in order to experience it. Victor and I had been holed up for months, with little but our tangled passion to keep us occupied, except for the work I was doing on the exhibition and the half-hearted effort he was putting into his artwork.

He pulled me into the bedroom, explaining. Weren't we going to see a movie for my birthday that night? Tomorrow he had things planned. I didn't care, I just wanted to enjoy the company of friends. I didn't choose to see what would happen when we liberally mixed liquor with equal amounts of hurt.

So like a good boy he trotted off to get my tequila, my bankcard in tow, and mixed up masterful margaritas that made our heads spin. "His specialty," he said, I recall.

Sandi, Jess and I reveled in his attention, and when we were too cold to stay outdoors any longer we came inside and tried on high heels for fun. Soon afterwards Sandi and Jess departed, and not used to drinking in the afternoon, and not used to such powerful margaritas in general, I collapsed on the bed. Victor kept drinking.

It was the ringing of my cell phone that woke us up. Victor was beside me and grabbed the phone first. I saw the digital glow in the darkness. How many hours had I lain there, insensible? "Who is this?" he growled and I snatched the phone from him. I didn't recognize the number.

"It's one of your boyfriends!"

"No, I--I don't know. It's not a number I--"

The first blow struck with the full force of his weight. In due course we were grappling in the living room, grabbing at each other. Then he was kicking me, and I was scrambling down the street, wondering what had become of my life.

I hung up the cell without dialing 911. Then, rounding the corner, the local police station arose before me. I had never been inside a city precinct, in fact had never had contact with the police at all, except for the occasional traffic ticket or nod on the street to assure them they were doing a good job. My taxes paid their salary, didn't they? They were there to help me.

My insides were aflutter as I made my way to the acrylic-shielded counter. At home my books were still in boxes. My field notes and computer were barely unpacked. The life I had once known was gone in a blink of an eye, when, bare months before, I had walked out on the stability of my 15-year marriage to Alan, my corporate, once loving husband. He was an affable finance type, and I was his researcher-wife whom he enjoyed showing off to compatriots. My life, what there was of it, would make good cocktail fodder now, that much was for certain.

The desk sergeant was at once filled with empathetic understanding. No doubt, I didn't fit the prototype. He took a cursory explanation from me, then, before I knew it a kind female officer was ushering me into a small soulless room to have me show her my injuries. Pictures were taken, and she chatted amiably with both her partner and me throughout the process. She had been in this situation herself, Maria explained, lowering my pants so she could get a better view of my injuries. It was, unfortunately, not at all uncommon, she said.

She asked about bruises on my arms, the cut on my face. The last was unrelated I explained, touching it.

The officers didn't seem to hear me. They appeared to be my friends, friends whose faces I can't remember now. Maria told me lots of things. She told me that this would get worse until one day I would end up dead, or, as I feared, seriously injured. The only way to stop it was to sign the complaint.

Back at the front desk, the sergeant placed a typed statement in front of me. My words, he said, had been neatly summed up. I didn't need to read over them if I didn't want. They would take Victor a way for a few hours, for his own benefit. They would explain the severity of what he was doing, and where it was likely to lead if he didn't get help.

I was still in a dream, as if this was happening to someone else. To me, those officers, that precinct, those typed words on the page, were floating somewhere outside my periphery. I read the statement, but had no comprehension of the words printed there, nor of their consequence. I signed the document. They failed to give me a copy.

Back on my street in the patrol car, in the waning hours of my 39^th year on this planet, I watched them take Victor away. That was the moment that I realized my actions would have far graver ramifications than I had conceived.

Jan. 15, 2009

The call from Victor leaves me rattled. He was allowed to make one phone call before leaving for parts unknown. He has been in a holding cell for 18 hours without food, drink or legal counsel. His cellmates are users, murderers, and two Chinese guys arrested for peeing on the sidewalk.

He sounds like death.

I spend the day shaking like an accident victim, having long since forgotten that it is my birthday.

Later

Unable to do anything but duck birthday calls from my well-meaning family, I turn through the pages of my journal, and begin reading.

Chapter 3: Past Life Regression, Etruscan

2010-01-20T15:04:00.005-05:00

Etruria, 529 B.C.

I think I have always loved him. His lofty figure is finely muscled, and his dark hair undulates in alarmingly captivating waves. I see other women looking at him with faint indulgence, but he doesn't return their glances and instead looks solely at me.

He stands a full head taller than myself, and as I rest against his chest I nearly burst with the love between us. I do not feel dominated by him but rather am strengthened by his protective feeling toward me. I know that I am his, and that he, despite his pressing duties as a chief magistrate in our seaside city of Vetluna, is solely, and utterly mine.

Yet it is not his figure, nor the rich hair that I love to run my fingers through that draw me to him. Rather, it is the look in Artrurus' eyes. Though we have been husband and wife for many years, I am always taken by the intensity of his gaze. It is as fathomless as the Tyrrhenian Sea which abuts our dominion, and through his eyes I travel to worlds beyond our own, into universes that are completely unknown to anyone but us. In these transported places and times, he is mine and I am his, and in these existences we are never apart.

