George Lucas-Patton

Dec 23, 2020
Two black and white portraits of George S. Patton Jr. and Eva Braun
This is like Eva Braun and George Patton making love.  They don't necessarily get along.

Acting Truthfully Under Imaginary Situations

I've taken a moment to read what's been written when I realized that I had repeated myself.  I'm not sure why, although it seems that I continue to reissue new information under the guise of an updated blog post.  It's concerning, a bit, until I realize that somehow I am searching for an internal objection, as there have been many throughout the last several years, until I realize there are none.  There are no objections to me making Sacred Hoops, and there are even less so when I speak of going back to school, to learn a new skill, that may or may not have relevance in the next few years.  It's not that I have to go back to school, it's that I want to.

I'm also exploring the realities of what it could mean if I were to begin sharing the stories that surround my previous incarnations with you.  Before we begin though, the most common question that you'll hear with these topics is: How do you remember? – or – How do you know?

The simple answer is, you don't, while the direct answer is more along the lines of intention, and soul-level memory, or with the assistance of your non-physical guides and allies.  This assumes, of course, that you're in conscious contact with those benevolent beings and ancestors that have been called to assist in your journey.

We can also incubate our dreams, and in an effort to clarify these intentions and memories, although from my own experience, the dream incubation practice will often cover a longer period of time.  Say, a few weeks, at a minimum, to a few or several months, which is more common with your own practice.  It's worth noting that some dreams, or a lot of the dreaming imagery, can manifest in our lives rather quickly, within a day or two is not uncommon, while other visions will come from within the dream itself.  For those of you beginning your dreaming practice, it's best to set your intentions for the long haul, as none of these practices have as an effective process in the short run.

Dreaming takes practice and to develop fluency with these skills, you'll need to make a commitment to your own personal dreamtime, just as you would with any other skills.

Through a Glass, Darkly

General Patton believed in reincarnation, as taken from his 1922 poem “Through a Glass, Darkly” whose title was undoubtedly inspired from the biblical verse found in 1 Corinthians:

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. – 1 Corinthians 13:12 (KJV)

Even now, as I write this, I find myself simmering with self-doubt on what to share, and how best to say it.  Reincarnation is one of those topics where a person's “belief” may find irrelevance.  What I believe, or how I've come to the conclusion of belief is irrelevant.  These soul-level memories have come to me from my own experience.  They're not things that I am told to believe in, nor are these memories within the context of another person's experience.  They're my own and they've formed a significant portion of my own spiritual path, and how I present myself to this world.

The poem, when read in its entirety, provides us with additional insight and clues into this person's thinking, and why the reality of reincarnation has reverberated with him in such powerful ways:

Through the travail of the ages,
Midst the pomp and toil of war,
I have fought and strove and perished
Countless times upon this star.

In the form of many people
In all panoplies of time
Have I seen the luring vision
Of the Victory Maid, sublime.

I have battled for fresh mammoth,
I have warred for pastures new,
I have listened to the whispers
When the race trek instinct grew.

I have known the call to battle
In each changeless changing shape
From the high souled voice of conscience
To the beastly lust for rape.

I have sinned and I have suffered,
Played the hero and the knave;
Fought for belly, shame, or country,
And for each have found a grave.

I cannot name my battles
For the visions are not clear,
Yet, I see the twisted faces
And I feel the rending spear.

Perhaps I stabbed our Savior
In His sacred helpless side.
Yet, I’ve called His name in blessing
When in after times I died.

In the dimness of the shadows
Where we hairy heathens warred,
I can taste in thought the lifeblood;
We used teeth before the sword.

While in later clearer vision
I can sense the coppery sweat,
Feel the pikes grow wet and slippery
When our Phalanx, Cyrus met.

Hear the rattle of the harness
Where the Persian darts bounced clear,
See their chariots wheel in panic
From the Hoplite’s leveled spear.

See the goal grow monthly longer,
Reaching for the walls of Tyre.
Hear the crash of tons of granite,
Smell the quenchless eastern fire.

Still more clearly as a Roman,
Can I see the Legion close,
As our third rank moved in forward
And the short sword found our foes.

Once again I feel the anguish
Of that blistering treeless plain
When the Parthian showered death bolts,
And our discipline was in vain.

I remember all the suffering
Of those arrows in my neck.
Yet, I stabbed a grinning savage
As I died upon my back.

Once again I smell the heat sparks
When my Flemish plate gave way
And the lance ripped through my entrails
As on Crecy’s field I lay.

In the windless, blinding stillness
Of the glittering tropic sea
I can see the bubbles rising
Where we set the captives free.

Midst the spume of half a tempest
I have heard the bulwarks go
When the crashing, point blank round shot
Sent destruction to our foe.

I have fought with gun and cutlass
On the red and slippery deck
With all Hell aflame within me
And a rope around my neck.

And still later as a General
Have I galloped with Murat
When we laughed at death and numbers
Trusting in the Emperor’s Star.

Till at last our star faded,
And we shouted to our doom
Where the sunken road of Ohein
Closed us in its quivering gloom.

So but now with Tanks a’clatter
Have I waddled on the foe
Belching death at twenty paces,
By the star shell’s ghastly glow.

So as through a glass, and darkly
The age long strife I see
Where I fought in many guises,
Many names, but always me.

And I see not in my blindness
What the objects were I wrought,
But as God rules o’er our bickerings
It was through His will I fought.

So forever in the future,
Shall I battle as of yore,
Dying to be born a fighter,
But to die again, once more.
       – George S. Patton Jr.

Not long ago, and during a bodywork session that I was receiving, the circumstances and memories that surrounded Patton's death came to the surface.  This isn't a topic that I've ever verbalized, or shared with anyone, and it was quite eye-opening with how much of me is there, and just how much of me remembers that time.  And for those of you wondering, if there are any of you wondering, soul-level memory isn't limited to an intellectual process.  The active process of remembering our previous incarnations comes to us from the entirety of our senses, including those that are most commonly accessed through our own personal narratives, and the relationships that we find ourselves in throughout our current incarnation(s).

There's a lot of mystique surrounding Patton's death.  Did the government do it?  Did the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to the modern-day CI A, orchestrate his death for what could have been a presidential hopeful in the name of Dwight D. Eisenhower?  While claiming to be a historian, I will not, I will say that some, or many, of the elements of his death have come to me throughout the last many years, and they are not flattering to the US government.  I still find myself flabbergasted with the amount of service this man, and we will see this again with the incarnation that occurred prior to 1885, provided to this country, while on the receiving end of such an abrupt death.

To have lived through so many battles, and to have achieved such a high-level of success that a four-star general could demand, and to have died from injuries that were sustained in an auto accident seems ironic, and unnecessary.  If it weren't for his loud mouth and his against the grain leadership style, he could have made it home to live a life after the war.  He was stubborn, and bullheaded.  Like my father.  And as you can see, the further along we go this story will become about my father, Richard, and his role during WWII.  Of course, he was born in 1946, so we're referencing the overlaps that can be found in the space between lifetimes.  There's more than one of us, although when you line them up in a straight line, a sequential order begins to take place.

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