Hi There!
This is a long one but I want to give some background. Many years ago I had lived in the States. I finished High school in the west. I studied british history in my last year there. It was a high honors class. I don't even remember how I got into that class as I wasn't particularly a brillant student. It covered early to late British History. It was taught by a good teacher and I liked it. Queens and Kings..and all that jazz.
I used to love reading the textbook. Something caught my eye and it totally took possession of my mind. It had a very short chapter regarding the fight between Ireland and Great Britain concerning Ireland's right to independence.
It triggered something inside me and I felt that I had to go visit Ireland. Yearning...whatever. I don't remember what I felt but I had to find a way to get there.
I studied a travel column that was published in the local newspaper every week. I found an article that talked about how you can join an organization and stay with a host family in a foreign country. I found one for Ireland. Next... since I had no money...I worked three jobs and I managed to scrape up the money to travel there in a short time.
To make a long story short...I have traveled there twice.
I am Greek..South American descent. I have no conscious connection with anything Irish. I became obsessed with traditional Irish music. Hearing Gaelic for the first time was like music to my ears. I brought back tapes of Clannard and whatnot before anyone ever heard of them in the States.
First Impressions...I clearly remembered when I first walked in Dublin. I was crossing a bridge and I said to myself. I have been here..I know this bridge...this is so familiar to me.
During a fun drinking night ...I got up and danced wildly to Irish music. Everyone was taken back by my passion. Ha!
Later...I studied English Literature in college. The first time that I saw the picture of the poet Yeats in a college textbook. I said to myself...I know this man. Not knew but know..instant recognition.
From my meditations...I might had a couple of lifetimes in Ireland. One in the very distant past and one during the late 1800s.
My images and feelings...
I believe that I was an friend (acquaintance?) of both Yeats and Maud Gonne. I was a young man...interested in literary stuff. I had belonged to some kind of literary club where I had met him. I might had dabbled a bit in poetry. I might had some literary aspirations in that area.
The main key in our realtionship was our love-hate obsession with Ireland's frustrations with Great Britain.
In my mind's eye..I can see Yeats and Gonne fighting over some point during a rehearsal of a play. I was sitting in the stage..thinking to myself... Here they go again.
Since I was younger than them...I have a feeling that I was someone that they teased a bit. They respected my passion for Ireland and my honesty and that's about it.
I think that I faded from my intense involvement with them and their group. I had involved myself in printing. I think that I helped write and set up pamphlets. Supposedly I was a gentleman from a higher class with an education and some money. I had sympathesized with Irish's working class. I donated time and money to them back then..
Last Flashback...I was in the streets. With one firearm. I ran out so I can help anyone that I knew(?) I was not a rebel. Intense Firearms. Everything getting blown up. Running.Hiding.Trying to help a group of people pass a building. Raw Fear. I was shot several times..one in the stomach. I bled to death in a doorway.
I died with no regrets except that I would never see my country again. Hence my obsession in my late teens to go back again(?)
I feel that my mother suffered greatly from my death as I was her only or favorite son. I can still see her...dressed in black...looking out over her grounds..thinking of me.
I did some research. Easter Uprising...I cried when I saw real time photos of some of the devastation. I know that is where I met my death.
It's wierd..I have so many images but I can't get a hold of my name. Maybe that might come later. I knew that I had a sweetheart from the working class. She went out to look for me. I am not sure if she was the one who found my body.
I am sorry for this ramble of a story with plenty of grammar mistakes. Hopefully by repeating it here. I can forget about it actually.
The only problem that I believe remains from that particular past life is that every Greek Easter...the young kids here celebrate the birth of Christ by throwing fire crackers. Every church ground turns into a war zone. I cannot go out to celebrate as I literally shake from the sound of them. I hide in my house. My body actually acts as if I am being shot at...Strange...huh! Helena
This is a long one but I want to give some background. Many years ago I had lived in the States. I finished High school in the west. I studied british history in my last year there. It was a high honors class. I don't even remember how I got into that class as I wasn't particularly a brillant student. It covered early to late British History. It was taught by a good teacher and I liked it. Queens and Kings..and all that jazz.
I used to love reading the textbook. Something caught my eye and it totally took possession of my mind. It had a very short chapter regarding the fight between Ireland and Great Britain concerning Ireland's right to independence.
It triggered something inside me and I felt that I had to go visit Ireland. Yearning...whatever. I don't remember what I felt but I had to find a way to get there.
I studied a travel column that was published in the local newspaper every week. I found an article that talked about how you can join an organization and stay with a host family in a foreign country. I found one for Ireland. Next... since I had no money...I worked three jobs and I managed to scrape up the money to travel there in a short time.
To make a long story short...I have traveled there twice.
I am Greek..South American descent. I have no conscious connection with anything Irish. I became obsessed with traditional Irish music. Hearing Gaelic for the first time was like music to my ears. I brought back tapes of Clannard and whatnot before anyone ever heard of them in the States.
First Impressions...I clearly remembered when I first walked in Dublin. I was crossing a bridge and I said to myself. I have been here..I know this bridge...this is so familiar to me.
During a fun drinking night ...I got up and danced wildly to Irish music. Everyone was taken back by my passion. Ha!
Later...I studied English Literature in college. The first time that I saw the picture of the poet Yeats in a college textbook. I said to myself...I know this man. Not knew but know..instant recognition.
From my meditations...I might had a couple of lifetimes in Ireland. One in the very distant past and one during the late 1800s.
My images and feelings...
I believe that I was an friend (acquaintance?) of both Yeats and Maud Gonne. I was a young man...interested in literary stuff. I had belonged to some kind of literary club where I had met him. I might had dabbled a bit in poetry. I might had some literary aspirations in that area.
The main key in our realtionship was our love-hate obsession with Ireland's frustrations with Great Britain.
In my mind's eye..I can see Yeats and Gonne fighting over some point during a rehearsal of a play. I was sitting in the stage..thinking to myself... Here they go again.
Since I was younger than them...I have a feeling that I was someone that they teased a bit. They respected my passion for Ireland and my honesty and that's about it.
I think that I faded from my intense involvement with them and their group. I had involved myself in printing. I think that I helped write and set up pamphlets. Supposedly I was a gentleman from a higher class with an education and some money. I had sympathesized with Irish's working class. I donated time and money to them back then..
Last Flashback...I was in the streets. With one firearm. I ran out so I can help anyone that I knew(?) I was not a rebel. Intense Firearms. Everything getting blown up. Running.Hiding.Trying to help a group of people pass a building. Raw Fear. I was shot several times..one in the stomach. I bled to death in a doorway.
I died with no regrets except that I would never see my country again. Hence my obsession in my late teens to go back again(?)
I feel that my mother suffered greatly from my death as I was her only or favorite son. I can still see her...dressed in black...looking out over her grounds..thinking of me.
I did some research. Easter Uprising...I cried when I saw real time photos of some of the devastation. I know that is where I met my death.
It's wierd..I have so many images but I can't get a hold of my name. Maybe that might come later. I knew that I had a sweetheart from the working class. She went out to look for me. I am not sure if she was the one who found my body.
I am sorry for this ramble of a story with plenty of grammar mistakes. Hopefully by repeating it here. I can forget about it actually.
The only problem that I believe remains from that particular past life is that every Greek Easter...the young kids here celebrate the birth of Christ by throwing fire crackers. Every church ground turns into a war zone. I cannot go out to celebrate as I literally shake from the sound of them. I hide in my house. My body actually acts as if I am being shot at...Strange...huh! Helena
Anyway, it's ten years ago now. Thank you for sharing your memories. I'm very interested in hearing if you find out more