A friend of mine once managed a crystal shop.
This sounds like great fun, especially if crystals are considered for solely for their esthetic qualities. Brightly colored, naturally formed into geometric forms that catch the light and break it into equally colorful spectra, these wonders of geology are endlessly fascinating. Even softer varieties such as feldspar, or less valuable gemstones like quartz, are intriguing in their uniqueness, and it's not hard to see why artists, writers, and lovers of rare and the lovely have been mesmerized by crystals, especially the harder varieties that can be shaped into gemstones. Presiding over an entire store of these beauties could not help but be a visual delight.
Unfortunately for Caroline, she managed her friend's crystal shop during the 1980s, during the height of the "crystals have special, magical powers" craze. What this meant was that despite a singular dearth of evidence that the vibrations from, say, a watermelon tourmaline would align one's chakras, make mounds of delicious cole slaw give ultra-powerful orgasms, and instantly cause their wearer to lose fifty pounds of ugly fat while simultaneously curing cancer and ingrown toenails, a great many people spent a great deal of money buying pretty crystals in hopes of tapping into the vibrations.
As great as this was for Caroline's employer, who owned the shop and selected the crystals, the truth was that despite the genuinely lovely jewelry or paperweights that could emerge from crystals and other stones, when it came to healing, sex, or delicious cole slaw weight loss, the average person was better off consulting a professional (or ordering takeout).
Thus it was that my friend Caroline found herself managing that crystal shop in Atlanta one fine day. The shop was in a mall, and sold the usual assortment of New Age bric-a-brac: books, incense, block printed Indian clothing and bedspreads, batik sarongs, and Windham Hill CD's. Its best selling item and most profitable line, though, was crystals, and Caroline, who had done a fair bit of research into neopaganism and alternative healing, was simultaneously amused and appalled at how much the innocent and trusting were willing to pay for a geode or a polished stone that cost a dollar or two wholesale.
One day she was working the register when a woman came in, all aglow with the enthusiasm of the new convert. She had just seen a psychic who had advised her to buy certain stones in hopes of alleviating a host of annoying but not deadly conditions, and that very shop stocked almost everything on her wish list. Caroline watched as the newcomer assiduously chose the right stones for her ills, along with whatever accessories the psychic had suggested.
Finally the woman came up to the cash register and started unloading her basket. She was evidently a chatty sort, for Caroline soon found herself knowing much more about her customer than was strictly necessary. Being a polite, well brought up Southern girl, she nodded and made small talk as she rang up and wrapped each selection, even if she privately wanted to tell her new friend that she'd be better off eating more fiber and less red meat.
She was nodding away when the customer suddenly leaned forward and confided that she had just undergone a past life regression and had learned the most exciting thing! Caroline, who had heard all too many claim to be Marie Antoinette or Charlemagne, did her best to look interested as she placed the last crystal in the bag and handed it over.
"The psychic told me that - "
The customer paused. Caroline paused in mid-pass and waited, smiling slightly. "Yes?"
"She told me I was the reincarnation of Isis!"
Caroline, who knew very well that Isis was a goddess, blinked at her new friend. She then said the only thing that came into her head.
"I didn't know she'd died."
As one might expect from the above anecdote, exploring past lives has been a popular pasttime ever since the beginnings of the mid-century psychic boom that eventually morphed into the New Age. A legitimate part of Buddhist and Hindu practice has become a means of self-exploration or, for people like Caroline's customer, navel-gazing for modern Americans who can't stomach the old Christian afterlife but can't quite bring themselves to belief that our essential selves die with our bodies. I once underwent what was purported to be a past life regression during a women's retreat weekend at my church, and greatly dismayed the facilitator when I fell asleep right in the middle of the attempt to find out if I really had been either a pre-Revolutionary woman who had died in childbirth or a Crusader who'd fought at the Horns of Hattin.
That isn't to say that reincarnation, the transmigration of the soul from one human body to another, or some form of karma isn't legitimate. I freely admit that I don't know enough about actual Buddhist or Hindu teachings on the subject to do more than generalize. At the same time, it's hard not to laugh at some of the absurdities that have been taught about reincarnation in the industrialized world over the past few decades.
Tonight I bring you two books, one a bestseller that launched a 1950s fad for "come as you were parties," the other a 1970s volume that claimed that the spirits of the great had decided to continue their work through a simple British widow. Both books even had musical accompaniment that was itself So Bad It's Good:
The Search for Bridey Murphy, by Morey Bernstein - Colorado businessman Morey Bernstein had an unusual hobby. Somewhere along the line he had learned to hypnotize people, and soon was hypnotizing his acquaintances both for fun and in an attempt to cure pesky ailments such as recurring headaches.
One day at the country club Bernstein attempts to hypnotize the wife of a local car dealer. Virginia Tighe, known to her friends as Ginni, proved to be the single best subject Bernstein ever had. Not only did she go under with surprising ease, she would willingly, nay, eagerly answer any questions put to her. Even better, she was game to try any technique Bernstein suggested, including hypnotic regression.
