After the wall came down and David Hasselhoff conquered the Eastern German charts with “I have been looking for freedom”, this was the second tape I posessed.
After the freedom was there because walls dividing a country were pulled down, my mom and me danced Lambada in our living room, out to the courtyard, embracing the opportunities the changes had brought. A piece of the world that had seemed so far a year ago manifested itself now in our frontyard. A piece of Brazil in Eastern Germany in the sweltering heat of the summer in 1990.
Fran
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Last night in my dream I was talking to my dead cat. Being astrologist is not an easy task. People think that you are Jack-of all-mystical trades. Sometimes I was asked if I can materialize things, fly or talk to dead. Though I can’t do those things, it’s not entirely impossible as a sceptic might think. I know that this dream is not exactly “a dream”, a fruit of my imagination. My cat told me lots of things which definitely made some sense. My mother told me she once had a dream in which her pony she used to ride when she was a kid warned her about fire, which happened in a week time. So how it could be possible?
There is such a thing as brain frequencies which are usually measured in cps (cycle per second). Most generally those masters who are capable of creating objects and situations with their thoughts have brain frequencies up as high as 20,000 cycles per second, whereas the average person runs 40 cycles per second. More about this you can find from the excellent book “The holographic Universe” I came across recently.
So, with the new age occurring and dimensional barriers breaking down there will be a lot of communication between folks of the same brain frequency levels across many dimensions, that is not meant to be construed as “talking to the dead” as some overzealous Christians would like to imply.
What I think is: if there’s anything dead in our current world it is the worlds established religions. About everything else is alive, pulsing and can be tuned-in. Life is everlasting presence.
Maria Cohen
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I came across an article called “The culture of memory” a couple of weeks ago: http://www.apa.org/monitor/sep05/culture.html A quote from there:
…Any earlier than about 3.5 years is, for most of us, a blank slate. We all have what Freud first called “childhood amnesia”–an inability to remember our earliest childhood. Ask a Maori New Zealander about his or her earliest memory, though, and you might find that the childhood amnesia ended a bit sooner. A Maori’s first memory might be of attending a relative’s funeral at 2.5 years old. A Korean adult, on the other hand, might not remember anything before age 4. Memory varies widely from person to person. Researchers have also found that the average age of first memories varies up to two years between different cultures. “We think that this is a function of the meaning of memory within a particular cultural system,” says Michelle Leichtman, PhD, a psychologist at the University of New Hampshire who studies childhood memory. People who grow up in societies that focus on individual personal history, like the United States, or ones that focus on personal family history, like the Maori, will have different–and often earlier–childhood memories than people who grow up in cultures that, like many Asian cultures, value interdependence rather than personal autonomy…on average, Asian adults’ first memories were later than Caucasians’ (57 months as compared with 42 months). Maori adults’ memories reached even further back, to 32 months on average.
So, what would be my first memory? Here’s another one. I guess I was around four. I remember I was sick. My mother took me to hospital by sleds. I was completely covered in blankets and my head wrapped in my grandma’s shawl. On the way back from hospital my mother bought me a car to play with. I built for this car a track and ramp from my books. I was so excited playing with them I pissed in my knickers. I was afraid my mother would blame for this, so I went up to the radiator of central heating. It was mounted by the window, so I climbed on my little stool and pressed my knickers against it. It was in the winter, so the radiator was quite hot. I stood like this for a while, watching snow falling and people making their way on the icy pavements, and cars stuck in the snow… until my knickers got dry.
What I wanted to say, it took me about 20 minutes or so… watching snow. It was so beautiful to see its falling and everybody in the street didn’t seem to pay any attention to it… Continue reading ‘Culture, memory and snow’
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I think back now, to a memory that for some reason seems incredibly insignificant, but I know for a fact that it is more significant that I expect, possibly because anything like this that happens to a twelve year old will most likely effect the rest of his or her life. There I was sitting with my mother in the living room, watching a movie. The walls are the color of dried blood, sponged over white to give it a neat textured look, the lamp on the side table just off the right side of the couch (while seated) has a beige lamp with the plastic wrap still on the cone of it. I cannot recall the movie, but the TV is sitting in a large TV cabinet wood and fold aside shutter doors with the center pieces painted black. The decorations of the room fallow a definite western theme, complete with live cacti and cowboy boot pictures. As is usual the phone rings without warning and my mother answers it. She greets the person on the phone in a happy bubbly type of voice. After a few moments she starts laughing, the manner of which I know to be hysterically, and she repeats over and over again “Your joking” “Your kidding right?”. This went on for a few minutes before she said goodbye and see you soon to the person on the phone. Then she told me that her boyfriend Trev had been in a motorcycle accident and was dead. Then she said she had to go and see his family, and she left. Well after seeing her laughing and saying that the person on the phone was joking, I possibly naturally thought that she was joking. So she left, and I finished watching the movie that we had started. After a few hours I started to worry that maybe something had happened to delay her, but she came back eventually, drunk as I later found out. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral of Trev, which is rather unfortunate as I never really got to say farewell to somebody I had known for years. I was never really affected by that death, I was very close with the man but it just never touched me in any way. I have since encounter death a few times, with relatives, and a friends, the only time it has really meant anything to me was when a fifteen year old boy I used to babysit died. It seems like such a tremendous loss of life, when an uncle who I used to spend every summer with died though, I only felt bad for my father who had lost one of his brothers. I don’t know weather this event is the key to my not really being concerned with death in adults, or if there’s some other reason behind it . Anyway though that’s one of my brief meetings with death. I suppose I will eventually post more, it seems to me that this would be a good place to remember people who have died. Till another time friends.
Dalarius
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