Mr. Paul Newman Gets Snipped

Today I came home to evidence the guy had been home since he left for a job interview this morning. Beer bottle caps and an empty tuna can were on the counter. I noticed our cat carrier was gone. I correctly deduced that my guy, who out of the blue has mysterious cat powers, had somehow caught our newest teenage feral cat, Mr. Paul Newman, and hauled him off to the vet for spaying.

Now the guy has called and I have learned he did indeed lure  the young and inexperienced, golden cat into the cat carrier with tuna. It’s going to cost us $300 total. Guy went ahead and paid half, a miracle though he is now worrying someone else who won’t spay Mr. Paul owns him, unlikely since Mr. Paul has shown up for months dirty and hungry, not just for food but love.  He is sweet but can’t keep from spraying and has his  bite and claw trigger window  if  you pet  him for more than a few seconds. A local vet is going to do a blood panel on him to make sure he’s healthy and snip off the “nads”.

The guy has ideas  of making him one of our house cats, which I think is a mistake. Snipped or not, I don’t believe  Mr. Paul  going to hang around inside our house and get over his early traumatic abuse kitten PTSD.  Our elderly cat and our In and Out Daisykins need not have to share with him.  I am managing to not yell at guy everytime he complains about the feral cats we feed that he’s the one who started it in every case.  I dream of designing some sort of unique cat feeders/condos on the outside of our house that are fight/raccoon proof and weather resistant.

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Moving Right Along

Today I read emails being exchanged between people I used to drum with in a long standing weekly drumming and dancing class. They are organizing a monthly class with our congolese drumming and dancing master.  It’s been almost two years since the weekly class came to an end.  They put together  an initial reunion/drumming & dancing class/potluck last month at a local hall, which I went to.  I drummed, ate food, paid and hobnobbed with the old crew.   A  lot of people showed up who I haven’t seen for some time.

I only had one problem: afterwards I realized how hard it had been for me to drum because the acoustics at this place, roomy and nice as it is, are quite bad for drumming. I know this after drumming in many different rental places in the course of 6 years.  I could hardly hear what the master was saying when he was trying to teach and was trying to have us  sing as well as drum correctly. I could barely hear myself drum when I was drumming for the dancers, and it was impossible to be on the beat or hear any of the other drummers. I did not, as I would have in the past, get extremely frustrated , or bitch about this to anyone. Most of the sound we produced when drumming was a DIN.

I haven’t drummed congolese for some time, but I have an established level of skill and a memory of being able to hear it and enjoy playing, that was not happening at this place. I let the organizer know my opinion by email, and I left phone messages with a couple of people I trust to know what I think. This does not mean I expect the group to heed it at all. They will do what they want to do, believe what they want to believe, and I’m all for it. I no longer have the need to be there with them.  If they want to drum at a  place I don’t want to drum at,  it’s OK.   They also can do all the work I used to do to  make it happen. Several of the people now  involved weren’t willing to attend consistently in order to sustain the master and weekly class. Now, if they want it badly enough, they will do what they must. They certainly do not need me.

Those six years of effort were an education way beyond just drumming itself.  I spent four of those six years busting my ass to manage the class, make sure it survived and doing all sorts of things fighting to keep it going. That class was all I had in a life devoid of stability or sane direction. I needed it, and that desperation was disastrous.

People just don’t respect others that are  needy, and they will do what is convenient for them, including exploiting it, then blowing it all off whenever they feel like it. I had to learn to how to  stop being available for exploitation.   I had to decide that  what I was really after  was becoming a solid and skilled drummer. I had to create the  dicipline to attain that goal while giving up on having other needs met which  were never going to be by that group. When I did that,  I began to finally make progress.  And I got good at not getting involved in or caught up in other people’s stuff- no matter what it was.  I had to learn the difference between drumming class acquaintance, temporary alliances,   and actual. sustained personal relationship.

