Psychic Reading, Psychic Writer

One time I visited a Psychic on the request of a friend who thought he was wonderful and I could benefit from a reading.

Since I had recently lost a lot of weight, trying to gain back my self esteem and new thinner identity, I was dressed very nicely in pink, wearing dangly earrings and low heels.

He stared ominously into his crystal ball. I suppose it was to help give him authenticity. But, He totally judged me on appearance. Said I'd had a life of getting whatever I wanted, causing my parents much heartache, had too many desires for nice things. He said I needed to give them all up if I wanted true happiness.

He couldn't have been further from the truth considering all the travails and suffering I had been through in the last ten years before meeting him. I just nodded and smiled politely and wondered why I was going to pay him a large amount of money for this. I couldn't walk out. I didn't have the courage. He went on to tell me some general things, of which didn't come true and now, I don't recall.

He said I had undeveloped psychic powers of my own and he could offer me his classes on a discount rate because of my inborn talents.

"Our time is up! Any questions before you leave?"

I decided to give him one more chance. I tested him, asking if I would ever publish my writing, insinuating a book. I really wasn't working on any book though I wished I was. Keeping a journal was my daily task. He answered, "not for a long long time." So, maybe he was right about that, as I haven't published except in a few newsletters, zines and online. But, no book.

What's in a good book?

Get a good book in my hands and I don't want to be bothered except to make a cup of tea, and a sandwich. You probably already know how to do that with a book in your hands, your eyes feasting on the page, if you enjoy reading as much as I do.

Reading Bel Canto by Ann Patchett, was an exercise in suspending reality. Not in the sense that it was not factual. Well written fiction can be based on fact, but does not have to be boring. Well written fiction stretches fact into fascination enough to get one's attention and be enchanted.

Bel Canto was enchanting in the same way as the main female character was enchanting. So much so, that every man in the book was in love with her, and there were more than 58 of them from my reckoning. Not counting the terrorists. I was never really sure how many terrorists there were. Though not as many as there were captives. I'm sure. One could say this is a love story of immense proportions, though quite one sided. But, this is not chick lit. There are bad guy revolutionaries with guns in this book too.

You will wonder over and over again, as I did, when the captives will overthrow their captors. But I got to the point where I didn't bother to wonder anymore with the interesting twists and turns this story held. I was captivated myself, and not willing to put the book down and walk away until .

There have been many terrorist plots over the centuries, their stories receded into history. Who doesn't like reading history? Dry history? Dates to memorize? Unpronouncable names of famous dignitaries who changed the course of history? Raise your hand. I didn't think so. Only some guy, with thick glasses, pasty skin and spends all his time in the library? I like history and I don't fit that profile, and I'm sure many others don't, too.
This story plays back in a gentler form, a part of history I've already lived, remembering the early 70's news reports from Central and South America.

Politics and intrigue often go hand in hand with well written history. And history written softly into fiction with Ann Patchett's prose is very easy to swallow, even for those looking for a good story to read who don't care about history.

Do you like Opera? No, not Oprah, the daytime TV show hostess. I mean, Opera, where "it ain't over til the fat lady sings". I don't think in today's culture many people understand Opera, like opera, or even want to hear it. Author, Ann Patchett, didn't know diddly squat about opera. so, why would she plan out a book with a main character who was a world renown opera singer?

Writer's, unless they really know their background information, must do research in order to create a believable story. That is exactly what Ann Patchett did. According to her, she fell in love with opera after her research. You don't have to like opera at all to enjoy this book. It would be the same with any incredible star, whoever that might be. Mick Jagger? Madonna? You name it. The love of the fans is what weaves all the parts of this book together, explaining the characters strengths and weakness for them. It also explains to me, why all the male characters in the book are in love with the opera singer. Did I mention that already?

The one thing I had a problem with in reading Bel Canto was the redundancy. Though she wrote with fresh words, it was still the same old fascination with the opera singer, who isn't, incidentally, the most fascinating character in the book. I found the supporting cast of characters, so to speak, much more interesting. Ann Patchett can write a well rounded character and slip it into the story like a popcycle into a child's mouth, cool, tasty, dripping with sweet and begging for more.

The thread of mystery and suspense is what kept me hooked on Ann Patchett's, Bel Canto. I read this book in a day and a half. It would have been a day, if I hadn't been interrupted. Don't ya hate when that happens?