We are quite advanced here, in our fair Vetluna, which is one of Etruria's twelve ruling cities. Vetluna is legislated by a series of magistrates, and Artrurus, as a high member of the gentes, is one of these. His father and mother were ruling nobles before him, as were their fathers and mothers through at least six generations, and because of this bloodline Artrurus has become a ruler of our city. I, also of noble birth, am Artrurus' equal. I am known as Acacia, wife of Artrurus, and beautiful queen.

In the privacy of our courtyard home, however, sheltered within the stone walls that protect us from invaders, Artrurus is not king and I not queen. For months now, we have been hard at work setting down the cultural legacy which we will bequeath to future society. For despite the prevailing levity of our populace, we, among a few others, know that our world is spiraling toward its end. Engaged as Artrurus and I are, fervently joined in our love and work, we are equally connected in sadness. For all-powerful forces mount around us, especially in fearsome Roma, which is amassing mighty forces to aim against us. To them, our Etruria, with its thriving populi and advanced culture, is a threat, while it is, ironically, to us whom Roma owes its very existence.

The oracles have foretold this demise of our kingdom, yet we can tell no one, lest we instill the wrath of our gods. We can only hope that the day that we are conquered by others does not occur in this lifetime.

So, we have embarked on this process of setting down as much as we can for posterity. It is a laborious duty, but because of the shared passion, we bloom, and labor turns to joy in each other's presence. We inspire each other to delve hard into the origins of our people. In the fervent distilling of information we are much alike, and we spend hours side by side, feasting on love and work, until he is pulled away for official duties, during which time I continue alone.

All too often now, Artrurus is called to meet with the heads of the Twelve Cities. One evening upon his return, Artrurus tells me that he will soon be called to battle. He is going to lead an army of soldiers that is being recruited from our city and surrounding villages.

Hours were now spent in strategy for the coming fight. I bent to my work alone, not knowing what hour of the day or night he might return. When he did, Artrurus would tell me as much as he could without burdening me unduly. Trained in battle from a young age, Artrurus was able. He was going to lead Vetluna's company of slaves, freemen, and hoplites, and join with that of King Parsena's in the southeast, who, because he hailed from the larger city of Vdlch, would be Artrurus' senior in command. They would lead the charge to the south along the coast, while the other ten cities would cover north, east and western points of entry. For vengeful Roma, when they came, would attack from all sides.

Whenever Artrurus returns to me I hold him tightly, believing that if I were to let go he might be gone from me forever. As he perceives my dread he smiles and in his easy way tells me that I have no cause for fear. We will always be together. I try to believe this, but I know our tie to one another in this existence is tenuous. As much as I attempt to bury my feelings, I feel in my heart that the end of Vetluna, and of us, would come in our lifetime.

Today I am working hard as I can on my writing tablet and I sense him looking at me instead of resting, as he is supposed to. As usual he knows what I am is thinking without having to ask.

"Cacia," Artrurus murmurs as he holds my gaze, "There is no reason to be fearful, no matter what the oracles foretell."

I hoped that Artrurus was correct. But I did not really, in the day to day moments of our existence, believe the sentiment to be true. Instead I felt that the worlds I had once perceived in his eyes, the existences in which we were always together, were going to disappear along with our hopes. I smiled and nodded with a reassurance I did not feel.

Suddenly I can feel his tension surmount my own.

"What is it, Love?" I ask.

"Would it possible that Divine Will was not immutable," he mused with a downcast look.

"Not immutable? It is disrespectful to the gods to question what is foretold." I ventured, "What do you mean by this?"

"Sadly, I am questioning everything of late. "Don't bother with my ranting." Suddenly, his eyes radiated joviality, and he suggested, "let's go to the theater tonight. Then afterwards we will make love all night."

The crowd of spectators entering the arena seating areas surged forward to watch the gentes alight from their chariots.

Acacia and Artrurus were the perfect nobles. He, tall, stately and handsome, was also magnanimous enough to encourage slaves and villagers alike to seek his counsel when the need arose. As Artrurus stepped down, he liberally sprinkled coins into the phalanx of waiting hands.

As for the lady, Acacia, she was a beauty. Her fine features were unspoiled, and her hair, clasped at her nape, cascaded downward in long, ebony waves. In concert with this were her white gown and gold scepter, creating a sight to behold. For his part, Artrurus treated his lady as if she were made of alabaster, and indeed it seemed as if they were to be immortalized in such works.

The performance they were attending consisted of a musical pantomime involving lute-playing musicians and masked actors. High above the spectator stands, in the boxes reserved for nobles, Acacia and Artrurus let themselves relax. Their enjoyment in each other was evident to the their companions in the box, Thresu Matuna, a leading magistrate, and Artrurus' chief rival. Accompanying Matuna was his wife, Pinaria, who jealously noted how Acacia and Artrurus' hands rested upon one another, suggesting a bond far deeper than she cared to understand.

As soon as he could, Matuna attempted to engage Acacia in flirtation, while Pinaria attempted to divert Artrurus.

"Why don't we attend the flogging dens tonight?" Pinaria offered to Artrurus, while Acacia's attention was engaged in warding off Matuna's advances. Pinaria enjoyed the suggestion's effect on Artrurus.

"What harm is there in this? Everyone does it." Pinaria urged.

Artrurus gently removed Pinaria's hand from his arm. "I think you will find there are many other men who would like to spend their evening with you, Pinaria."

