I created this page so that I could share bits and pieces of my contact with my spirit friends. That may sound strange, and it is quite a confession to say that I talk to the dead and that they answer. Sometimes, however, there is more to the wor ld than what our five senses give us. If you don't believe what you read here, that's OK. Enjoy it. Truth does not always have to be historical or verifiable at the lab bench. If you leave this page with something more than what you came with, then I wil l be satisfied and so will my spirit friends. -------- Eileen H. Kramer (12/5/96)
I always wanted to know what happened after we died. I grew up near a cemetery and I lost two contemporaries while I was a kid, so I had as good a reason for knowing as any one. Wanting to know about life after death is of course a little bit like wanti ng to win the lottery. You can want it, but pulling that winning scratch-off ticket out of the machine is another matter.
When I was eighteen, I had my first contact experience with a dead man. He had been shot in front of his apartment building. He had been dead a week, and I looked over his shoulder as he walked through his darkened apartment. His wife and son were down below in the courtyard. I could feel his emotions and I have never before or since felt more exquisite pain. To make matters yet worse, I also knew that I had gotten what I asked for. I knew the chance would never come again.
On April 26, 1995, my email friend, Gerald M. Phillips, died. I began to hurt in a way I did not want to remember. It was the way I hurt before I had " my vision" when I was eighteen. It was coming. I could make contact. I did not want to. I w as afraid. Finally, on May 2, 1995, while I sat at at my work table in my office, I decided that I no longer wanted to hurt for no reason. I prayed "Dear God, please don't let this pain be for nothing. Whatever comes, I am ready for it." I th ought about Isaac bound by his father on the altar on Mount Moriah and I realized that as he lay there he too was no longer afraid. That was why I stopped being scaird. That night, I saw Dr. Phillips for the very first time. I was thrilled though still f rightened about the possibility of being hurt. I had started something and had no idea where it would end.
Since my initial encounter with Dr. Phillips (aka Gerry), I developed two way communication with him and with many of his spirit friends. Unfortunately, Dr. Phillips, a dyed in the wool skeptic when he was alive, has not changed much since he died. He d etests channelers, and does not want to be a "dead man on display." I mention him only as a way to put my other experinces in context. I have promised not to tell his story and intend to keep that promise as much as I can.
Homeworld is one of five bya sabe worlds. Sabe means path, life, road, or culture. It is said that "for every million spirits there are a million sabes." Bya's meaning changes with the person using the term. It can mean flat, hard, or bitter, but my spirit friends and I define it as "working". Homeworld is a "working world."
I am unsure on what dimmension or plane Homworld exists. Among my spirit friends, there is still forward, backward, up, down, here, there, before, after, and right now. It would be very hard indeed to talk with them if we did not still share these concep ts.
Morover, most inanimate objects on bya sabe worlds follow most physical laws. Improperly constructed buildings collapse. Poorly engineered mechanical objects refuse to function, and furniture, appliances, etc... wear out or break. The thought fo rms you may have read about in some channeled accounts work well for clothing and small, smiple objects. Incidentally they do not work well for food and drink which bya sabe spirits must grow or manufacture if they wnat it to taste and smell ap pealing.
The most succinct answer to the above question is "just dead folks." They are all ages and from all parts of the world as well as from every conceivable physical life circumstance and social background. Only those who have committed murder or a ssault in some other context than self defense or war are NOT permitted to become bya sabe due to the danger they pose to others. Though bya sabe spirits can not be killed they can sustain rather nasty injured and don' t enjoy being beaten up on. Bya sabe are short tall, fat, skinny, fair and dark. There are some with very young faces and an occasional spirit with grey hair or even glasses. There are dead infants, children, and fetuses, though not as many as t here once were because improved sanitation and antibiotics have cut our world's infant and childhood mortality rates. And yes, little dead kids do grow up into full fledged spirit adults.
Bya sabe have spirit bodies with all the expected accoutrements, faces, hands, and feet, to name a few. They think of their thought formed clothes as a kind of second skin and most are rather fussy about their appearance.