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The Natural

It’s Monday afternoon and I need to put sheets on the bed and vacuum the living room. Crazy Cat has not eaten all day, is making rustling noises trying to nest amidst a bunch of clutter on a lower shelf and it’s HOT.  I really don’t like this kind of Hot, because I’m Hot, the house is Hot, and it’s not a natural kind of occasional warm spring on the coastside sort of Hot. It’s the planet going to heck unpredictable kind of HOT.  The guy is at work, a long day in the city, and I’m grateful to have extra time to myself, even though today was not a day of getting much done.

This morning I had an experience I want to remember.  The guy called to  me around 5:30 am, said he’d been awake since 1 am, could I come and work on him. I went and joined him in bed, and I worked on him. I gently  massaged his back, his spine, his sacrum, his legs, knees and  feet. He had areas of cold, signs of sluggish kidney chi, and they warmed up.  I found some places where I knew there was stuck charge and simply tuned into his breathing, keeping my hands supporting whatever place I’d found. His breathing got stronger, deeper, rougher for a number of seconds, he’d go out of consciousness, seeming to snore,  and then come back.  He slept, more relaxed for a while before his alarm went off, and he told me several times how good what I was doing felt.

I was able to recognize what a miracle this is, something  I’ve worked to cultivate for 15 years. Everything that is wrong with my life and his seemed distant for the moment, and I felt gratitude for the gift of being able to work on him for over 10 years.  That he now likes it, asks me work on him, allows me to do all kinds of things with it on him despite  continuing to be one of the most ill tempered, unstable, anal retentive, crazy beings ever, is  a complete mystery.  When I discovered  this strange and ancient form of abdominal and  organ massage  called Chi Nei Tsang on the internet  in 1999, it was impossible for me to believe I would ever be good enough  at it or be able to make a living with it. But so was anything else I thought I wanted and needed.

I had  missed a thousand buses and trains on the way to my life, so I pursued it anyway.  I wanted to believe in it though I could not, and the long and winding road I’ve taken pursuing it has been bizarre but illuminating. The worst thing about it was that I just could not see being able to compete with the ever increasingly diverse world of massage therapy. And of what use is some weird, impossible to explain type of esoteric massage that doesn’t necessarily cure anything at best?  Yesterday I worked two people with clubbells, and it was fine, and a woman that paid me told me: “You are a Natural. You are Athletic.”  I didn’t try to talk her out of this quaint notion, this label that says somehow I am of value. Me with the fat belly, the missing tooth, the hair that needs cutting and a life far from being where it should be. I have shed millions of attached me  s to get here.

I’ve come to where I am now despite my own deepest beliefs that it was impossible. I needed to succeed at something impossible, because my failure to get a life made everything impossible. I practice piano knowing that a classic ragtime piece only lasts 4-5 minutes. Thousands of hours go into practice, a lifetime. All for essence, all for those times when the flow catches up with the long held intention of mastering something, and practice finally supplies the skill, so long cultivated and finally harvested long after you forget the suffering and toil to get it. The really strange thing about all of this is that it doesn’t seem to matter if others believe in me, only that I have come to believe in what I’ve chosen to do,  over and over again.

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Furious Friday and Life’s Special Gifts

Nothing says I’m really feeling my feelings   more than when I get in touch with my inner fury over Life’s special gifts of Incomprehensible Demoralization. This is the point where I am wanting to shout at the top of my lungs  EAT SHIT AND DIE to the guy when he gets his knickers in a twist for the gazillionth time over the fact he can’t find his gold cross pen or ______WTF fill in the blank ever!  It’s always something and mostly it’s EVERYTHING, because someone is categorically unable to feel safe in their body, be on the planet and is the mayor of Borderline Personality Disorder Town. Let’s not even bother trying to live life on life’s terms, let’s have a cow daily over the STUPIDEST, most random things and have a tantrum! Let’s all make major, taking-it-all personally complaints about everything as though nothing can be changed and life is ghastly. Let’s all be Marvin, the paranoid android today!