Pinaria liked the promiscuous activities engaged in by the other side of nobility and resented that they were avoided by Artrurus. Unlike other gentes, he and Acacia acted like they were above the rest of them. Pinaria said hotly, afterward, that her suggestion had only been in jest.

After the performance, Artrurus and Acacia were accompanied home by Matuna, and a handful of other quests, including Cutru, and Felce, two members of the gentes. Whatever was to become of their night was pushed to the background as all talk centered on that of war.

Pinaria and the other wives accompanied them, unhappy for the lack of more licentious enjoyment.

Artrurus welcomed the company into their courtyard, where a feast was duly lain out by servants. Wishing to spare Acacia, Artrurus attempted to direct discussion from war towards the idea he had brought up before, that of the nature of destiny.

"Could a human being determine his own fate by his actions?" Cutru laughed uproariously at Artrurus' question.

Felce used two greasy fibers to stuff figs into his mouth. "You mean not suffer the capriciousness of the gods? Is that your question, Artrurus?

Artrurus elaborated. "The question is, do our actions determine fate, or does fate determine our actions?"

"The behavior of the gods is not whimsical," Matuna pronounced with an affronted glare.

"No, they are wise," Felce added, "and have determined our fates long before we ever got here. How else would the oracles be able to see into the future?"

"Maybe destiny can be changed if we know it beforehand," Artrurus objected.

"That is a ridiculous assumption. We know fate beforehand, because it is ordained to happen." Matuna appeared to be flummoxed by Artrurus' suggestion.

"But what if--"

Everyone turned to look at the speaker, and feeling the eyes upon her, Acacia blushed.

"Go ahead, wife," Artrurus urged.

Acacia continued despite the unfriendly attention aimed in her direction. "What if," she offered slowly, "the oracles have been given a glimpse of what might happen, and because of us knowing it, we might therefore be able to change it?"

"But how?" someone offered in reply.

"By our good intent, and actions," Acacia answered bluntly.

The courtyard filled with laughter.

"Why, Cacia--" Artrurus began.

Matuna arose with a stomp. "Your notions demean the entire hierarchal system." He added darkly, "It would be destructive to anyone's career, especially yours, Artrurus, if such ideas got out." He motioned to Pinaria with an effected turn, and hastened out of the courtyard.

No one seemed to regret their absence.

Cutru wiped his fingers on his robe. "Fufluns makes sure we are provided with enough food and wine. Laran protects us in battle." He added, "Why risk their anger with a mockery of their powers?"

"You, most of all, are blessed by Turan, goddess of love, Acacia," Felce pointed out. He added, "I wouldn't be surprised, Artrurus, if you had a personal god who protects you, as well."

"It is an engaging idea," laughed one of the courtyard scholars. "But at the end of the day, man is still man, and the gods are still gods."

Before the group departed for the night, Cutru offered Artrurus a final word. "See that you don't disturb your gods' favor, or you may pay heavily for it."

Afterwards, Artrurus turned to Acacia excitedly. "Cacia," he said, "If what you said is correct we might determine the future of our kingdom, and not be prey to what the oracles foretell."

"It should not be just our action we guard over, Artrurus," Acacia urged while moving into his arms, "but our very thoughts as well."

Several weeks later, Acacia stood on the cold stone steps leading from their house, shielded by the limestone abutment alongside.

Dressed in armor while his horse awaits, Artrurus tells Acacia that he is going to do all he can to see that Roma is stopped, and no more. His thoughts will burn with good will, with his only intention the defense of their way of life.

"Artrurus, I know that if pleasing whatever powerful force affects us can be accomplished, it will certainly be done by you."

Then, he kisses her as if it is their first time together. She watches as, tall, stately and confident, he mounts his shielded horse, raising his arm to tilt his helmet in a singular intimation of farewell. She rushes forward and grabs his legs. He leans down and brushes the hair from her eyes, assuring, "we will be together again soon, Cacia, I know it."

She watches him depart, wild pain stabbing her insides. Then, a dread coldness steals over her. It is a coldness that stays with her for a long, long time.

What seems to be an era passes. It is unforgiving, these days spent in routine pursuits marked by the rise and fall of the sun. Her visits to the oracle grow increasingly infrequent, then stop all together. She preferred instead, to dwell in her solitude. The wives of the other nobles have long since shunned her.

In the gardens Acacia sees her reflection in the black water. The pool looks dark like oil, but when she touches its surface she notes that it is clear, like youth. She perches on the stone ledge and stares into the liquid until it transmits his image, then watches it meld and swirl back into the black liquid.

Geometric pools dot the sweep of land before her, pointing the way to the outline of their hilltop city. Its gables intersect the cosmos' breadth.

She leaves it behind with purpose.

There are pebbles on the path as it slopes downward, and she grabs hold of the tangle of limbs alongside so as not to fall. Her white, flowing dress turns brown with muddied tears. She has lost her sandals and as her feet are sliced open her blood merges with the clay earth. She angles her body to maintain balance against the steep trail, and then, loosing her footing, crashes to the ground.

She rises from where she has fallen, and sees what she has been looking for. The gate. Golden and glowing, it is steps before her. It is beautiful.

As she moves closer, she can see how to open it. She feels the latch and texture: it's smooth and cool to the touch.

