I told him I knew Julia Roberts when I was 12 at summer camp.

[take two -- the last entry just got erased. argh.]

Thanks to folks who answered my poll yesterday -- though I'm concerned about the number of people who seem unsure about the existence of G-d. I hope you will all see the error of your ways and accept Madonna into your heart as your personal saviour before it's too late.

( bizarre dreams! )

(no subject)

I just wrote this:

I definitely understand your dilemma, J. Especially since my journal started as a pure journal, with virutally no one reading it but myself. Then it grew. and grew. and grew. Sometimes I think it's grown too big. But mostly I like it and I'm proud.
But ultimately, my mantra is "this is my journal". Which means when people read this, they should read it with the belief that they have found my personal diary and are getting a glimpse of me that may or may not be shared for public consumption.
They may disagree with my assessment of situations. And I may end up agreeing with their disagreement. I reserve all of those rights.
Many folks have the desire to write, but then fight it and censor themselves. I have the initial desire to censor, conceal and hide. But then I fight myself and open the trapdoor.

In response to this: (thanks Wearemany).

But there'll be one who will collect my soul and come to me

I decided to have afternoon coffee with the hopes that it would battle my typical post-lunch slump. Now I have the shakes.

A few (but not many) have heard me talk about my belief that I was imprisoned in a past life (for reasons including but not limited to: my strange fascination/repulsion with all things prison related, my tendency to have vivid scary nightmares after seeing movies or reading books detailing prison experiences, and more). Well, sometimes I wonder if I was a sex worker too. Though not at all some bullshit about a 'hooker with a heart of gold'.

My first name Angelene
Prettiest mess you've ever seen
Love for money is my sin
Any man calls, I'll let him in
Rose is my colour, and white
Pretty mouth and green my eyes
I see men come and go
But there'll be one who will collect my soul and come to me
Two-thousand miles away
He walks upon the coast
Two-thousand miles away
It lays open like a road
Dear God, life ain't kind
People getting born and dying
But I've heard there's joy untold
Lays on that open road in front of me
My first name is Angelene

I have a strong belief in past life experiences -- I just don't know exactly where they come from. I don't necessarily believe that I have a definitive soul that has inhabited numerous other bodies. Nor do I necessarily believe in the Emerson concept of us being cups of water that get returned to the pool and dipped out again. Though that idea intrigues. Perhaps the images and stories and hidden lives stored in our subconscious are completely created by our current brain -- some sort of coping mechanism, or even just a complex storing-house for the millions about millions of bits of informations about history, biography, etc. etc. And the possibility of a psychological explanation doesn't make it any less fascinating to me.

And yet I can see a pair of magic gloves in the Walgreens and fall down laughing reminiscing about a bizarre comedy sketch on television. So can I really be that complex? Or is that a direct symptom?

Here's what I learned from a book entitled Instant ESP that I read when I was 11 and leant to my first and only boyfriend of the elementary school era who never returned it to me:

There are 3 levels of the mind.
The conscious, the subconscious and the super-conscious.
The super-conscious works the information desk that controls all information we cannot recall. So if I have a question, I submit it to my super-conscious and let him have at it. Then, while sleeping or otherwise engage, he goes through the files of information stored in the crystallized memory warehouse, but inacessible to my conscious on a regular basis. Perhaps it's in those cabinets on tracks with the wheel on the end that you turn to move the units apart. Anyway, he researches the question and finds the memory. Sometimes you ask him something that is not in the archives. So he gets "online" (granted, I used to articulate this concept WAY before the internet, but nowadays it makes for a useful analogy) and talks to other super-conscious's and finds the info. If I"m sitting around watching the Turbo Cooker infomercial and I suddenly get a flash of a vivid memory I didn't even know I forgot, I'm convinced that it's my super-conscious filling a purchase order I made a long time ago. Or if I go to sleep not knowing something and wake up knowing it -- my super-conscious had a busy night. It also explains why I'll be thinking of something randomly, and 2000 miles away someone I know is recalling the exact same memory or idea. Maybe one of our super-conscious called the other up. Or maybe a THIRD person was trying to find something and they tapped into both of us for the information.

So maybe last Friday night was about my consicious person and my super-conscious person being more connected. Perhaps they decided to have weekly meetings so they could "be on the same page" or be "brought up to speed" on each other's projects. Perhaps one of them hired a consultant to manage communications between the two departments, since they've expanded so heavily in the past few years.

Which means there will be no spoon-bending in my future. But maybe some other stuff is.

(no subject)

500 fucking dollars. Have mercy.

I left the party at 9:35ish. I took a cab home. I was home before 10 pm. And I got paid $500.

In cash.

I'm glad I didn't take the train. This might have been an unlucky night where I get mugged for the first time ever. I did consider the possibility of a cab driver perpetrating a crime, but I was prepared to fling open the door and roll out of the way of traffic.

I'm a poor sommabitch who won't be easily parted with my money.

In other good news, my new checks came in the mail, as did my free carton of American Spirits. This is enough cigarettes to last me a year. Esp. since they're menthols and no one fcking smokes menthols with me. Except for the folks in my old neighborhood who would bum smokes off of me on the street. My friends are too snooty to smoke menthols. Except maybe Sparky. ;) So if there are any smokers out there who want a free carton of American Spirits, leave me a comment and I'll e-mail you the number to call. It's pretty easy.

I'm currently waiting for MelRo to finish studying so we can go to bed. In the meantime, I will celebrate my recent cash flow by eating olives.

Oh, and there house was ridiculously large but poorly decorated. I swear, money is wasted on the straights. But the woman is uber-nice and obviously generous, and wants me to call her tomorrow -- I'm assuming just to confirm that everything went ok. Though MelRo suggested that she may want to hire my services on a more permanent basis. Oh my. I'll start calling her Mrs. Robinson. Seriously though, I did find out that she's gone to psyhics before, so she must have thought I was really good. That made me feel pretty confident.

I had some interesting readings too -- perhaps about 2 dozen total, and over half of them were teenage girls, perhaps between the ages of 11 and 16. Very different. But they were cool and responsive for the most part. I did a couple readings that were scarily accurate -- much like the ones on Friday. Including a reading were I mentioned the hierophant is sometime represented by the pope (I don't usualy say this -- though this card doesn't turn up that often), and that this was "crossing" her --turns out the reading was about her recent spiritual crisis and "slipping" and that she's Catholic!
I also got cards that reflected this woman's husband passing and how it's relating to her relationship with her son(s). And I totally analyzed this woman's relationship with a man she's considering breaking up with. I swear, it's like fcking psychoanalysis, and sometimes people will just tell you everything after the fact! Like I'll talk for 10 minutes about the cards, and if it's accurate, they suddenly just spill their guts. Intense.
But I got a lot of compliments not only about my accuracy but about my demeanor -- that I seemed to know what I was doing and really enjoyed it. And I do. But it's exhausting and I don't think I could do it regularly at all.

Ok on to consuming olives and then hopefully to bed!