Book review - Many lives, many masters by Dr. Brian L. Weiss

I cannot quite put into words my utter detestation for the book, it's author, and all or most of mankind! Given to skepticism all my life I was always weary of any mention of this book. I would always argue that since this book has been around for a good long time and since we are yet to discover all that much compelling evidence about reincarnation, there's probably a snag somewhere. Which is why until recently I never thought about actually reading it. 

Let me first tell you what caused me to overcome my inhibition. Someone very close to me is suffering from a bad bout of depression. One I was talking with her about the kind of psychiatrist she visits, she said that what she really needs is a session with Dr. Brian Weiss, that only he had the power to cure her. She has a masters in math, so I allow myself to be taken in. I immediately download the book on my kindle (it only costs about $2), get me a packet of chips, and set my teeth to it. 

Let me stress here - I approached the book with a totally open mind. In fact, since none of us could afford a session with Dr. Weiss even if we sold a kidney apiece, I was very keen to actually learn something from it, so that maybe I could actually use it on her to good effect. I was suitably impressed when Dr. Weiss opened the narrative with his brilliant curriculum vitae and what a strong scientific mind he has. And I have nothing against the whole idea of reincarnation either. In fact, whenever I happen to find a show on it on the discovery channel or some such place, I would make sure to watch it. 

When he began to describe in some detail he hypnotised Catherine for the first time, I was immediately fascinated and copied the entire thing in a note for reference. It was the 1853 BC thing that killed it for me. Why, Dr. Weiss? Had you merely said AD, maybe I would have been disenchanted a wee bit later. But you really couldn't wait, could you, glutton that you are? And then, as soon as the session ends, you immediately feel the need to inform the readers that you find that ape-shit baloney completely believable, even though you are the oh-so-scientific!

I am understandably shaken, but I decide to wait for the scientific explanation that would soon follow. So, I bite the bullet (or gulp down two beers) and resume with the book. But, after reading some twenty more pages of it, it seems that it goes only one way - downhill. Just when Catherine starts to choke as she recalls her throat being slit in a boat by none other than her current abusive boyfriend, I decide that enough is enough and that it will never get any more scientific than an episode of Monty Python. 

That night, I was so livid that I barely remember what I did. I faintly recollect having plonked my kindle down hard on the cheap coir mattress that is my bed and wishing Dr. Weiss' immediate demise and reincarnation with his face glued to his butt. But then, next morning when I regained my composure, I began to wonder - what wrong did Dr. Weiss really do? Or, if a fault had been committed, who exactly was the perpetrator of it? Is Dr. Weiss a scientific man? Yes, and I couldn't agree more. Is Dr. Weiss a good psychiatrist? He's an excellent one! He knows exactly what people want, and he gives it them by the truckloads. When he starts to talk about Catherine, he knows that his readers are immediately going to start judging her, so he wastes no time in telling us how beautiful Catherine is. And then, since he knows that not everyone is taken in by mere good looks alone, he at once jumps to how Catherine is abused in the hands of her own father, which is now getting a little old, really. But then, a better construct for garnering sympathy has seldom been engineered, and he is certain that he has the rapt attention of everyone present. 

From here follows a tale so bizarre as to put a pot-headed hippie to shame. Some stories are straight, some circular, and still others, elaborately ornate. This one is shaped somewhat like a Klein bottle. I did not stick around for the greater part of it, but I do believe that for once Twilight is a better love story! Even the end is pure genius - when it comes to squeezing out the tears from your hapless readers there is nothing more potent than the murdered child - the child of the tormented female protagonist of unearthly beauty. Dr. Weiss could count his dollars even before the whole of his plot hatched!

And yet, as I write this scathing review, I feel that something is not quite right. And that feeling of inadequacy comes from the mention of the 1853 BC. If he wished his readers to seriously believe what he wrote, why did he feel compelled to make such a blatant and obvious fib about something so unrelated to the rest of the story? If Catherine heard the dates in the wind, surely the wind would know better than to stick to the Georgian calendar? Or the utter nonsensical notion that someone in 1853 BC would know that the year as 1853 BC (for chirssake)! My best guess is that this is Dr. Weiss' plea for absolution. He is telling his readers - look, this here is absolute horsecrap, and if you choose to believe in it, so much the worse for you. For whatever that happens to you henceforth, the entire liability is yours, not mine! I actually respect Dr. Weiss for this honest admission of guilt, and this is why I struggle to find fault with him. 