She is aware of every movement as she lifts the latch and swings the gate open. As she steps through a luminescence arises from the ground upward, traveling all the way up her body, and seeming to light her from within.

She is alive, but just barely so. Her hair is swept upward, and though she is still beautiful, creases have formed at the corners of her eyes and at the base of her neck. She has taken minor pains to uphold her appearance but her despair is getting the better of her. Her white dress is shorter now, shorn off, but still flowing. She is thirty-five as she reaches this juncture of her journey, seven years from when Artrurus left. Her fair skin is paler now, and her glow shadowed by perpetual sadness.

At last the trail gives way to weathered wood beneath her feet, and before her, a planked pathway escalates downward in the form of a rustic, archaic stairway. Suddenly, there are men in front of her, soldiers in a uniform she doesn't recognize. Their voices intone in a low chant that she can't understand. Their helmets look like overturned bowls, minus a crest, with short, upward rims and ear flaps. Their adornments are dirty: are they returning from same battle, perhaps the same as her beloved? She comes up behind them, then pushes through them as they traverse the stairway. They don't see her! They don't hear her. They leave her, distraught.

They don't see her.

The trail of soldiers continues onward and disappears, leaving her utterly alone.

She stands on the empty staircase. Before her, the steps encircle the broad sweep of mountain. Below, the steps descend into a dark abyss. Overhead, the mountain's sheer planes shoot up endlessly. The emptiness fills her with desolation. She feels as though she is pinned there, consigned to this place forever.

She stumbles on until arriving at a plateau. Her sorrow engulfs her; it defines who she is. Grief is her only companion now, for she knows that Artrurus is never coming back to her.

She lets go of a wail that reverberates along the mountain's sheer sides. "Artrurus," she pines, " Artrurus..."

In that moment, a shock of nearly a hundred blue doves, descend around her. They are the color of bright blue sky, and one of them alights on her arm. The look of him touches her heart.

She kneels down and lets the birds engulf her. She is not alone, their presence says. She is not alone. No, she is not alone.

Chapter 2: Craigslist

2010-01-20T13:16:00.027-05:00

Cherie's Journal. Jan. 14, 2009, cont.

I think back on how things transpired, and realize, it isn't a question of whether it was right or wrong. It just was.

Valentine's Day, 2008

I had been out of the marriage maybe three months. It was a bad night: I had just pushed a peeved Craigslister out my door, leaving him to relish the thought of what might have been. His erroneous assumption of our future togetherness had been spurred by the vibe of the night, our fellow diners chatting in states of blissful intensity, the heat of the fireplace making tiny licks in the wells of hearts along with the chipped plaster walls. Pretending to be in our own state of oblivion we traded buttery talk on wines, conservatism (his), Neolithic artifacts (me), Stonehenge, and so on.

Yes, I was lonely. But so was half of New York. The other half only looked like they were having fun, while actually heading to therapists and retreats and gurus, or if they weren't given to self-inspection, to the New School for non-credited classes on bartending, knitting, crossword puzzle making, or whatever it took to get your pulse ticking for a few hours before you went back to your day job.

On this night I was determined to look like I was having fun too, despite my date's chubby hands, dwarfed stature, and resemblance to a hypersexed puppy who had sucked down a case of Red Bull. We lapped up our drinks, he chatting about his business associates who laughed when he told them he was going out on a blind date on Valentine's and how relieved (read: horny) he was to see me looking like my picture. The revelation came as no big surprise, but the bulbe du pénis coming in my direction later that night was, so out the door he was.

Back online barely an hour later, I fled through the computerese of New York's loveless, blithely emailing those who struck some kind of chord, then upon ignoring their return replies (for by the time they came back I was no longer interested in them), emailing still more. But there was this one ad--and 2 or 6 or 20 ads later, I returned to where I pasted it into Word and reread it. There was something about it, and, wondering what he wanted beyond his stated intentions, I checked for what I might have missed the first go-round.

I am an artist from across the pond.

Englishmen were far a field from the pond I myself swam in. Venturing into a new body of water appealed to me.

I am creative and smart and reasonably fit.

I inched myself toward the pond's steely edge, lowering myself for a closer look.

Seeking a creative spirit to be my Valentine for '09.

Yes, I was also in need of a creative and smart and reasonably fit charmer, particularly with a limpid stare and a lilting accent to drown in. (I invented these details myself, not having given up on fantasizing yet).

I shot the charmer back an email, saying something cute about being creative and fit too and asking why he didn't want a valentine for '08 like everyong else, then immediately regretting my rudeness. Looking for a valentine that lasted the whole year was no call for preemptory defensiveness, but personally I just wanted a date, a decent looking one, and someone who hopefully had something to say other than "I like you boobies." (They didn't really say that, but that's what I heard in my head).

Maybe I had been too flippant in my response. Should I circumvent with another email? I had come out of a massively long relationship begun when I was naïve and full of ideals, and not believing in finding love over again at this late date, I saw no reason to get involved with anyone past a few dates, even a limpid Englishman. Once I had believed in Happily Ever After, but that was before I knew what the quality of love was about: it was fleeting. Oh, not the love part maybe, that stayed for a while, but the bash your brains against the wall if he doesn't call me type of love. That love, that was the kind that was fleeting. I knew it, and didn't want it. I had no intention of ever going through the goo goo eyes stage again. Love was a series of jagged ledges in which one step was more treacherous than the last, and if you happened to rest too long along the rocky side, you learned that the mountaintop you were after was located so far above that you would be too tired to reach it, if you could even remember why you wanted it in the first place. It was better to just find yourself a nice, smooth plateau. But the flat places I had been searching in were located too low on the mountain, when they should have been situated on a lake. Or on a steely pond, that is.