Then there’s Crazy Cat, who’s deaf, has hyperthyroid, adrenal and kidney overload/failure. She’s stubbornly hanging onto this life, why I don’t know, and lives to torment the shit out of me and the guy.  I’m not really sure she’s still on this plane of existence. She’s now in an advanced stage of  whacky,   ….I  don’t know if I wanna pee or eat…wandering. Such a perfect match for Mr. feast AND famine, who constantly wastes canned catfood and raw meat by putting out copious amounts of it. Then it  drys out and spoils and Crazy Cat ignores it and is fussy because she knows Crazy Guy will get more and waste more.  Sure, I’m very grateful Crazy guy no longer floods our world with Little Friskies, one of the cheapest and most toxic, GMO laden crap catfood that exists.  I’ve come to understand famine is a lot more than a physical condition. Emotional famine and the unconsciousness that is invariably mixed up with it is a powerful and cunning adversary.

This morning  Crazy Cat and Crazy guy came together for a specially ironic encounter of the urine kind.  We have a new catbox, a deeper one with a cover and entry portal. I got it because I’m tired of  cleaning up stinking cat piss soaked news papers up to 2x a day.  While she’s been using it some, it’s confusing to her and she’s been reluctant to use it. She hovers in the hallway, and sometimes she goes outside instead. Sometimes she steps into it and pees out the entrance onto the newspapers. Crazy guy has no fucking idea what she’s doing during the day when he’s away at work, and when he’s home he rarely pays any attention or cleans the catbox. Then there’s the silent  war of the water bowls. He can’t get it through his head that giving cats tons of water is not a good idea, especially in regards to our elderly cat.

This morning  Crazy Cat did her back and forth hall hover while Crazy guy was busy not being able to find his pen and bitching about it. Finally he picked her up to bring her out  to our kitchen table, and she peed on him, the table and the kitchen floor. Anal retentive germ freakout on top of pen tantrum! Omg, he had to wipe things up for a change.

I’d love to rest in a spiteful “serves you right /wake the fuck up” kind of place, but now I’m seeing a little further into my own part of this mess. What he’s doing with the cat I’ve  been doing with him. We have a black cat, Mr. Green. Mr. Green is black and has yellow eyes, came to our door over two years ago looking absolutely horrible. He was greasy, gasping, sick and frantic to eat. We could hear his loud choking breath whenever he came.

I took him on and made a point of feeding him good food as often as I could for over a year. He could hardly believe it. He got way better, looks like a completely different cat. I know  he still has something going on with his respiratory tract though it’s been lessened. He has a way of coming up and mieyowing when he wants food, a kind of demanding wail. He hangs with Junior and Orange Pekoe, two semi ferals who will let you pet them a little. But Mr. Green is still emotionally fucked up. He comes around with his yellow eyes and the slightest move sends him off. For awhile I called him Mr. Schitz.  We know he’s been spayed, but there is something still wrong with him.

I have found myself projecting that he’s an ungrateful cat and deliberately stomping on the porch to drive him off.  I remember setting my sights on simply helping him to get more healthy without trying to change him. Now I see that persecuting an emotionally disturbed being is wrong. Letting an emotionally disturbed being run your life is also wrong. My guess, as though it isn’t obvious, is that I’m emotionally famished being who took up with others run by a famine mindset. I was ignorant, and now I’m being educated the hard way. Don’t know what I’m going to do about that, but I know I have the opportunity to change my relation to it all.

The other day Crazy Cat was lying on top of a desk on a folded up throw. She rose up a little and started looking spazzy, tipping her head in a disoriented posture, like her gyros had gone  out. I immediately panicked, thinking she might die, burst into tears and picked her up. I felt terribly guilty and afraid, going deep into grief. After awhile, she came out of it and when I put her on the floor nonchalantly trotted off somewhere, firing on all four legs like nothing had happened. I did the smear on her ear of thyroid medication  and thanked all the powers that be her demise wasn’t that moment.