Hypnotic regression was the forerunner of the guided meditation that unearthed my past as a Templar, and is at once simple and complex: the hypnotist puts the subject into a trance and asks him/her to recall what s/he was doing ten years ago, then ten years before that, ten years before that, and so on. It's supposed to help subjects remember their past, and despite the danger of a clumsy practitioner implanting or suggesting false memories to the subject, it's generally pretty harmless.
So it was with Virginia Tighe, at least until Morey Bernstein decided to ask her about the time before her own birth.
Much to his amazement, the Colorado housewife, who had been born and bred in the Midwest, starting speaking in a thick Irish brogue and calling herself Bridey Murphy! The astonished Bernstein soon found himself listening to the life story of Bridey, who had been born in 1798 in Cork to barrister Duncan Murphy and his wife Kathleen, lived in a wooden house called the Meadows, and married another barrister at the age in 1815. Bridey and her husband, Sean Brian McCarthy (whom she called "Brian"), moved to Belfast, where they attended St. Theresa's church, raised a family, and lived happily enough until Bridey's death from a fall in 1864.
Bernstein was thrilled at this amazing discovery, and quickly wrote a book about the case, with much detail about hypnotism, life in 19th century Ireland, and (of course) the life and death of Bridey Murphy. Tighe, who was skeptical about reincarnation despite her hypnotized claim to be Bridey Murphy McCarthy, cooperated despite her dislike of publicity, and doubtless was much relieved when Bernstein decided to call her "Ruth Simmons" in the book.
The Search for Bridey Murphy came out in 1956 and was immediate hit. The book's colorful account of Bridey's life, her passion for her beloved husband, and her life in a bygone era appealed to millions of Americans, and soon there were Bridey Murphy dances, "come as you were" parties, a Reincarnation cocktail, and instruction books on how you, too, could be hypnotized and learn about your past in Ireland (or Poland, or Japan, or Fryslan, or Upper Slobovia, or…). There were even two popular songs inspired by Bernstein and Tighe, "For the Love of Bridey Murphy," and "Do You Believe in Reincarnation?", a movie starring Teresa Wright, and a parody called The Quest for Bridey Hammerschlaugen involving a Jewish woman named Goldie Smith who learns that she was once Davey Crockett!
Naturally all this fuss about Bridey Murphy aroused the curiosity of less credulous Americans, and soon investigative reporters descended on Ireland to check out Bridey's supposed story. Diligent examination soon brought certain discrepancies to light:
There was no record of a Bridey Murphy being born in 1798 in Cork, or anywhere else in Ireland.
There was no record of a Bridey Murphy or Bridey McCarthy dying in 1864, even though all deaths were required to be registered starting in 1861.
Irish houses are usually made of stone or brick, not wood.
St. Theresa's church in Belfast was not built until 1911.
The name "Sean" is pronounced "Shawn," not "See-an."
Even worse, Bernstein had not disguised "Ruth Simmons'" identity well enough, and soon reporters were interviewing Virginia Tighe's friends and relatives. It seemed that Virginia, the simple housewife from the Midwest, had either forgotten or forgotten to reveal certain facts about her life to amanuensis:
Although raised by an uncle of Norwegian descent and his German/Scotch-Irish wife, Tighe was the daughter of part-Irish parents.
She had been a gifted mimic as a child, and had entertained friends and associates by memorizing comic monologues starring an Irish housewife, which she delivered in a heavy and very convincing brogue.
Tighe's husband was named "Brian."
Worst of all, a woman named - you knew this was coming - Bridie Murphy Corkell lived across the street in Chicago from the young Virginia Tighe. Not only that, Corkell was an Irish immigrant and never managed to shed her native accent.
Bernstein continued to insist that all of was merely due to coincidence or faulty recordkeeping, but he was practically the only person who still believed that Virginia Tighe had actually lived and died as Bridey Murphy. Clearly Virginia Tighe, the oh so willing hypnotic subject, had responded to Bernstein's suggestions about a past life by drawing on childhood memories to create the saga of Bridey,
See-an her husband Brian, and their life on the auld sod. The records went into the closet, the books into the attic, and soon both he and Virginia Tighe were living their old, pre-Bridey lives.
Morey Bernstein stopped hypnotizing people, applied himself to a business career, and died a wealthy, respected philanthropist in Pueblo, Colorado. He never stopped believing that he had actually uncovered Virginia's true past life, though, and doubtless would be gratified to learn that Bridey Murphy's story has remained enough of a pop culture reference to be mentioned in movies, books, and even a rock band consisting of three Cowsills and Warren Zevon sideman Waddy Wachtel.
As for Virginia Tighe, she never did quite believe in reincarnation, although she was once quoted as saying, "Well, the older I get the more I want to believe in it." She died in 1995, four years before her pre-life biographer, and to date has not attempted to return despite her potential incarnation being the perfect age to have a Facebook page, a tattoo, and plenty of feisty Irish attitude.