His return mail said he was staying in with a cold but that I should call him. Hell, I didn't do phone. What more was going to be demanded of me? I debated what to do about this with numbing nervousness. Dates chatted to beforehand were a letdown. Once the Englishman and I had spoken and I'd found out that he couldn't speak a coherent sentence, I'd have to come up with a creative excuse to back out. If the online chatter was strong enough, and you could count three emails between us, why not leap in? Of course if I was revolted by the picture there would be no leaping, and definitely no chatting. I asked for a photo, doubting he'd send one.

But the Englishman had no such issue. The picture he forwarded was not revolting. Rather, it conveyed a self-possessed type of intimacy and laid-back sultriness that I found instantly ingratiating. The look he aimed at the camera said he was looking for something, and that he was going to search for it despite everything. That's what I told myself that look was, anyway; it could have been a case of acid reflux.

I returned his email with my phone number, procrastinating by saying that I too was now under the weather but would call the following day. I was sick, sick from too many brandies, of short men with chubby hands, of medium men with blubbery lips, and of the larger variety who just didn't measure up on any way at all. In fact, I was more than tired: I was egregiously disappointed.

As I returned to his picture I was hit once more by what I saw there. Whatever it was that he wanted, he certainly wouldn't stop until he'd found it.

What that thing was, and how it would threaten our well-being once it came, would come as a surprise. Yes, it wasn't a question of whether it was right or wrong, it simply was.

Chapter 1: Abuse

2010-01-15T22:26:00.028-05:00

One Year Prior

Cherie's Journal, Jan. 14, 2009

Seated in the seedy police headquarters of NYs Finest, the policewoman named Maria lifts the lower portion of my shirt order to inspect my bruised back, and I think, this must be how it feels to be part of the groups of humanity feel felt side-lined, or non-human. Side-lined enough in order to
allow oneself to fall into one of the general groups that categorized your type of person: ghetto, abused woman, bastard, drug-pusher, loser. philanderer, gold-digger, user...

After she finishes with my back, Maria presses a buzzer on her circa 1970 speakerphone and turns her doe-eyes on me in a manner of mute understanding before plunging into a well-rehearsed sell-job on why I had to turn in Victor. To see that it never happens again. To protect other women like you, she explained. As if what Victor had done could have been inflicted on another woman, when it was the outcome of what had been transpiring for weeks, and was the logical result of trouble that I had myself created.

She ticked off the methods of pressing charges on Victor as casually as if she were ordering items from a fast-food menu: cheeseburger, no make that two, small fries, vanilla shake, make it a large, extra ketchup, napkins...

Moving on from her well-designed talk, complete with meaningful gaze and sympathetic hand on my arm, after all, I was abused too...I learned the hard way that he was never going to change..., I realize that I have been transformed into a cliché: an abused woman who refused to believe in the evil of her violent lover, and took the blame for his actions upon herself.

Marie’s frowning male partner took pictures of my back, neck, and face and then, as he shot me a piercing look that said, you fool, you think that you know better than us, and that this man will change? We’ve seen it before. You’ll be back next time in worse shape, or maybe in a body bag, I succumbed.

I then believed sincerely that I was a victim and that I had been abused, and like Maria and her unfriendly-partner who told me he had himself been a perpetrator of abuse, that I had no option but to turn Victor in. It was for his own good, as Maria explained.

This was one in a series of mistakes I committed, beginning with the big one that proceeded this whole drama. But I shall get to that soon enough too.

Leave your comments. Have you ever gone against convention to support your lover?

Have You Met Your Twin Flame?

2010-01-14T21:02:00.000-05:00

How will you know you have met your twin? Here are some of the symptoms given by others who have had the experience...

Chances are you've met through a set of unusual circumstances... totally unplanned and unexpected
There is an instantaneous feeling that you have known the other before
You felt an immediate and deep connection for one another
There is an electrifying feeling between the two of you that words cannot describe
The relationship is immediate... as though no time had been lost since you were last together
It feels as though you had never lived before the reunion occurred
You feel a deep sense of unity that you've have never known before
It brings on feelings you never thought possible
The two of you are inseparable
When you look into each other's eyes time and space have no meaning
There are no barriers between the two of you... the relationship is a totally open one
Your conversations seem to go on forever
The two of you have a strong urge to serve humanity in a deep and meaningful way
You give to the other and never think of receiving in return
There is a special sacredness to your relationship that transcends anything you've ever experienced before
You still have karma with your twin (from previous lives) but the two of you resolve it all with total forgiveness and unconditional love
Neither one of you are dependent on the other for your sense of self
There is a real feeling of unlimitedness to your feelings... you have a strong sense of eternity
Your feelings for each other are very spiritual
There are no restrictions within the relationship... all is freedom without the need for ownership or control
The two of you know without doubt that you have been brought together for a reason
You do not compete with one another nor do you pretend to be other than who you are
In spite of your sameness there is no doubt you feel a sense of completion through the other
Trust, patience, acceptance of each other's weaknesses happen automatically
There is a great sense of purpose and meaning to the relationship
Your sexuality with one another is a sacred act that celebrates the unconditional love you have for one another
When you look into the other's eyes you see yourself
You experience a sense of completeness that is without comparison

There is no doubt that some of the symptoms described above are also common to soul mate relationships. What really sets the twin soul union apart from all the rest is the profound degree of completeness experienced and the overwhelming sense of spirituality unique to them. Twins want to serve humanity in some meaningful way. There is also a very sacred sense of intimacy and feeling of divinely inspired wholeness that one finds within a twin soul relationship. It is not by accident nor is it without purpose.