Reading this book until 2 A.M. was totally enjoyable. I have thanked Bel Canto for the good read. Though she now sits snuggly on my shelf, she wont be there for long. I know soon, I will kiss that book good bye.

It will stay there until it magnetizes itself to someone who simply must read it. The eyes will lightly scan my book shelves. The hand will reach out, being pulled without force. The question will be asked. "What's this one about?" Before I can go into my speil, the book will be clutched and carried out the door.


Will I ever see it again? Probably not. I don't lend books. I give them away. I think we all have to let go sometime. To keep a book on a shelf for 20 years and never having it opened and read but once is my idea of a sin. That's like locking the Vintage Chrysler in the garage and never taking it out into the sunlight so others can feast their eyes. Or keeping the "good" china high up in the cupboard for a "special" occasion that never happens.

Books are published for one purpose only and that is to be read. All the energy and work it takes for an author to produce and give birth to a book, the nicest thing for us to do is to appreciate it. Unlike a movie, we get to imagine the scenes, the tone of voice, the fragrance of the wisteria on the vine, and in this case, the smell and sound of gun casings when they hit the floor.

Shark Boy

Once there was a little boy who watched the movie, "Jaws".  The next summer, his Mommy and Daddy took him to the beach by the ocean. The little boy loved the beach. He collected rocks and seashells. He chased seagulls. Mommy said he could have one if he could catch one. When he got tired of chasing seagulls. He dug in the in the sand, and before you knew it, he was making incredible sand castles. He was very good at it! Others walking along would stop and stare. "Wow!" The boy was very happy.

Then, Daddy rented a small boat. You know? Those yellow ones that you blow up with air. Some people call them life rafts. It was big enough for all three of them. When Daddy put the boat on the shore Mom led the little boy to the boat.

The little boy took one look at the yellow blown up boat, and started to back up. Mom could feel him tugging her hand fiercely. She did not understand. By that time Daddy came and picked him up to carry him to the boat. The little boy screamed and kicked his feet so hard that Daddy had to put him down on the sand. The little boy ran as fast as he could as far away as he could to be away from the boat and the shore.

When Mommy caught up to him, he was sitting on their beach blanket under their beach umbrella. "Don't you want to go for a boat ride?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"It's too scarey!"

"But, the water is very smooth and peaceful"

By this time Daddy had pulled the boat to where they were sitting. "What's the matter son?"

The little boy pointed out to sea and said in his biggest voice:

"Sharks!!!"

Years later when the little boy was a big boy he and his friends all went to a park with a big pond where everyone enjoyed swimming. The big boy had already learned to swim. He knew there were no sharks in a swimming pool. But, when his friends all began to go into the big pond, he began to feel the same way he did years ago. Even though he knew there probably weren't any sharks in the pond, and he was sure there

weren't any, he had to face his fears. If he told his friends they might laugh at him. So, he very carefully got into the pond and had a wonderful time with his friends, especially when he was peacefully floating and he could feel the little fish swimming around him.

Now, that's not the end of the story, yet.

Years later when the boy had become a man, another little boy watched the movie, "Jaws". This little boy liked the movie so much that he wanted to watch it again and again. Good thing his Mommy and Daddy could buy the DVD.

This little boy collected shark toys, and shark books and drew pictures of sharks. When his Mommy and Daddy took him to the beach he stood on the shore gazing out to sea.

"Are there any sharks out there?"

"No, but they will migrate in a few months. Then they will be out there."

"Then, can we to go out in a boat and see them?"

Tomorrow is the little boy's birthday and the first Mommy is his Grandmother. She made a blog for him with all shark pictures. You can see them here

This is all a true story

Writing with Author, Laura Davis

I stopped by Gateways,  the largest metaphysical bookshop in the country, says the sign outside the door. Really? I didn't know that. Another sign said Writing workshop tonight at seven.

Local author, Laura Davis, was presenting it. How could I possibly NOT attend? I was there on the spot. How could I turn around and go home? I had only dropped by the store to pick up an item for my son. I wont mention what it is here, because he might be reading and it is a surprise gift. So, both of us now have a gift. I have the writing class! I went into the back of the store where chairs had been arranged, and chose my seat. I was early. Laura was there in the front, waiting for her eager participants. We chatted a bit. Laura is well known in the Santa Cruz area. She has written seven books. I forgot to ask her if she has another one on the way.