I’m trying to remember that, and spend some time with her daily. I am in no way prepared for her to die. I don’t want her to die, but I don’t want her to suffer. I hate not knowing if she’s ok, not being able to make sure everything that can be done is done for her. I feel guilty for not giving her a bunch of nutritional supplements I’ve bought and a herbal tincture called life gold and living with the guy, allowing his obsessive ways to do harm to her. But I also know I don’t have that much control over anything; not her, not him, not me, not life. I know if I spend time trying to think about and plan, it will do very little good at all. I’m just trying to remember not to forget how precious she is, pissy and dizzy and dying as she is. I love her and I forget I love her, so wrong, so careless of me.






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There’s No Saying No to the DailyOm

Today I am deliberately doing a LESS sort of day, though I actually have my kitchen timer set for 15 minutes to write ticking away next to me. I do GOT to put on clothing, tidy the house and get my behind to Piano Practice, Do or Die, so it’s perfectly paradoxical and whacky, like my day is going to be.  Because I’m going to  be uncomfortable for not staying in obsessive planning land and wasting my morning setting a password and user profile for  my “Year of Clear” online program at DailyOm.

The DailyOm, which sends  soothing  little email  missives on compassion, awareness and de-cluttering daily, has now mercilessly closed it’s bamboo-logo’d jaws around me by making me set a password and fill out a user profile so other online customers  can message me. I can’t be too surprised about this, as the course is was dirt cheap and the woman writing it has already done the whole make-a-living, pay your dues with years of work, then write  a book and get online and sell programs going. Hook em up, reel them in, keep em coming back for something, anything. Repetition is the key.

I had to write something about me, my interests, favorite books and even a quote. There was just no saying no to the DailyOm.  They know they got ya if you sign up and pay for 365 days of a daily email. I grabbed up a couple of books and found a fabulous quote to use from Anne Lamott’s “Bird by Bird”:

“We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must.  Otherwise, you’ll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you’ve already been in. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping that one door shut. But the writer’s job is to see the bleak, unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words- not just any words, but if we can., into rhythm and blues.”

OK!  My little blue owl timer has dinged. I’m in overtime, another 15 minutes!

I was looking for downloads today after a visit from my computer guy yesterday and ran across writing I had done in 2014 about this time of year. I ended up being mesmerized by the vast amount of  detail about  people, places and things I had dutifully recorded in the year of the Wood Horse, which is my personal Chinese zodiac birthday sign.  I was flooded, but illuminated at the same time. Here it is, two years later, and I was astonished at my capacity to record so much that I have forgotten. Much is the same, but something is different, Thank Goddess. I’m fascinated by my recording of much that is unspeakable and completely awful and nauseating.  Must be: WAIT FOR IT: Compassionate Awareness!!!



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Miraculous Monday: Get Up and Get It Done

Lately I’ve been waking up with a touch of anxiety mixed with a new awareness of how UN I am. UN grounded, UN centered, UN focused. I’ve tried to embrace it as an opportunity of change that is happening because it’s supposed to, in some way.  I’m trying to avoid the word and vibration of “NECESSARY”,  which has this G-man, Elliot Ness/Mess Last Man Standing sort of association. So I did what I do which is count gratitudes, and try to make a plan before I get up.

This morning I was prepared to have to spend the entire day getting my guy to the Doctor, or WHATEVER was going to have to happen to stabilize things. He’s been having terrible pain in his knee after being on his feet for work shifts.  Yesterday was the zenith of his pattern of trying to stave it off by simply drinking more, getting euphoric, passing out, eating, and finally coming to realize he needs to see a doctor.  He finally took some tylenol and slept through the entire night.

But this morning was a miracle. He woke up, got into the shower, got dressed, drank detox tea he fixed for himself, fed the cat and went to work.  Zip! Zop! Zam! He even admitted how much he hates what he’s been doing, which is drinking daily and spending too much of his money on it.

I’ve been freed up, just for today. Just for today, I will not go to Courtney’s Monday morning mobility class. Just for today, I will not go practice piano. I will do the things I planned on getting done  before I got up now.  I’m hungry and I’m confused about what to eat, somewhat uncomfortable. I’m learning to be uncomfortable and live through it without freaking out. It’s the brave new world of my daily perception patterns changing.