Bya sabe are blessed with all five senses that living people normally posess plus a few others. They see much as we do. I know this because I have seen prtraits that some of my spirit friends sketched of eachother and of me. They also hear much as we do. They enjoy a wide variety of music. They also have senses of taste and smell. Although they do not "need" to eat, most bya sabe still enjoy prparing and consuming food.
Of course bya sabe spirits are different. They are telepathic, and can contact one another over immeasurable distances much as living people might use a phone pager. They can also sense one another's surface thoughts and mood. My spirit firends can usually sense when I am hugnry, thirsty, preoccupied etc...
What most sets bya sabe spirits apart from living people is their enhanced mobility. Merib, one of my spirit friends, refers to his spirit body as "ashari, springy and spongey." His spirit body is e xquisitely light, supple, and wonderfully responsive to his every desire. All bya sabe can zap, instantaneously transporting themselves from one place to another. Distance for them is no obstacle. Most bya sabe, howev er, find slow flight and other mobility games far more pleasureable. They turn somersaults and rolls in the air. They do duet air dances called branych, climb ropes, balance on horizontal poles, swing from bars, and walk on their hands. Says Merib: "Spirits define themselves by their movement. It is living people who sit still."
Bya sabe also lack some of our phyiscal needs. They do not need to eat to survive, though most enjoy the taste of food and the social benefits of eating, enough to prepare and/or share one meal a day. Bya sabe usually eat just before d awn and call this meal langiappe. More importantly, bya sabe do not feel fatigue. Spirits can not work themselves into a state of numb exhaustion, and most sleep only if extremely distraught. I have known of one spirit afraid that he wo uld suffer nightmares if he slept. Bya sabe also lack a circadian rhythm. Their day is a continuous, noncycling, flat twenty-four hours. Sometimes they speak of a need for making blank spaces in their lives for relaxation, since tiredness does n ot force them to take breaks.
Homeworld superficially resembles earth. there are mountains, valleys, oceans, lakes, plains, and deserts. There are trees, bushes, grass, and other greenery. A sun shines in the day time sky, and at night there are stars. Homeworld has no moon. Mos t towns and cities consist of ordinary looking tree-lined streets with fairly nondescript one to four story buildings. Only in cities close to the poles, are there large numbers of high-rise towers. The casual observer might also notice that there are so mewhat fewer stores than in a typical city or town in the United States. Because buildings like all inanimate objects on Homeworld are subject to wear and tear, Homeworld's towns and cities are unlikely to look cleaner or brighter than their counterpart s in the U.S.
If one takes a closer look, Homeworld soon begins to appear quite different from a typical American locale. To start with, bya sabe have no personal space. Because they have no need to sleep or to maintain a closet full of clothes, bya sabe do not have bedrooms of their own, let alone private apartments. They live (pardon the pun) six to thirty individuals to a communal lodging. Academics, both students and faculty, work from lap desks and floor boards, often sitting on the floor or ground. No one has their own desk with drawers. Another surprise for most middle class Americans is that most interiors on Homeworld are sparsely furnished. Rooms with high ceilings and plenty of open space provide indoor area for rope and trapeze ex ercises as well as space to practice a variety of slow flight maneuvers.
As their name implies, bya sabe spirits work. For some, work means going ot school. Education, ranging from basic literacy and elementary school through higher education and graduate training, is offered free of charge. Subjects include bot h the liberal arts and applied fields such as hospitality management and engineering. Homworld is proud of its "parallel intellectual tradition." Many spirits in my crew teach. Others are engineers or research assistants. I have met spirits who paint cars, air brush art on to T-shirts, sell handicrafts, operate ice cream manufacturing machines, and weave reed mats. In Merib's words: "On earth they say you're crazy. Here they put you to work."