For more about Twin Souls and an excellent technique on activating the Laws of Attraction and attracting your Twin Soul visit: The Cosmic Connection Technique

St. Germain on the subject of Twin Souls:

2010-01-14T20:32:00.010-05:00

Here are some answers and thoughts by St. Germain that address the subject of twin souls:

Q. Are twin flames more like a companion of the soul?

A. It is an identical resonance reverberation of the same frequency within the different (male-female) bodies of energy.

"Within your male soul mate energy essence, there abides a certain frequency that is indeed identical to the same frequency found in the female soul mate energy essence. ...there are identical frequencies existing in the opposite bodies of energy , and these you call twin flames."

 "Now, experiencing consciousness within yourself, loving unconditionally that which you are as you exist and abide in your reality at this point in time, creates the resonance within your being that attracts the identical essence within the opposite body of soul energy. It calls it forth and merges with your energy and you with it."

More than likely you and your other half have come together in previous lives and may have already touched at some point during this life time... but if one or both of you were not ready when it happened the experience will have been very intense and electrifying but short-lived. What's the most important starting point for a twin soul reunion? How do we prepare ourselves for it? It begins with the desire to love yourself and others without any conditions attached and without judgements. Although desire is the starting point, it is not enough. One has to live it... day in and day out as best as possible. Even though our efforts to "live it" may not at the Master level, we need to be well on our way towards doing so or the relationship will suffer. In short, unconditional love is the magical ingredient for building a twin relationship and making it work (this also applies to other relationships we may have). If two twins are to reunite and then have a meaningful partnership both have to be spiritually ready for it. At that point the Universe will create the special forces necessary to bring them together for another moment in time. However, the search for the other must always begin as a search within each of the twins themselves first before lasting reunion is possible. Each has to discover his or her own individual spiritual nature and potential... and then do their best to live it on a daily basis. There are no dependencies in a twin soul relationship because the "sense of self" has been developed quite well within each of the partners. To reach that point, a certain degree of internal balance and happiness must first be nurtured and achieved. Then, during reunion, the essence of one simply flows into the essence of the other to create the completeness. There is no effort involved.

It is also impossible for twin souls to remain separated on any kind of permanent basis. When in relationship, they will continue to have have conflicts. However, they will be driven to resolve these conflicts (and any past karma) as quickly as possible. Nothing is left unsaid. Nothing is left to chance. Assumptions never enter their minds. All is out in the open. Neither sits, pouts and wonders who will make the first move at "making up." There are no games. There is no pretending. There is no deception. There is no fear of reprisal because unconditional love is the foundation upon which their relationship has been built. In essence, they can just be themselves. And as each conflict resolves, the bond of love between them takes on renewed meaning and strength. What incredible freedom! Such is the nature of this very divine and profound union.

For more about Twin Souls and an excellent technique on activating the Laws of Attraction and attracting your Twin Soul visit: The Cosmic Connection Technique

Twin Soul Relationships

2010-01-14T19:59:00.003-05:00

When each of us separated into our male and female halves long ago, the soul knew (and still knows) that the rejoining of its incomplete self would inevitably take place... it was part of the divine plan.
After that agonizing and painful division took place a deep seated yearning for oneness began to linger within each of us and the desire for reunion and completeness has endured over the ages. Only one other in all the universe can satisfy it. As a result, we are constantly searching for our twin. But the desire for completion doesn't stop there... and the soul also realizes this. What the soul really wants is not only reunion with itself but the original feeling of oneness it had with its Source in the very beginning. This craving for the "First Intimacy" will not stop until it is fully satisfied. We have as long as we want to make it happen... but it will happen.

It would seem that this desire for oneness must be the foundation upon which all relationships are built. Male-female unions have come into being and have fallen apart for thousands of years. However, if a deep, spiritual union with our Source can be established and maintained, the chances for lasting joy and fulfillment becomes more and more of a possibility. It also seems to make more sense that our relationships should be based upon spiritual principals rather than man made religious dogmas which can bring so much fear and guilt into people's lives.

Plato is not the only individual who has given us insights into twin soul relationships. Spiritual writings from the Sufis 800 years ago say that...
"Out of the original unity of being there is a fragmentation and dispersal of beings, the last stage being the splitting of one soul into two. And consequently, love is the search by each half for the other half on earth or in heaven...
As twin souls are so alike to begin with, it seems necessary for them to go their separate ways before they can complete each other. Identity and complementarity are the two driving forces and axes of love... For the complete being there must be a blending of the two."
Even Edgar Cayce, the wonderful "sleeping prophet," spoke about soul mates (twin souls). He explained how in the beginning the "male and female were as in one." In his historical description of Atlantis, Cayce says that as long as several hundred thousands of years ago ... "there lived in this land of Atlantis one Amillius, who had first noted the separations of the beings as inhabited that portion of the earth's sphere or plane of these peoples, into male and female as separate entities or individuals."

