Ain't nobody loves me better, makes me happy

So I'm breaking my own recently conceived rule of no internet in the first couple hours of work so I can get work done. Partly because I have enough deadlines today to motivate me. And my horoscope said I'm in for a rude awakening but then I'll be surprised at how everything comes together. Which is pretty much the story of my life when it comes to projects -- that 10th hour panic attack of believing it won't get done, the 11th hour manic rush, and the 12th hour rush of adrenaline about how much I rock for completing everything and doing so with a flourish.

Last night was pretty exhausting: mentally physically and emotionally. I had good post-work discussions with Sparky, though they were a little intense. Then I went to a farewell dinner for Buckner!Fan which was bittersweet, though I didn't dwell too much on her leaving and instead focused my attention on sitting at the end of the table and reconnecting with an old friend who was one of my absolute favorite people at Borders. We exchanged numbers and made promises to go out for beers or food at Le Sabre, one of my favorite diners that's also near his home.
( it's only funny the second time you tell the story. before that it's still scary. )

I know a man that know the author, that sent a ripple through time to let me know the author was me.

watrfae just mentioned in her journal what I said yesterday about things happening in three's, and um, didn't I just write yesterday about offering legal advice to two people who had engaged in some sort of criminal activity and I was waiting for a third? And then what happened to me last night?

Sometimes I hate myself for being so g-ddamned psychic and plugged into the universal consciousness.

Next-Door Co-worker just told me the story of her evening -- she worked late, until about 8:30 pm and her girlfriend came to pick her up. While double-parked on the street outside our building, she heard a thud and looked in ther rearview mirror to witness the aftermath of a woman committing suicide by throwing herself off the top floor of the parking garage next door to our building. This open garage is visible from the windows by the elevator on our floor, and NDC figured out she was in the women's room (also facing these windows) at the exact moment it must have happened. Her girlfriend went into our building to have security call the police then went back outside to direct traffic around the body in the street.

Stepping out on that same sidewalk this afternoon, one would never know the difference.

I'm not usually one who walks around saying things like "it's a fucked up world we live in", but I couldn't help but think this when she told me this story. Though maybe not for the reasons one would think. I don't mean it in a I can't believe someone killed themselves way but more I find it unbelievable how out of touch we are with everything that goes on around us or what happened moments or hours or days or years before in the exact place we're occupying.

People often make comments about the possibility of living in houses where the previous owners died or were killed or some sort of other negative or violent acts occured, but frankly that's everywhere. And I'm not saying one shouldn't be aware -- I'm all for cleansing of space and ridding of spirits and energy and karma. We never really do the opposite, do we? Unless the person is famous, in which case we'll lie in bed and think "Washington slept here" and wonder if he slept on his side or his back or his stomach, and whether any of the dust from his visit might still remain in the corners of the ceiling. But no one ever says, 'hey, I'm moving into an apartment where the previous owners fell in love' or maybe a baby was born or some great piece of writing got revised or even a really good dish of chicken kiev. You could be living in the apartment where the most delectable version of this dish had ever been created, but you wouldn't even know that your kitchen contained greatness, even in the midst of boiling ramen.

One of my greatest teachers in school talked about how thoughts are energy, just as real as the pen she held up (yes, the pen is matter, but matter and energy are both real, even if we can't see energy, right?). And she told us that thoughts are therefore real entities and never destroyed, which means Benjamin Franklin or Gandhi or Buddha's thoughts still exist and still float around in the stratosphere, ready to be plucked down into your own head. I didn't realize until years later, that following this same strain of logic takes me to a different place -- Franklin and Gandhi and Buddha didn't create those thoughts either.

Energy can neither be created or destroyed, just changed in form. Which, when broken down to the tiniest parts, can be said in writing or in music. There are only 26 letters. And while there are thousands of permutations of these letters, you're still limited to the rules of the language, at least if you want your letters to be placed in a way so that they communicate ideas to another. People criticize hip-hop and electronica and sampling in general, but what's rock music except the same three chords, the same 12-bar blues. There are eight tones on a scale, only a finite number of chords (even if it's a big number). Melodies are just re-sampled notes that were not invented, just rearranged to something possibly new and different or even just a montage of previous orders.

What's this to do with death and three's? Because sometimes I think if I step back far enough and then repeatedly lean back forward to examine things more closely, I can see every connection, every pattern. Every action, every stupid butterfly flapping it's wings in the rain forest and causing a monsoon in southern India, every movie cliche of the schizophrenic genius mind seeing everything in numbers or the futuristic chosen one examining the matrix.

Except it's cooler when it happens to me.