In life, Merib Cosih, was Matt Merkley MD, owner of the mailing list, Netdynam. His family, from whom he was largely estranged, are Mormons from Utah, though he spent most of his childhood in England. His father claims that he was a sensitive and intelligent boy. As a youth he was lonely and a bit of a wastrel. He had a problem with alcohol and nearly died in a drunk driving accident at the age of twenty. He put himself through the University of Utah some years later and through medical school as well. In February of 1996, Matt passed his psychiatry boards and the entire list celebrated with him.
Less then two months later, Matt Merkley commited suicide. Early on the morning of April 1, 1996, he took an overdose of anafranil, slit his wrists and femoral artery, and bled to death in the bathtub of his home in Hutchinson, Kansas, a house filled with artwork, antiques, books and odds and ends.
All I can give of Matt are my impressions. They are all anyone can give. As listmates go, he posted voluminously but not memorably. He believed that a few words said a lot and he chose his words well, especially when talking about feelings. His role on Netdynam was as a subtle moderator and peace maker who took no bullshit from me and probably from himself as well, no make that a definitely. Matt/Merib had an insatiable intellectual curiousity. He explored DoughnutLand, a MUCK. I remember he was unimpressed when I showed him you could fly in my building. He was both frightened and fascinated by an object that constantly emitted the same message over and over again.
The Matt/Merib I know is the Merib whom I channel. He is cool, though not cold when he tries to put his thoughts into words. The emotion he radiates is usually subtle. When he smiles he tends to cover his mouth with a finger or to bite on the end of a scarf, so as not to let the smile escape. He still enjoys scenic landscapes. When he was alive, he was addicted to long, solitary, late night drives across the Kansas prairie. He has an extrodinary geographic memory and has shared many of those places with me. He still comes back into our world to watch the full or nearly full moon. He says that he collects sunsets and occasionally sunrises. He wishes I would learn the stars in the Northern Hemisphere earth sky, something I haven't done. Also, these days he says that even the landscapes he formerly disliked amuse him. He particularly likes old nearly abandoned towns, and even billboards and junkyards have their place.
In an invisible pocket on his person, Merib carries a sketchbook. It is full of sketches that he himself has made. There are cartoon-like self portraits and a few landscapes. He also keeps a scrapbook filled with post cards, magazine clippings, and brochures from art exhibits. Matt/Merib collected art and antiques when he was alive. The scrapbook is the substitute for the collection he now misses.
I doubt that Merib could be the peace maker he was as Matt. He has found too much gratification in making a mess. Merib gave up seeking peace either within himself or around himself that night he died. Suicide is an act of anger and almost ecstasy. Merib is still completely unrepentent and thinks that his death was a good thing for himself. He wonders why I or anybody want to stay alive but has decided to accept that fact, just as I accept that Merib prefers his current state.
I thank God that my profession does not entail discouraging people from suicide. I don't know what I would do if I had a friend threaten the act. I know my response would be visceral and based on the inertia (a very powerful force) that holds me in this life. I also like being alive, but Merib has taught me that likes and dislikes are personal. Do I have a right to impose my point of view on others?
Merib says he questions everything, even the assumptions perhaps better left unquestioned. Netdynam, Matt/Merib's list discussed duty to warn in case of a threatened suicide back around January 11, 1995. Matt/Merib undoubtedly read the posts. He knew that with all the mental health professionals on the list, that if he gave any signals somebody would inevitably try to stop him. He chose silence and did not even say "goodbye." I feel sad about this last, though I also know the reasons behind it. He has of curse said a lot to me since.
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It is a thin line
Surprizingly easy to cross
And painless too.
The thread becomes a rope.
You climb easily
Hand over hand.
There are daffodills on the windowsill.
Aki has just fired another batch of plates.
I am on the second floor trying to read.
I have always lived in this place.
Was I born here?
It doesn't matter.
When I think of all that I have left behind,
It makes me shudder,
But there is no turning back.