It’s not easy for me to deal with too many choices every single day. It’s not easy for me to have any awareness  about my endless compulsions and attachments to compulsions, to slow down and watch them going on, do less and hang out with what seems unbearably Not Moving Fast Enough.  As I practice ragtime piano to a metronome more slowly than I can imagine, it’s paradoxical that this is starting to carry over into my perceptually distorted life. Less has become ALL, and I sometimes feel like an astronaut frozen in a kind of weightlessness somewhere while I watch my endless ideas of reality flowing like a rushing river past me.  I think of Groundedness, I think of Centeredness, and I try to Focus.  I pick SOMETHING over No-thing   even though it feels as though I cannot Focus at all. And now: steamed broccoli and a slice of purple cabbage.

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Quarrel Gear and Battering Jokes

The guy woke up spring loaded this morning after a too long and exhausting shift at his work yesterday. When he’s hungover and aching it’s a no retreat and no surrender deal, so I got dressed and left, unwilling to endure a gazillionth shower of his batshit mean.  As I was driving away, a voice  I yesterday named my Quarrel Gear kicked in loud and strong. I’m beginning to recognize this gear is not worthless, it’s the beginning of an energy I need to explore, cultivate and evolve.  I believe it is valuable because it is an essential emotional drive for not only survival, but effective assertion in all parts of my life, heretofore obscured by the ridiculously unhealthy cultural ignorance and suppression of same for decades, generations and goddess knows what.

It was cold and rainy. I decided to drive back home and sit in my car in my driveway until he left for work. After a while he came out and asked me if I knew where the security badge to his current job was. I went in an actively searched for it with him. We couldn’t find it.  True to form, he  elected himself the mayor of Crazy Town by  a) repeatedly commenting on how WEIRD it was it had disappeared:  clear evidence the Universe is specially trying to fuck with and ruin HIM; b) blaming it on our uninhabitable,  FILTHY house( my fault, of course); and c) inferring I had either lost or deliberately hidden it from him.  I knew this would go on  unceasing, so I picked up my basket and left for the second time in my car.

The security badge was in the basket, which had been sitting on top of drums below a shelf he built for them which he uses to dump his personal affects when he comes home. I turned around, went back home, gave him the badge.  In order to prevent him from thinking I would endure any more shit about his losing it, I fixed him with  my best Medusa Evil Eye look and stated: “I DID NOT DROP THAT BADGE INTO THE BASKET. YOU DID”.

Later in the day, walking home from a beach walk with two friends, I found myself reacting to a remark the man of the couple made. He had a cut on his face from banging into a dryer door. In order to spice things up, he said he would pin it on his woman friend, saying she was good at “smacking me around.” When I mildly said that he should not say that about my friend, that it wasn’t funny, I was pooh pooed and fed yet another story about how battering is a joke if the roles are reversed.

The story was this:  a man who plays rugby came to work  one day with visible bruises injuries on his face from playing. Rugby, after all, is a very rough sport where there are  a lot of injuries.  His friends decided to “prank” him by telling everyone at work  that he’d been “smacked around” by his girlfriend. The guy in question was finally uncomfortable with the staring looks he was getting and asked what was going on. They told him, and this was toted up as being  hilarious and good fun between guys, me by inference being an uptight, un fun being for not agreeing.  Lately my woman friend, who, granted is a strong personality and  can act controlling  at times, has taken to referring to herself as a “ballbuster” or “tight ass”. It’s really amazing to me how widespread this massive mindfucking nonsense is.  I think I’m starting to like Quarrel Gear, certainly not as a way to react or deal with anything. but to get in fact with things that are outrages and should be changed.





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Fourscore and the Quarrel Gear

Well, it’s nearly eleven pm and the guy is in bed, thank god. Lately I’ve found myself slipping into general contempt and an offhandedly abrasive towards everything attitude. I know this is because my false self and usual operating program is still confusing hostility with force and non submission and that is where I tend to go. I’m beginning to experience how automatic it is, this gear of contempt, and accept that little else has been developed in the anger spectrum that isn’t the Quarrel Gear.

