My Story


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No part of this work may be copied or published in a different format, and no part of it quoted even for the purpose of review. baker publishing 2011.

 Apart from the incident (previous to my birth already related), my first memory of my father was when I was a small baby, maybe  two months or less and I was in my parent's bedroom, which had one set of windows facing west. Dad was outside with the lawnmower, and somebody came in to shut the window, presumably to protect my delicate ears from the noise. The noise wasn't too loud to me, so I thought I would rather have the contact with my dad than have the window closed, so I began crying. "He seems to..." the person, I think it was my Grandmother, mum's mother, said to my mother. She had picked up on the sound of my vocalisation and its meaning correctly, even though I was some time away from being able to talk. Her conversation was that, speaking about me in the third person and not to me directly, I was complaining about the window being shut.

My recollection is also that dad said once "I think we will call him John". No I thought frantically, Malcolm Malcolm" as it seems I already knew my name.

About the same time I remember being put to sleep in a cot beside the bed, and somebody showing my mother how to correctly swaddle my feet. It was much too tight, I thought, with no chance of movement, and rather uncomfortable, but I was impressed that when I woke the next day the "bandages" had loosened considerbly and were much more to my liking.

Dad was one of two siblings, and his sister my Auntie Peg (Fitzgerald) is already dead. Dad's father, Lorenzo or Larry came to New Zealand from Ireland, but he died when my father was about seven. He was an architect, and married well into the Sandilands family, and lived in Fielding.

After Grandpa died, the family moved to Paengaroa in the Bay of Plenty and stayed with Gig's (Gran's) brother. Dad milked the cows by han before walking seven miles to primary school, and then managed to get a job shepherding in Gisborne, saving up to own his own farm, but joined the army when the war broke out.

When it was cleaned in the 1980s, Masaccio's fresco of TheExpulsion (1426–1427) lost the added fig leaves. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masaccio

It is true that I have compared my father in appearance to the man in the picture by Millaise "Christ in the House of His Parents, and I will post a picture of him here so you can see for yourself.

I've also said that between the time of my death, in my previous life in A.D 33 or 70, and my birth in 1955, I lived completely outside this world, but not to far away, and definitely in the solar system.

Life is divided into periods of 70 years called life times. This was the promise of God to Abraham.

It is also true that people pray both to God and Jesus, but I can say that Jesus cannot hear them unless God wills it. A prayer is a private thing between the almighty and the prayer, but I did hear one prayer during world war two, and it touched me deply. It was my Grandmother, Gig, and she prayed it every night. "Please God return my son Tim safely to me." It was the same prayer that every mother prays, and it goes without saying, but God knows the voice and can hear the prayer, even if it is done silently, because God knows everything, even the future, and appreciates both the time taken and the sentiment behind the thought.

At one instant, and I believe I was working on a painting by Masaccio. It is the one on the left, with the leaves on it, and I can't be sure of teh time, but it was some time between 1940 and 1945. Tim had been out in the desert with his (platoon), again, I can't be sure of the number of soldiers, but I can recall God saying to me "?". I understood immediately that my father (to be) had been involved in some kind of incident and would likely die if he didn't receive immediate assistance.

Of corse I indicated that I was ready to leave right away, and immediately found myself in the desert. It was hot, but cool for the desert, possibly mid morning, I can't be sure. Seeing nothing, I crossed over a dune, and saw a man lying on the ground. I picked him up in a fireman's lift, with my arms around his legs, and his body over my right shoulder, and following the tracks, set off the way they had come from camp, on a route march. His head banged on my back I remember, with every step, and I was hurrying as fast as I could, at a steady jog.

It was my practice, as a adult, to maintain a high level of fitness, and this meant jogging, possibly in the same type of machine you see in the film 2001.

The word possibly is used for a reason, because having never verified the story with my father for the simple reason that I did not believe in God while he was alive, and had no memory of it until after his death, I can't say for certain that it actually happened. If it did it was important for the reason that it was one of the few times that I broke my stay in my residence "in Heaven", as you may understand better shortly. 

As I jogged along, I noted that the sand was firm, less so than wet sand on the beach, but not much less, and the distance was long, perhaps 20 miles, but again, I can't say with any cirtanty. Perhaps the New Zealand Army has a record of this incident.

At one point I encountered a long low bank, about the height of a table, and lept up it without breaking stride, and I didn't slip fortunately. My dad's head was still banging on my back, indicating that he was either unconscious or, hopefully not, dead, but I was not aware of any blood. Later I understood that he may have been shot a number of times by "friendly" fire, from a thompson sub machine gun or tommy gun, but again this is unconfirmed.

After a while I came to the camp, and simply ran in, finding the red cross of hospital tent and a number of officers and nurses standing around talking. "Fix hin up", was all I commanded, and laid him on a stretcher, before turning around and jogging back into the desert following my tracks once again, and shortly finding myself back in my studio, (by a miracle), and resumed working on my painting.

He must have recovered,because he came home from the war eventually, and I got to know him quite well after I was born.

Ther was another incident when I rescued somebody, without waiting to be born, directly from my place of work, but it happened (to me) over a thousand years ago. How can this be?

The person I rescued was a woman who was being raped on the streets of Belgrade in Serbia. Don't ask me why I or somebody else didn't get there sooner to prevent it. Maybe the local soldiers had all been shot. Anyway I think I was caught in barbed wire for a short time, then I managed to free myself, and rounding a corner saw the woman being raped. I shot the man who was still on top of her, with a single bullet to the back of his head from my automatic rifle and rolled him off her. Then I helped her to get up and put her jeans and clothing back on. Her face was a bloddy mess because she had refused to co-operate and he had beaten her in the face repeatedly while she was lying on the ground, and it was a miracle she didn't have broken eye sockets and missing teeth and smashed cheek bones. Then I took her to a hospital, and after saying "take care" I was back out on the strets again, and shot several more before I was shot myself that night. There is more to this story here.

If you care to believe me I have already lived the next 3,000 years of earth's history, and I have probably lived it many times, as different people. Don''t ask me how this is physically possible, because the soul ages at the same rate as the body, so even if the soul in in a different body, it still experiences time as it is now. For me to die, and to live another life at the same time as I am living life as a different person, I think the soul would have to come from a place seventy light years or more away. This is because you can't leave this planet and come back and meet yourself. That is, your physical body, but is the soul a physical thing, or just a memory in God's consciouness, a sort of computer back up of what we experience in a life time.
The scene in its context in the chapel.
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 I'm not sure about what you think, but to me the image of the woman in Masaccio's fresco looks remarkably similar to the face of Daphne in Gian Lorenzo Bernini's  "Aopllo and Daphne" (while to me the face of the  'woman' in his other famous work looks to me not like ecstacy, but the agony of Christ.              ',


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