All of the information described above suggests that the division which resulted in the formation of two, twin soul halves occurred when we originally entered the Earth's 3-dimensional environment at some point in the distant past to "experience and feel" at this level of reality. Since that time we've apparently lost our way in this material world and are trying remember who we really are. When we do, our adventure within the universe can continue where it left off ages go.

When we finally " wake up" and begin the journey Home to our Source, no longer needing experiences and feelings at the Earth's level of existence, corresponding twins will reunite once again. Male and female essence will blend into in one form, perfectly balanced, totally spiritual, with unconditional love for themselves and others. From that point forward they will remain as one for eternity as they coalesce with other reunited twins to recreate the soul groups they separated from a long time ago. Ultimately, all of us will reunite as the "original One."

For more about Twin Souls and an excellent technique on activating the Laws of Attraction and attracting your Twin Soul visit: The Cosmic Connection Technique

Reincarnation

2010-01-13T14:20:00.004-05:00

REINCARNATION, by Jack Keller
Reincarnation, to many, is a strange word which, to some, conjures up visions of strange and mysterious cults...the substance of hollywood horror movies.
However, to many students of metaphysics, myself included, the issue of whether we (our souls) live a succession of physical lives is not a far fetched and weird notion, but a reasonable and acceptable natural process of humankind. True, there is some difference of opinion even among metaphysicians regarding the actuality of past lives and reincarnation, but to me this phenomemon is logical and explains many things about life and existence.

The first accumulation of evidence, for the afterlife existence, we wish to present, is that of past lives and reincarnation. Is it not possible that there is a continuum of conscious existence of the individual soul (that part of our personality and memory that passes through the birth and death experience?) Can we not also accept that these souls are not sleeping or lying in a grave waiting for a celestial trumpet call to get up, but that they are aware and active? If we can accept these possibilities, then a big obstacle to approaching the phenomenon of after-death communication will be removed.

What evidence is there of past lives (reincarnation)? In our minds, this can be categorized into the following ten areas:

a. Child Prodigies/Great Masters

b. Inherent Likes/Dislikes and Phobias

c. Knowing of things, otherwise impossible (Deja Vue)

d. References from the Bible

e. Hypnotic regression

f. Logic

g. Eastern religions and philosophies

h. Esoteric teachings

i. Edgar Cayce and other psychic readings

j. Near-Death experiences

a. Child Prodigies/Great Masters

Mozart was a musical phenomenon almost from birth. At 3 he started playing the piano (clavio.) At four he could play a number of pieces his father taught him. At 5 he started composing musical pieces of his own and soon surpassed his father, Leopold, an accomplished musician. He went on to become one of the greatest classical music composers and performers of all time, during his short life of 35 years. There were many child prodigies, throughout history, in many different areas of expertise. There may be other explanations, but my feeling is that they developed their knowledge and skills in past lives. I believe, as in the song from the “Sound of Music,” “Nothing comes from nothing.”

Karma

2010-01-12T14:24:00.002-05:00

What us the soul? It is known to be the essence of man, the repository of thoughts, memories, stimuli, and dreams.

Excerpted from KARMASCOPES, Karma and The Soul

by Joyce Keller and Skye Lane

The soul is the core which animates us, propels us into action, or causes us to hang back and linger. It is the seat of reason and understanding, the fulcrum of our thoughts words and deeds.

The soul is thought to be indestructible, no matter what fate confronts the body or mind which it inhabits.

Buddhism calls the soul the "Greater Self," the lesser of which disappears at death. This greater self is the life force, or will to live, which survives successive rebirths. In accord with Eastern philosophy, the soul pushes forward, ever-evolving, growing and seeking, until meeting with stagnation. Then it may whither, but never die. Feeding on knowledge and experience it changes and expands, effortlessly or heavily, always probing, and hopefully, always growing.

In the phase of our experience we call death, in which we depart one life plane and head for another, the soul takes leave of the body. It may linger on the earth plane for a period of adjustment, before moving on and reuniting with those beings who have assisted and nurtured its' development over this, and many, many incarnations.

At the time of creation of man we were God-like. Through the use of choice, we chose to experience coming into physical bodies for our greater understanding. As we became mired in the physical and the vibrations of the earth became more dense, we lost our ability to come and go as free spirits. We could no longer leave our physical bodies at will and return to the creator. Thus the pattern of creating earth karma began; and we chose to stay more and more in the physical.

Almost 90% of the world believes in reincarnation, with nearly 30% of Americans thinking it might be possible. The purpose of reincarnating perhaps hundreds or thousands of times, is soul perfection...Godliness...growing to a state of wholeness and understanding, so that we may again become complete, and to rejoin the Creator as co-creators.

We all are co-creators to some extent, even at this stage of our evolution, because we have been given the gift of free-will. Proceeding through life, we use that free-will through our choices. As we interact with others and create new karmic situations or work out old karma, we are ever-evolving and growing toward that ideal state of perfection.

