The momentous masquerade of conformity to an unhealthy rigid system is a monumental task not easily accomplished. A culture of normalcy that is dictated by the delusion of a few bent on control should not be the basis of a Eutopian existence. Those who submit are openly rewarded with recognition and praise but those who do not with forceful scorn and the label of outcast. As time proceeds forward a new face of reality must be recognized and embraced. An open society of multiple life-styles must be the foundation from which logical cohesive happiness springs. Sometimes “choice” has erroneous consequences especially when it is designed to divide and isolate. We must coexist even if it means living in a normalcy of simultaneous worlds that don’t see eye to eye.
On April 1st of 2013 I was exploring Old City Philadelphia, Pa. It was a clear sunny day, early in the morning. Listening to the prod of the spirit realm I was directed to a small street right off of Christian street between 2nd and 3rd streets called Bodine. As I stopped at the corner I saw a marker that read “Oliver’s Place.” I then turned onto it and found myself in a vision from the past. As I walked down the street, the day was turned to night and further down the way a ghostly scene developed in the distance.
In the direction of 907 and 909 on the east side of the street came out a ghostly figure of a middle aged man. Behind him a young woman stood at the door with a baby in her right arm and two small children were standing by her side. For a brief second I heard the muffling sound of an argument and the faint cries of children. As he walked away down the street I suddenly heard one clear loud word which echoed in my head. She uttered “why” and then turned around to go in the house, shutting the door behind her.
As the ghostly figure got to the top of the block near Montrose Street he turned around to face the house he called home. He paused then turned westward to view the Tavern he was headed to in the distance. I felt as though I knew what he was feeling at that very moment. His thoughts appeared to be racing through my mind. He was pondering his past and the contrast of the present for which it caused an internal void. He was at a crossroad in life, a crisis of conscious between the youthful world of debauchery and the one he now faced as a modest older married man.
The scene before me ends with the ghostly figure clutching his chest and falling to the ground. As I got closer I looked down upon his frozen form and noticed he was wearing dark greyish clothing. He also had a Jeff Cap around his head and a thick dark handlebar mustache which hung upon his upper lip. Clearly he was a hard working individual because of the black soot that covered his hands. Mentally I was told he was a craftsman and master builder, a man of the compass and square. He laid before me for but a second then came along out of nowhere a shiny black horse which shadowed over him.
In my research of this street I later found historic information on a carpenter named John J. Oliver. He built many row houses on this block in 1831 and 1832 from which it took the name “Oliver’s Court.” It is a beautiful small narrow stone paved street sprinkled with flowering trees and plants. I often go back to visit its charm and the legacy of the vision which changed my perspective.
One must ask “am I” who I want to be or “am I” just a reflection of an accepted social norm? The decisions made in haste to be socially accepted may one day crumble before the clarity of an epiphany brought on by a mere challenge steaming from within. Be who you desire to be and not just another carbon copy of someone else’s concept.
Fog may cloud the sight from a distance and rain form a spontaneous wall of obstruction, in the end you must accept the reality that is within and let go of the illusion that is from without.