Tonight the guy was tired from a long day at work, hitting the beer, and he started slipping into nastitude with over reaction and anger, which led to me being tempted to commit snarkicide back at him. Thankfully, I did not, and began to pray for him, which is the only way to erase my compulsion to nail his bitchy ass and wake the sleeping demon within him who lives to escalate and be hateful.

Today was interesting because I slept in, was slow to get going, yet managed to complete Four Large Goals. I actually made myself get out my Korg metronome and listen to (Dr) Cory Hall play the ragtime pieces on youtube to find out the meter on the metronome. This was amazing because I did not remember how to work the metronome and had to fool around with it and doubt myself, relearn. Then I tried watching some of Cory Hall’s youtube ragtime tutorials, and they addressed everything I’ve been having trouble with and more. He even said what meter he was using to practice and play the specific rags he was teaching about. It was a jackpot of good clear information I can use right away and I sent him an appreciative email.

My goals were about upgrading my catbox, vaccum, shoes and putting away new equipment that I just got. All this had to include basic cleanup of the house, which I have finally stopped doing obsessively every day.  Today was a real change of pace and required I summon some real determination  to follow through on. I also did a wipe out of the fridge, rearranging it, along with one drawer and a clutter vortex of guy’s tools and remote helicoptor stuff on the counter. This was not counting changing the sheets, doing laundry, dishes, sweeping the floor, cleaning the old catbox and bathroom of urine reek. I had to make myself get over the hump of taking the trash, recycling and compost out, and getting the large trash and recycling containers out for pickup tomorrow morning.

Then I cleared out my old Dyson vacuum of cat hair and dirt, wound it’s cord for the last time, taped it’s broken parts together to honor it, and put it outside with the bins. I also took the cardboard box and packing materials from the newly shipped equipped stuff and put them into the recycling. It’s only taken me a good 30 years to get it into my pointy little head keeping boxes in a singlewide does not work well at all, and that getting rid of it right away is necessary and easy.Something is finally changing for the better, because in the past I never would have gotten all that done and felt good about it.

That the guy found several things to bitch about and be snotty has not dimmed my feeling of making progress. I just have to make sure I don’t go to his level of negativity, therefore I must recognize when I go into  Quarrel   Gear and shift it to witnessing my natural aggressiveness, which I know I don’t want to get rid of at all.




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Down the Road Apeace

I’m feeling tight in the body  this morning, which shouldn’t be a surprise because I did clubbells yesterday on the bluffs three times with friends. I was also given a lot of advice on how to now proceed into doing clubbells outside for friends and clients by my friends, which I was able to receive without resistance. I have to say I love them for being there and giving me support. They had some great feedback and ideas.  Since they are people who have real experience and success, I listened and took it all in, was able to allow the idea it could all start now and be OK.  This, for me, is RADICAL.

I’m only overdue on creating an income and business by about  thirty years. I’ve spent so many mental  light years internally obsessing about it all while staying paralyzed, and not moving forward  that I’m now in a new place which I’ve named Down the Road A peace.  The play on words fits. I got that phrase from my Dad, don’t know what the actual meaning is, but I know what it used to sound like  when he said it, what it seemed to mean and felt to me. It brings me a whisper of  memory of his essential energy and something we seemed to share.

Most certainly I’m not actually “at peace”, but I’ve been able to sit in my usual Monday muddle of indecision and obsession and actually remember I’m sore and tight for a reason instead of it being complete doom concerning my congested body.

Never mind the 10,000 things my mind wants to try and  fixate on, the yoga class that was actually gonna be tai chi today I could have attended but didn’t.  I seem to be in a personal time warp where I am acutely aware of being a rotted, decaying carcass moving around in an environment where everything needs to be cleared or replaced, hopelessly behind and out of sync, yet able to smile and nod when someone compliments my hair.  My hair is limp, growing out and I barely remember to shower, yet lately I’ve been getting compliments out of the blue for it. This along with doing good Chi Nei Tsang treatments on my guy. He’s taken to telling me how good I am.  Hell has frozen over. Can’t grasp it.