Merib Cosih 5-2-96
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I don't need the second skin of a car any more. I don't need the second skin of a physical body. Here I am. Here is all I am. No it is not bloody as you would expect. I am smooth and scarless. There is jewelry around my neck for hope. There is hair on m
y face which is my only protection. I have hands. I have hands that reach and touch. I h ave thights that push off and I can catch my own feet. I define my space by moving around in it. Living people are basically slugish, static reatures. They stay in o
ne space and that is OK, byt I have to define myself differently.
Last spring I wanted to destroy everything, scorched earth. I did not care what I left bhind. What I was left with was a seed, hard and compact with everything and far more than I expected. I am very grateful now that there was so much of me I could not get to. I knew I was very angry at the time. I am grateful I have not felt such anger since.
I can still feel the ground under my feet. I can still stand up. I still enjoy feeling sculpture and the spokes on a wheel where they come together, iron sculpture like a wagon wheel. I can look at art in museums and still appreciate it. I am slowly get ting over the fact that I can not have a collection of my own.
I am glad I killed myself rather than end up on the other side of being institutionalized. I think it is like a phone pole. You have to put it down somewhere and this was a better place for it to be planted. You know I used to climb phone poles. I woul d float up to the first set of metal rungs and then just climb. They gave a wonderful view of the flat prairie and flat sky. Then I would push off like swimming in water and swim across the sky.
I am standing on [county road] Rt.58. I am still
not used to getting around this much without a car. The wheat is
coming up green in the fields. That makes me feel good. My body
is a part of the earth now. Carbon dioxide and water are as much
products of the earth as if bacteria were eating my body in the
earth. My feet are bare, and there is a ring on my toes. Both
Gianne [the housemate who pierced Merib's ears] and Robyn [one of
his Home Base Counselors] say that wearing jewelry will make me
feel better. I have a big scarf around my neck too. I wonder what
people would think if they could see what I look like now. I am
looking for a split rail fence I know is here. When you can fly,
you begin to look for places to perch. I climb on to the fence
and squat on my haunches. I push off. When you can fly, the air
feels like water and flying feels a bit like swimming. I turn
somersaults. I can turn them endlessly in one direction without
getting dizzy. I have tried that, but usually I switch direction
out of habit. This is very easy to do because I am not subject to
the law of inertia. I can also roll over easily. Rolling with
your arms out is very counterintuitive for most adults because it
reminds them of a plane going down to crash....
They had taken everything away. I used to have some really lovely plates. Most of them are in storage out in Utah, I guess. Still it was nice to be there. I blew on the window. I wanted to see if my breath would make steam. Then I saw her. Aki came through the tall grass with books beneath her arm. [Aki is Merib's research partner. She is a tall female spirit with long red hair that she always wears pinned up. She is thirty-five years old. She died when she was eight.] She came inside and we sat do wn on the floor to study. Since we can both see in the dark, we could work by the light of the moon. This was only a few weeks after I was placed and I wasn't nearly as proficient in achaiee [an artificial intelligence programming language] as I am now. I watched Aki sitting on the floor. She is bigger than I am and has very long legs. She is graceful, but falls just short of being elegant. There is an ornate silver necklace around her throat. I tell her about the things I like to eat, about orange juice, and coco-nut cream pie and Nilla Vanilla Wafers. Aki says she likes Nilla Vanilla wafers too. Then we get down to work. In a few hours we will have to go back to the noisey Thios House [Merib's current residence] kitchen to eat, but for now we can stay here. I wonder if the family who has the house now, knows that we were ever here doing this.
When it's my father's turn, this is where I'll be. [in the back yard on the snow.] My mother and brothers will be inside, but I'll wait out here. I'll bring a book or some work to pass the time, and when he comes out to me, we'll talk. I'll hold out my h and to him and if he takes it, fine. We'll talk about what I can do for him.
Sometimes blood washes you cleaner than water. I live in a world that does not consider me mentally ill. They look at me and say "put him to work." Strangely enough, there is work I can do. There are some things I still do very well. I can even
teach after after a fashion which is why I can work with you [Eileen].