Unfinished Symphonies, by Rosemary Brown. A very special thing happened to a little girl in 1923. She was minding her own business when an old man with flowing white hair appeared before her, just like that! If that wasn't scary enough, she could see right through him. He was a ghost!
Now, the average little girl would have been frightened, but not Rosemary. Her parents and her grandparents were all Spiritualists, you see, and that meant she knew all about spirits. So when the old man, who wore a long cassock just like a priest, told her that she was a very special little girl who would someday do him and his friends a very special favor, little Rosemary believed him. And though she didn't know who the old man was until she was seventeen, when she saw his picture in an antique store, she always knew that he would come back when the time was right.
Forty years later little Rosemary, who had grown, married, raised two children, and then lost her husband, was recuperating at home from a rib injury. She had grown up in a musical household and later took a few years of piano lessons, and to pass the time she sat down at the piano and began to try to pick out a tune she'd learned as a child. She'd only gotten a few bars in when suddenly a familiar presence seized control of her hands, and music far lovelier and more complex than Rosemary could ever have imagined poured out through her hands across the keyboard.
Her old friend Franz Liszt, the great 19th century composer and pianist, had returned. And this time he wasn't alone.
The next few years were hectic, as Rosemary transcribed work after work by the finest 19th century composers. Each had his own way of working with her; Liszt controlled her hands for a stanza or two, then let her write the notes down before continuing. Chopin, less patient (consumption will do that to you!), physically guided her fingers to the correct keys. Poor Schubert tried to sing new lieder, but alas couldn't sing his own compositions. The most formal were Bach and Beethoven, who simply dictated each note in turn, even though Rosemary wasn't a good enough musician to understand what they had in mind until the piece was finished and she could play it herself.
Fortunately all of Rosemary's new friends had learned to speak English on the Other Side, so it wasn't nearly as hard for them to talk to her as one might think. It didn't happen immediately, of course; Chopin once tried to warn Rosemary that her bathtub was overflowing but only knew how to say so in French! Beethoven had no such problems, possibly because he was no longer deaf and, to quote Rosemary, had lost "that crabby look" that had inspired generations of caricatures. Claude Debussy, another of her new friends, was fascinated by the youth movement then sweeping Europe and was "a hippie type," which is perfectly in character.
Friendly they might have been, and up on current events, but Rosemary's ghostly companions had more on their minds than simply dropping by for tea. They were out of prove that there was indeed an afterlife through the simple means of dictating songs, piano works, and even symphonies in their distinctive styles to the simple British housewife.
This was the story Rosemary Brown told to the press in the late 1960s, bolstered by the first of her three books and a tour of the talk show circuit. She proved an amusing guest, as Johnny Carson found when she calmly informed him that there was no sex in heaven, and a surprisingly good conversationalist. She also had learned to play the piano well enough, thanks to private lessons from Liszt, that she could perform some of the less complex pieces that her friends from the Other Side had taught her.
Critical opinion was divided as to the merit of these works, alas; Leonard Bernstein said that only one, dictated by Russian master Sergei Rachmaninoff, sounded authentic to him, while Andre Previn was quoted as saying that even if Brown was telling the truth, the new compositions were so anemic that they added nothing to their alleged authors' reputations.
Others were less cynical. British composer Sir Richard Rodney Bennett told the press that he had been stuck on a piece until he took some advice that Debussy had passed along through Rosemary. "If she is a fake, she is a brilliant one, and must have had years of training. Some of the music is awful, but some is marvelous. I couldn't have faked the Beethoven.''
Whether Sir Richard could have faked Beethoven's posthumous oeuvre, which included movements of both a 10th and and 11th symphony, remains unknown, but Rosemary soon attracted a devoted band of followers who contributed to her upkeep, bought her books, and played her music. The only top flight pianist to record Rosemary's transcriptions to date has been Peter Katin, but the great friend of the dead left so many piece in manuscript at her death in 2001 that it will take much time and effort for them to be sorted out and assigned their correct places in the catalogs of their respective ghostly authors. No less a musical authority musicologist Sir Donald Tovey said that Rosemary's compositions deserved study, as in this quote from 1970:
''It is the implications relevant to this phenomenon that we hope will stimulate sensitive interest."
That Sir Donald had died in 1940 is simply not relevant to the quality of Rosemary's transcriptions.
In the meantime, below are a links to two of these ethereal works, one each by Chopin and Rosemary's dear mentor Liszt, along with links to undisputed compositions by these composers. Enjoy!
Chopin nocturne as channeled by Rosemary Brown.
Chopin nocturne composed during Chopin's lifetime.
"Gruebelei" by Liszt, transcribed by Rosemary Brown.
"Sonetto 104 del Petrarca" by Liszt.
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And so, my musically inclined friends - did you ever hear of Rosemary Brown and her work? Or own that precious single by Bridey Murphy (the band) during your "The Cowsills are SO CUTE!!!!!!!" phase? Were you Isis in a previous life? Osiris? Do you own a watermelon tourmaline, and has it given you fabulous orgasms improved your health? Come share your story!
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