float

someone was recently injured, physically. there was a deep legacy to the injury. something tied to culture/generations. she had a request unspoken. it remains unspoken and un-rendered and that continues the injury.

she must float, up to her shoulders in sea or salt water. a light current or tidal action will be very helpful. allow your body to tell the truth of the matter. she knows.

wide herringbone planked boardwalk. think Atlantic City, fog seeps up through the planks. one of them walks far ahead. we hang back, not out of reverence, but closer to deference. the power is not distributed, which makes communal decisions impossible. there cannot be clarity in and environment like this. the farther apart on the pier, the more stagnant the ambition of the community. it’s logistical. It’s much less emotional than everyone thinks. it’s not character, will or capacity. at all. to invest in that is a distraction, like a media spin. the heart of the matter is logistical. I can’t emphasize that enough.

not unlike the water hover—where it seemed psychic, it isn’t. where it seemed mysterious or out of her hands, it wasn’t. pure logistics. interrupt the cycle with a task. 

my eyes are tight. my jaw clenched. even now. there is more to this message, but the core is simple, and more corporal than cosmic. 

golden ram

remembering to forget who we became to protect ourselves

two brothers. antipathy, they flanked every conversation with white power. even when the cards told their secrets. the middle sister was more of an instigator than I thought she would be, given her station.

the house was straight up eighteen forties Newport vertical. large woman, fitted gabardine tuxedo fitted, black sleeves and sides white v-neck, all one piece, smooth, no lapels, zipper at the side, long sleeve, ringmaster kind of tunic over fitted leather pants. along the Newburyport like bay side, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but scraggly looking penguins on the rocky beach. mixed with seagulls and tourists. they looked like they were molting. lots of wing stretches and stomping lightly. small, eight to ten inches high, more slight than I think of them.

the golden goat ram bull felt like a spiritual sculpture, not as large as the bison bull from the other dream, but substantial.

the ringleader reminded me of SB. stood at the town square corner giving anyone advice, and only mostly meaning it, but a better part waited to see if anyone would act on it. curious what would happen. bother the consequences for the players.

when the middle sister gave her card reading, the cards were palm sized, business card, little larger maybe. two sided, so when you pulled one, she could tell from either side what yours was. soft symbols/line drawings, each family or category had a color scheme, abstract art without a waking narrative. interpretation was even more abstract. the brother, white crew cut to the left, four years apart from younger brother to my left, or vice versa, because sometimes the elder sibling plays like the younger. the one to my right was manipulative and hated women. the one to my right was a vibrant capitalist who enjoyed domination as well, but numbers and systems. the one to the right enjoyed humiliating people. the middle sister had more of those qualities, but had figured out how to cloak them in perfect attendance, and mastering the family rituals so she would inherit the homestead and the social power that traveled with that legacy. she controlled the family transmission, another controlled secreted domination of the one by one, and the other twirled the markets. together they were all together better to disappear around. the second sister was a technical genius. she understood how the mechanics of the world under society worked, and preferred to take humans out of her analyses. she always sat remotely. she avoided every conflict. she remembered everything. and held no grudges.

They were PENGUINS.

I hated all of it and wanted it to fit.

I hated all of it and wanted it to fit.

seventy eight steps later, I’m in a hallway, red and white striped linoleum, behind the restaurant, and there is a fourteen year old boy sweeping up, delicately between trays other kids, not his friends, have left in the back, near the door, so they could smoke.

I heard the ringing in my ears when I said, “you hate me-,” and he interrupted, as lovingly as he’d ever spoken to me, “I’m going to have to.”

and I knew he meant it

and I know it was true.

and I couldn’t un-hear it, as much as my life depended on it

and I’d never recover.

I contemplated the trays, saw, still judging, if I could figure out if the kids had been high while eating.

stumbling past the boy, who was my refuge if I could only see past his maraschino cherry and grease and char-broil-spray stained apron. he was kinder than the elder man, sweeter than the young woman who had rejected me with a phone call.

seventy eight steps before, I was leaving a retail store up the steps, scarves folded neatly on the steps, striped, linen, the “blankets” that double as towels, or pashminas if you are on Mustique. linen, double weight. just bumpy enough in weave to feel good about taking outside, but beautiful enough to be called Craft. the steps are inconvenient, like most of the store, four inches high, slightly wider than they needed to be–two feet deep, white, glossy, concrete. 23 of them from floor to door. I’d stumbled to them, reeling.