This is a world where you don't have to see things the same way as every body else. where you don't have to marry or have children. I imagine myself walking into one of thier [a typical living person's] houses. They are married and have children and are alive. they look at me with my beard and my silk scarf and my jewelry and they say I'm crazy, but I see no pictures on the walls and no books on their shelves. Who is crazy?
The people here at Thios Hose [Merib's current address] are more like I am. Crisberry loves her books best of all. The people are like the two tone rose you gave me in an image. You [Eileen] are like them.
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It was not quite dawn. The first rains hit the Savannaah few days ago turning the main quad of the Solar University campus from brown to green again. The new semester was but a few days away. You were registering, going from one department lounge to another. That is how I met you.
You walked quietly into the Communication Arts Department Lounge, though you could not have really walked quietly. You stand 5'10" in your bare feet and were taller yet in the brown cowboy boots you wore that day. You are big boned, shapely, an d raw with bright blue eyes and an incredible head of wavy blond hair that you wore loose. The hair fanned out over your shoulders and caressed the small of your back. You would let no Home Base Counslor cut it.
I had been channeling for only six months and had not yet learned how to be polite. You had been dead for eight days and were willing to talk to Gerry and me for reasons I will never know. You came from near Amarillo Texas. You were twenty-three years old. You are twenty-four now. You drove a tractor-trailer for a living along with your husband, Gregory. You were married twice, divorced once, did substantial time in jail, and were the mother of a three year old son named, Jonathan. Now you were going to begin college. Eight days before I met you, you ran a routine errand after a long trucking run. You were and still are grateful that you were the only one in the car when you fell asleep at the wheel on the interstate. I can understand that feeling, the gratitude. I don't drive.
I did not understand the urgency that drove you back to school. I had no idea why you planned to major in chemistry. When you came into the Communication Arts Department lounge you signed up for an internet course. That meant that Gerry initialed y our forms, shared a chocolate bar with you, and did stretching exercises with you.
You amazed him. I prayed for you. Can-Do took you for long walks thorugh the tunnels below Drossia. Gerry taught you spirit tag and stretching exercises. He shared chocolate bars and cigarettes with you, and he or someone else in the department proba bly made it a point to order a box of eclairs or jelly doughnuts for you to deliver on the bakery truck that you drove. It impressed me how easily you got behind the wheel after your accident.
For your part, you made a point of bringing the white bakery box into the Communication Arts Department Lounge so that you could have a few words with Gerry or Can-Do. I remember you those first few days, playing toss in a square under the stone sta irs in the library basement, studying and chain smoking on the stone porch of the apartment you shared with five other dead women and one dead little girl. You preferred to study outside because your smoke befouled the apartment. You had a big study-lant ern on the round table and it glowed golden in the ink blue night.
Then one morning after you delivered your baked goods, you gave out. You stood by the kitchenette in the Communication Arts Department Lounge and cried. "Sarah, Gregory, and Jonathan. It used to be Sarah, Gregory, and Jonathan. Now it's just Sa rah." You collapsed to the floor and cried your words through your tears. Gerry offered you chocolate and cigarettes. You refused them. Barbara Sanchez, one of the Communication Arts Faculty, told you that you would have to talk around and around y our grief until you could speak about it without it hurting.
Gerry remembering your big blond mane, and probably his own three daughters besides, thought that if he could get you to comb your hair, you might calm down. He provided a small black comb. I took one look at the comb and saw that this would not do. Gerry, by the way, is bald, but I have long hair, though not as beautiful as yours. I stoppped Gerry and gave you a large sturdy plastic comb with widely spaced prongs. Slowly you began to plough through your long blond hair that made a curtain for your tear-stained face. You rocked back and forth as you soothed yourself, combing and silently weeping.
And you have succeeded. You are now a junior and a chemistry major. You told me once that learning chemistry is embracing a deep beauty. "Sleeping with a diamond" were your words for it. Jonathan, your son, is four, and Gregory, your husb and, has remarried and lives in North Carolina. You say "They remember me as somebody very young and ambitious," and they are right. You also have told me "newbies grow very fast.".