Among traditional and occult and New Agey folks there was always this thing called “The Books of the Akashic”. There is an ancient belief that there are multiple worlds tiered above and below each other. Somewhere immediately past this physical world there is supposed to be a spiritual realm where everything you’ve ever done is somehow recorded. Psychics like Edgar Cayce claimed to go to this place and read the Book of Life, also called the Book of the Akashic. If you’ve ever seen the Robin Williams movie “What Dreams May Come”, there is a scene where his spirit guide brings him to a gigantic library of thick books to find the story of his life. I suppose now they would be a series of tweets. As a book lover, I always wanted to go to that library and find out what the deal was with me.
But the library is here, right behind me, piled on the floor.
I’m sitting upstairs in front of my old PC, a ten year old dinosaur I use mostly for archiving. I’m waiting for it to load and maybe I’ll run another virus scan on it.
Boredom and horniness somehow always go together. When I sit here idly, the mind wanders to a default position that often centers on sexual fantasy. I turn around in my chair to see what’s handy on the bookshelf and on the bottom shelf, spilled out onto the floor is an untidy stack of my old diaries.
I pick up the one on top, which turns out to be July of 2005. We were getting ready to move from Texas to Georgia. I start thumbing through it. An entry catches my eye in which I’m angsting about my cat Ronnie whom the airlines won’t take, my beloved old Audi which the movers won’t take and I’m expressing my loyalty to make sure they both arrive somehow. In a sentence there is a long thought about the meaning of loyalty.
I’m thinking, I used to have more teeth in my head back then. It wasn’t so long ago, what happened?
When you read an old diary, what stands out most is the sheer transience of things. The people are gone and dead or moved on, or most of them have simply vanished downstream, these people you saw everyday and cared about. What was their fate, what became of them? These things that you were so monumentally worried about, which occupied your world in the moment, now you had forgotten they ever worried you.
Diaries are the only karmic record you’ll ever have. There may be a library up in the sky somewhere but by the time you get to it, it won’t matter all that much. It’ll just be an interesting story that doesn’t have any great consequence except what you attach to it. The diaries in this world that actually do record your story and your karma, more than any other thing, tell you what you’ve lost.