Then who is to blame? Why, mankind, of course! Right now, it's more fashionable than ever before to turn atheist all of a sudden. When people look at the less developed nations and the religious extremism and mania that ties them, they are shocked and disgusted. This piece of fiction here just gives a perfect insight into how the whole thing works - why men and women ever since civilisation happened have found it easier to believe in bearded beings of the sky, ten armed goddesses, or men giving birth to women out their ribs than the most obvious piece of common sense. Or why somebody like Hitler can dupe an entire nation into killing 6 million for no good reason. People always find it so much easier when their is somebody to think their thoughts out for them, and nothing beats the sheer comfort of knowing that whatever mistakes you made, or howsoever bad your life turned out to be is the result of forces beyond your control. 

In a way, I owe a lot to this book. Having been an atheist most of my life, I have often been bothered by doubts such as what if it's all true what they say about god and religion, or can so many people all throughout history be wrong? This book reinstates my confidence in what I stand for, the right to thwart the attempts at deceit by other people an organisations, since this book is one of the best depiction of the way these powers work. And no, it does absolutely nothing to dissipate my interest in reincarnation, and once I finish posting this I will search for afterlife and rebirth on YouTube and binge-watch anything and everything remotely relevant. 

Yours sincerely,

Jude

Depression theory - first post

[At the start, this paced out like one of my writing without pausing games, but in the end I did stall momentarily here and there. Still, this piece is very much legit.]

Writing without pausing – that's the name of the game, isn't it? Well, for one, compared to then, I type much faster – what with the job that I do (I am a software engineer) – now I get so much lesser time to think. Te good part- well, since I did not write a single blog for so long, I make a lot of mistakes.

So, let me see, what was I thinking of a short while back? Inebriation, like, of course, that has to be it! And yes, depression. This one theory that I chanced upon while sober, and now I cannot seem to let it go. The theory, briefly, is this – that depression is the withdrawal symptom of the addiction to humiliation, and/or degradation. I think there is a difference, but when I write that I also think what I mean is that there is actually no difference – go figure!

We are addicted to humiliation, isn't it? It is that simple. Now, let me tell you, before you start doubting me and making snide remarks about all of this, I am really a connoisseur on depression, Fact is, my mother, my aunt, so many uncles that I cannot keep count, are a prey to this debilitating, and all consuming disease. As far as my own depression goes, it is really exceedingly simple – it is not depression at all, but a mild form of psychosis, with a dash of neurosis thrown in. And it is funny, that although I frequently talk aloud with myself, I am not schizophrenic. I am very much positive that it isn't so, because all the voices that go on inside my head (and yes, quite ceaseless) are very much my own.

But, onward with my theory – stand aside my own depression, may it never bar the way – the addiction to the degradation of self. It is really funny – and it is also one of the darkest aspects of our own selves, os I am pretty darn sure that should anybody chance to read this, they will not admit to any of these in their own miserable selves. Do you have that one constant, nagging dream - a wakeful dream, not one that disturbs the configurations of your sleep – that you are doing something that you really, really hate to do? Somebody told me that that is OCD, but I am pretty much sure that, just like homosexuality, we all have just a little bit of it in all of us. For me it is hair on the bathroom floor – that simple! Hair, for God's sake! I cannot quite tell you how much I abhor hair on the bathroom floor. I never, practically never, enter a bathroom barefooted. Rubber soles beneath my skin – that is my poison (after one has quit smoking – the one great habit (no matter what Freud claims to the otherwise) – what else is there, anyway?). And, funny thing is, so long as you have hair, on some or any part of your body, at some point, it is going to manifest itself atop the cover on your drain. So, I have these horrid, vivid daytime dreams that I have hair – and, that wet, horrid, bathroom floor hair – in no other place more sacred than my holy mouth!

Speak of torture! Now, I ask myself – why do I have these dreams so very recurrent (I think we better cease to call these dreams – maybe, thoughts? Certainly not fantasies!)? It feeds my degradation addiction. It is practically the only thing that keeps me from collapsing altogether. It is my little safety valve, and I am proud that it is no more sinister than this.