The Phenomenon of 11:11

2010-01-11T16:12:00.055-05:00

11:11, by Allen Stacker, Points of Power New Energy Teachings

Millions of people right around the world are seeing the numbers 11:11 mysteriously appearing on digital clocks. And many are more than a little apprehensive. They are not sure what it means, where to turn to, or who to trust.

*11:11 - The bridge or transitional zone between the old energy world of duality
and the New Energy world of Oneness.
A wake-up/reminder call of the highest order...
confirmation that one's spiritual/awakening journey is right on track.
Even those on traditional spiritual paths are now finding themselves
in a thick fog of doubt, uncertainty and confusion... "Why does nothing work
like it used to anymore? After all these years on the path and all the
books and courses, why is my life now more difficult than ever?
Why do people who are not even on a spiritual path seem to have
better lives, more fun and more money than I do?
Why am I feeling so very tired, forgetful and dispirited,
and why am I always struggling just to make ends meet?
Where's all that unlimited power and eternal bliss that I was promised?
Where's all the joy and abundance?"
Hopefully, this website along with the handful of others we recommend
will shed some light on what's happening now -
personally, globally and universally.
One thing is certain:
It's BIG, and more REAL than any of us can imagine.
No, it's not the end of the world - Hollywood's Armageddon,
but indeed the birth of a new one.
And a whole New Awakened Humanity to go along with it.

Allen Stacker, Points of Power New Energy Teachings

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

11:11 as it Relates the September 11th Attacks:

You'll never think the same way again. . . The Revelation

More on the 11:11 Phenomenon:

11:11 Digital Time Code - Crystalinks

Physical reality is a consciousness program created by digital codes. Numbers, numeric codes, define our existence. Human DNA, our genetic memory, is encoded to be triggered by digital codes at specific times and frequencies. Those codes awaken the mind to the change and evolution of consciousness. 11:11 is one of those codes, meaning activation of DNA.
You will note that seeing 11:11 frequently creates synchronicities in your life.

CollegeNET Forum - 11:11 Phenomenon ....something to get you thinking

The Mayan calendar, that we follow today, ends on the winter solstice on December 21, 2012 at 11:11 Universal Time. Which counts down interestingly enough, to something the Mayans new would occur on this date. This is the connection between the the 11:11 phenomena and the end of this game period. The Mayans ended the calendar for a reason, that reason we do not know. And for reason it is tied in 11:11 and the phenomenon.

Inside the Divine Pattern - Discovery of Truth, Wisdom and Prophecy - Ancient Spiritual Knowledge Reveals Number Secrets & Codes.

Inside the Divine Pattern helps to uncover the meaning of our current earth changes, the mysterious
number phenomena known as 11:11, the ominous date of December 21, 2012, and the significance

of science's new understanding of our eleven dimension universe.

http://www.1111angels.com:

11:11, 22:22, 4:44, 3:33, 12:34 repeated time prompts bothering you?

The 11:11 Wake-Up Calls on your clocks, microwaves and VCR's are the "trade-mark" prompts of a group of just 1,111 fun-loving Spirit Guardians, or Angels, and the 11:11 prompt is their way of using our innate ability for pattern recognition to let us know that they are here. Once they have your attention, they will use other digits, like 12:34, or 2:22 to remind you of their presence. Invisible to our eyes, they are very real physical beings.

http://www.1111spiritguardians.com:

11:11 O'Clock Explained - what is it all about?

How often have you noticed the numbers 11:11, 12:12, 10:10, 22:22, 12:34, 2:22, 3:33, 4:44 or 5:55 popping up all over the place? These number sequences are not necessarily only time prompts. They can also be number sequences, like 333, 1111 etc. To your mind, is this a coincidence, or are they too frequent to be random? Perhaps you are puzzled or amused by this phenomenon? Possibly even a little bit nervous? The question everyone is asking is "What does 11:11 mean?" and "Is there a reason for this?" And there certainly is.

11:11 Synchronicity, spirituality and connecting to the unknown

It is not even sure that 11:11 is supposed to be understood at all. We might never get the answer. I have to think of as many possibilities as possible and only then can I try to decide what the 11:11 phenomenon is all about.

Marie D. Jones talking about the 11:11 Phenomenon

11:11 - A Magazine Devoted to the Journey of the Soul | what is 11:11, meaning of 11:11, 11:11 definition, 11:11 description, spiritual meaning of 11:11 Simran Singh 11:11, 11:11 Believe
11 Phenomenon - Are You Seeing the Number 11 Everywhere?

Many people believe the 11 phenomenon is a sign of the fulfillment of Biblical prophecy. Many believe it is a sign that this is the 11th hour. The time right before the rapture and Armageddon. It is also widely believed that Biblically speaking the number 11 represents disorder and confusion. We are told that in the last days disorder and confusion will run high. We can see some signs of that now. There are reasons to believe that the number 11 and Bible prophecy go hand in hand.

11 11 Phenomenon & Winter Solstice 21-12-2012 - 2012 Galactic Alignment | 11:11 21-12-2012 Maya Calendar

The winter solstice of 21-12-2012 marks the end of theMayan Long Count cycle. This occurs at 11:11 universal time. This fact opened a Pandora’s box of interesting new 2012 linked data.