They’re Not Giving Me the Information, or Of Reincarnation, Writing, and Taxi Chits

I saw some visions and they were true. But I couldn’t get the real information, the ‘skinny,’ though I don’t think people use that term, on the topics I wanted. Oh well who is to tell? This is how it works, and I didn’t make the rules. I saw this nice person in the vision and she was sitting on the sidewalk or rather the boulevard. Oh, she was a good person, better than good, someone with a truly kind heart, and had broken up with her boyfriend. She was crying. That was all I saw and all I got. Then someone I knew it turns out knew this person, and I said, Hey, I saw that person, though I had never seen that person in real life. And, it turned out that the information was correct, and specifically so, meaning they had broken up and were sitting down there shedding a tear over the situation. So, this kind of thing happens, but it’s practically useless. I never did meet the person I saw, or try to. There is no reason, really.  What I really wanted to know was where I came from, and why, and this type of thing. But the spirits won’t tell. Here is a funny thing. You can be evolved, astute, enlightened even, but it doesn’t mean you are a super-psychic yogi. I once met a spirit medium that talked to the other world and she was almost wholly accurate. Yet, she wasn’t psychic. The two are two different things. Anyhow, however it all works, - there are rules. There are rules here and rules there and rules abounding everywhere. I might have been a guy named Hartley Coleridge, who I had never heard of one way or the other. Poor Hartley was a mediocre poet who had a little success but not much, didn’t marry. Wrote some nature vignettes and some sonnets apparently. Lived in the country in a nice cottage setting. Ran with a female briefly in town earlier on that his tutors disapproved of, they thinking that she was bit below his class in life. That’s what the world scholar said anyhow, though it can’t be proven. They say Hartley might have been a better writer than he was given credit for. They are re-examining that now. He had elbow trouble though. That means trouble with the booze. I don’t have that. Maybe I overcame my drinking addiction in between lives. I am quite serious about that. No joke. I know how serious it is. For example, I used to work at a place, a shelter, and if five guys wanted to go to a meeting, the place would pay for it, with a taxi chit, you know, but if say, only four wanted to go- they couldn’t go! So, being a rebel, I would kind of fudge the book and call the taxi and let them go. In the name of health and healing and positivity. Why should the four not get to go for such a silly rule?  And by the way, nose trouble doesn’t always mean one is nosey, but that means trouble with ‘the cocaine.’ I don’t have either. I just wanted to know who I was in the past life, and why the heck the universe has me learning all these things- books, literature, people, and places. For what? But, they ain’t saying. You get bits of things here or there, but not really enough ingredients to make a meal. You have to settle for a snack. I am keeping an ear out, and a third eye, hoping they invite me to dinner, but I somehow doubt it. I am so hungry. So hungry on this journey I am practically starving. If I were them I would give me a taxi chit and a gift card for a restaurant both. But I am not them. I am just me. I saw some visions and they were true.


Brian Michael Barbeito, a Canadian writer and landscape photographer, is the author of Chalk Lines (Fowl Pox Press, 2013).