This is what I am speaking of. Depression sufferers, did you ever notice this? Your depression, almost always, and no matter what you might believe, has a very earthly trigger. Of course, you might argue that the trigger itself is of no consequence, and just about anything in its place ranging from the death of a cat to global warming could have pushed you on your way upon the highway to hell with equal or greater urgency, and yet it does seem that your depression also always needs to find a humble, worldly fire to feed it. And again, just about noone I met with depression has a depression in the middle of a crisis. It might be the adrenaline thing, or whatever chemical mash up that works (as I said, I am a software engineer), but severe depression (the ones that occur in fits and spasms and seem to make marvellous contortions at the expense of your sanity) always occurs 'after' the completion of a personal crisis or tragedy. It may be a very recently concluded episode, or one from your very remote past that has left an indelible imprint upon your subconscious (does that even exist?), but it is 'always' past tense.

So, my question is (and a horrible asker that I am) – is it possible to get addicted to degradation? And is depression merely a manifestation of the withdrawal symptoms of the addiction to degradation? Withdrawal symptoms can be awful – I would know since I evolved from three quarters of a pack a day smoker to a non-smoker in the course of a single day – and the only thing that keeps me from starting on it again is that I do not wish to drag me through that ordeal a second time – what if all our current treatment of depression has taken off on the wrong foot absolutely? I believe current treatment of depression attempts to raise the serotonin and endorphin levels of a person and is designed to make that person 'happier'. Instead, what if we actually did the reverse – make the person realize what a terrible crisis it is that they are going through and what horrid shadows their current persona is when compared to their cheerful, unadulterated past? I believe that wen a patient of acute depression is telling you how morbid his or her life has become, the person does not actually need your help in making it better. What that person needs, instead, is your concurrence – that you 'believe' that their humiliation is very real and their degradation absolute. That would, then, feed their inner Narcissus, and possibly and somewhat inadvertently steer them on the road to recovery.

Yours sincerely,

Jude

Old Man

There's a man I knew somewhere:
You'd think he's gone - He'd still be there!
Waving arms at all who care
To hear a merry lore.

He'd stroll up and down - about a mile
Mumbling rhymes all the while
Or smile at you a crooked smile;
Yet I knew his heart was pure.

But soon he'd wish he'd rather be
Alone - away from companee;
For all that in him e'er they'd see
Would be a toothless bore.

Yours sincerely
Jude

Sleep not yet

Sleep not yet, my endless sorrow -
My mind lies bitter and cold.
Prolong thy sweet burning yet awhile
For I am not yet old.

Say, what good youth may be
When youth cannot be free?
My kindled soul inflames my husk
But chills the heart in me.

Take all thy merriment yonder now
And leave me here in pain;
Gently numb my senses til'
None but memories remain.

Yours sincerely
Jude

Nightflight to Venus

[A repeat of the game I mentioned in my last post. The wordlist was different, though - Flight, moonlight, away, promise, self]

The stars are only

As far as they seem to be

Tell me, would you and I

Not reach them if we aspire?

So much talk, we must board a flight

And promise every self

Not to utter a word

Till our feet are firmly ground

And our hearts fly

Away in the moonlight

And should your honesty shine

And say, the moon is purple,

Well what is it to you,

Its still beautiful, you see

And our feet are ground

The way they should be

And should relativity fail

And not carry us to,

All I know is that

I'd be 'lone without you

So hurry up darlin'

And make this a sweet honeymoon

Live every moment like

You're not alone.

Sincerely yours

Jude

Snakes on my mind

[Wrote using the 4 words - long, intertwine, melancholy and gay, as part of a gag. Not my6 best effort, but here it goes.]

Sitting by the brook I saw

In a corner if my mind

Serpents, playing in the sun

Their bodies intertwined.

Their speckled forms knew no bounds

Their motions gay and bold

The wind whispered in my ears

Things from times untold

Tales of the past are long and wide

Oft with a melancholy turn.

Our bruised thoughts go writhing while

In a golden blaze they burn.

Yours sincerely

Jude

Hurt your eyes

Nobody told me,

This simplistic afternoon,

Some cantankerous old man,

Humming a lone, sad tune,

What it should feel like

Sitting all alone.

Watching the sidewalk drying

When the rain is gone.

And now the bluebirds sing

What the rain left unsaid

I watch the sunshine spraying

All over my bed

I know that you'd be lonely

Should the bluebirds have left

While I'm sitting here only

Hoping you catch my drift.

Now the sunshine's all gone

And the day is through

And all I'd be hoping is that

The moon shines bright on you

And should it hurt your eyes, lover

And make you feel blue

Close your eyes, think of me, lover

And the pain that I go through.

Yours sincerely

Jude