I knew I’d been unreasonable. But. How could I not?

it was the third or fourth time that she’d been on the cell since she said, I KNOW you’d look great in that and started to not help us. me. us.

shopping for something. anything. waxed cotton. I hated all of it and wanted it to fit.

bright room, white painted heavy cement walls, natural cement floor, glazed. there was another sales guy, lurking, just underfoot, but eyes down when the tantrum was bouncing off the ceiling. i retreated to an adjacent room with lots of crystals and geo-domes, what are they called? the things you crack open and there are amethyst crystals inside? this room was more fragile–and infinitely more comfortable than the clothing space. open. lots of room to spin and listen to music. gold chained bookshelves, suspended in air, no customers.

I saw B join up with an elder man, headed into another room, he had paintbrushes, and I knew he would be attended by B until his stories ran out and the elder asked after me to him. and I’d be waiting.

but I knew he wouldn’t come.

arctic ice cutter

Betsy was scraping the ice belt. She was making a movie, she had worked with the same team on something in Portugal.

I knew some of them.

We stopped at a small port, down a river or loch, like the Panama Canal. There was an interesting mall market.

I slid down a ramp to talk to the ship guys – where I learned “heggebroff” or “heidebroff”, pronounced perfectly, was meant to be “thank you.” Barry came down, and the other guy, who wanted to practice English, complimented him and said: “du bist eine sklavin,”* which I pretended I understood and meant, his soft hair and beard, which he proceeded to gather up in his boater hand and squeeze - like Bozo. Barry purred. We all enjoyed the moment. 

The ice being cut was pink.

The movie guys were all very interesting looking and serious.

*IRL I looked up du bist eine sklavin, which means “you are a slave.”

rick rubin needed dough

I had extensive creative meetings with Rick Rubin & several other men. Laptops were open and ideas floated around. After a meeting, Rick prepared a meal for a guest w/a staff of people, including a chef. I leaned over the counter, very curious what all 5 of them were doing in the small kitchen. Folding, kneading bread. Cutting veggies.

I offered. SURE. He needed some parchment dough. There was an elaborate plan to line a vessel w/foil. I offered to get phyllo dough. Grateful acceptance.

Skip to a Christel visitation. We were in a classroom, with classroom chairs. Lots of miracles. This was a more ethnically integrated group. As Christel lectured, I would tune out, and come back to CN sitting right next to me. I asked (or she was asking): where do you go when tuning out? Some place hard to see or somehow frightening?  (In the back of my mind, I was wondering if Rick Rubin was waiting for the pastry dough. I had said I knew a place, but I really didn't). She instructed me to ask the question of myself. As I closed & opened my eyes, not really wanting to see, a group of devotees proceeded in and out of the classroom, preparing for something. Christel worked with those few left in room. There was another inside-circle style person w/electric guitar, who wasn't Rebecca, but extremely similar in ranking. The devotees gave out gifts. Mine was a long, yellow sharpened pencil: I got it as Christel walked by & we laughed loud. (All I need is another pencil!)

But what came next was truly noteworthy.

I closed my eyes and asked: Where do I go and who do I become when I zone out? I opened my eyes & felt curious about a warm dry fullness in my left hand. To clarify it was emerging from the center of the palm of my left hand:  Salt.  A palm-full of very warm salt!! I sifted it back &forth from hand to hand. It was a comforting, natural, potent and effortless act. I felt calm-awe. I was keenly aware it was happening and that the feeling/act could happen at will.

I shared my manifestation w/others. No big surprise registered for them nor for me. CN came by: whoa! Great, so 8am, ocean! Be there! I thought to myself, this is bigger than an ocean walk--out loud, I said “Miracle!” And raised my hands, almost at a loss for words and said 'praise Jesus!' to which she frowned & asked if that was coming from a real place. I wasn't and so I revered & restated: genuinely, that I felt I had been a vehicle for a miracle. Yes.