Our ancient laptop has been loudly vibrating  and singing it’s death song for some time now. I pluck up and execute hundreds of black termites daily, patiently gathering them and dropping them into water where they drown. I find myself caught again  trying to “prioritize” with whatever has been the old mindset, spinning for awhile. Then I come away from it somehow and re-member: There is no There there. Soon a voice with come and say: Pick a card, any card. Just make one choice and move from where you are. And that is what I do.

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My Big Opportunity in 2016

The guy’s off to his work, and I’m sitting here in my pajamas with a cup of my homemade beef broth and a mild pineal gland ache. Sun’s up with a nicely bright golden glow on a dripping wet, somewhat cold world.  My right little finger is sore at it’s very base, has been for several days. I report these details now  to prove to myself I am starting to pay attention daily to myself, specifically my body and how i/it feels sensation wise.

I have committed myself to focus this year on Tuning In to myself with a capital T.  This idea, as absurd as it sounds, is because I am still living a life of paralysis in 3 major areas of my life: money, work and health. Though I am  clear on what my “self” needs and wants, I know how I live and be is keeping me in that paralysis, and I’m clear that it’s my mindset who is  the culprit who’s been enslaving  me.

When I woke up this morning I had a dry mouth,  minor throbbing and heat in various parts of my body and felt knocked out and groggy. This was in contrast to the guy, who woke up full throttle and started babbling without filters while he got himself off to work.  I wallowed for a little while in a hate and fear filled feeling of powerlessness, my default setting for life, managed not to completely withdraw or say some snark-laden thing to the guy. This was an internal victory of epic proportions.

It occurred to me to use Jim Carrey’s now viral comment from his commencement address to a graduating class at Mahareishi University that everything happens FOR us instead of To us; and to deliberately shift myself into regarding all this as an OpporTune-ity. I wasn’t aware of the play on words with “Opportunity” until now though I had waggishly already decided to call this year 20-6 tune. Silly but catchy and simple, something I can remember easily.

As Pollyannaish as this now sounds, it worked. I believe I am now dealing with a false self who was constructed to survive in a vibrational personal universe of world and family which no longer exists but continues to operate like a rogue nuclear submarine drifting in open seas. And I’m not pretending  I feel the least bit capable of dealing with whatever is going to happen with me now, but I am aware enough not to just continue stupidly head butting my self against That Which Is Keeping Me No-Here. I’m gradually getting it that if you are No Here inside, where y0u are can be irrelevant. It’s one of those metaphysical paradoxes.

I focused on playing the classic rag I’m studying and practicing in my head to relax for the rest of the morning until the guy was launched. My daily piano practice is very new, and not necessarily rooted yet, but practicing the specific music I am working on is like a little velvet monkey wrench which turns off the reactive mind.  Lately I seem to be hearing more people at meetings confess how completely at sea they are with being able to focus and cope in this current reality. I love having company in this truth and wonder where the heck have they been all my life.

Now I’ve got to go and deliver the Smart Wool Beanie and glove liners the guy forgot to take to his work site. I’ll do it remembering how he used to be so out of body and stoned he would never take care of himself or wear stuff to keep warm, and then I’d have to deal with him being very sick. But then, he was periodically forced to be homeless and “out in the cold” by his insane family for years, so he has a default of not feeling or being with his body also.

Now here’s the good news: I am not, at this moment, obsessively cleaning my house knowing every second that I can never clear it enough into eternity. I am not obsessively exercising somewhere while mentally obsessing about planning my day and cramming all I can into it while knowing I can NEVER do enough, be ENOUGH. I am not on the internet obsessively surfing for THE ANSWER. I am not focusing on being afraid, very afraid about the appointment I have later today. I am not at the piano studio practicing, like I normally would be. I am telling myself right now, as I prepare to simply deliver some wool stuff to my guy, that there is enough time for me today and that if I don’t do EVERYTHING PERFECTLY, I will not suffer and die or lose my mind. I will, however, get the two rugs which look filthy vacuumed.




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