It was a little rough on my body to sit there for an hour and a half scribbling in my notebook sprawled on my lap, having to change pens because they felt unfamiliar in my hand, and yes, one of them went dry! I am so used to the computer now, I don't even recognize my handwriting. I think I need to buy one of those books for second graders so I can form readable letters again. However, I did not let that deter me. Onward and upward and all that.

Laura uses some of the same techniques as the author of Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg. In this case Laura gave us some rules for writing. I like to think of them as guidelines, but really, if one wants to write there must be something solid to guide us, therefore, rules.

Since the class was focused on short practice writings the main thing is to keep the pen moving no matter what you write, no matter what comes up, if you don't know what to write, just write, "I don't know what to write" or whatever comes out of your pen. Don't judge it. Don't stop and think about what you are writing. Ignore the inner critic. Just write, don't cross out, don't worry about spelling or grammar, just keep the pen moving.

The one thing Laura said that I just loved was: "You are free to write the worst crap in America!" (For my readers in other parts of the world, substitute America for your country.)

If it were me, I also would have added, "Kill the inner critic!" It is our worst enemy. Since there is no way to kill the inner critic, all we can do is ignore it. And if it sits over your shoulder nagging, "This isn't right. This isn't good enough. Whatever made you think you could write?" It is very hard to ignore. But, as one practices writing, one can practice ignoring the inner critic at the same time. I think I have pretty much learned how to ignore I.C. as one might be able to determine by my writing style. Grammar, in particular. Style is lacking. Oops, there it is... no self judging! It is what it is.

The practice writing sessions lasted five minutes each and Laura gave us prompts, something to write about. For example: Write about a time when your life was in limbo. That was a hard one for me at first. I wanted to think about it. I wanted to go back over the years and figure it all out. It was so tempting.

With her standing there in front of us all, I could do nothing but put pen to paper and write... "My mind is blank. Limbo is blank." and suddenly it came to me. I recalled a specific time when my brain felt numb, and that was truly limbo for me. The words came tumbling one after another. Looking at it now, I can see the mistakes, and the lack on continuity, and the twisting of the facts, and yet, I will leave it alone as it is. After all, it was just a writing practice. Practice.. not the final exam.

All in all it was a wonderful evening. Challenging to sit there with my notebook askew on my lap, and painful for my body to hold that position, but well worth the pleasure of writing with others, both beginners and old pros. There were a couple of other authors present, which I thought was cool. But, I don't know their names. We were all there to practice with Laura Davis, the author.

She's teaching a more in depth workshop on Sunday morning. I have decided to attend. I hope I can sleep well the night before. I hope I will not be in pain. I hope I can sit in a chair for a long time with my notebook not sliding off my lap. And for God's sake, I hope I will have a pen that will magically make my handwriting legible.

The photo of the Buddha was taken by me, and the artwork representing Limbo I did with photoshop.

What is happiness?

"Happiness. You deserve it. You have earned it. You get to have it and be present in this life, in this place, here and now."

This I found on the blog site of Dot Hearn  called The Writing Vein. In her writing she suggested in focusing on writing about happiness.

I think happiness is a personal thing. You and I might not experience happiness from the same source. So, here is my viewpoint on what happiness is for me.

Happiness is remembering childhood experiences, writing about them and discovering nuances I had not previously recalled.

Happiness is reading old letters from family and friends that were sent to my parents from 1937 to just a few years ago when they both left this world.

Happiness is thinking fondly of my parents in new ways, looking at them from the perceptions of others in ways I wasn't open to. It's like discovering and loving them with a door open into their lives which I never passed through. It's a treasure I never knew existed.

Happiness is seeing my adult children being successful in ways I could never foresee, learning to like them for who they are now. Yes, I would happily include them in my circle of friends if they were strangers, I recently met them and got acquainted.

Happiness is seeing the most incredible thing come true, that I never thought could possibly take place in my lifetime. I have grandchildren, some who are adults and have found their place in the world. Some who are still getting their education and well focused on their goals for their future place in the world.

Happiness is a miracle that never even occurred to me would happen. Not only do I have children and grandchildren, I have great grandchildren. They are all beautiful souls who have come into live to make our hearts break with loving them. They are the future to carry us forward. How long I will live to see where they go? I don't know. It gives me happiness just to know how they grow, how their personalities are developing, and yes, even their grumpiness, when it manifests.

Happiness is embracing the suffering and survival of my past, and welcoming the knowledge and compassion which it has brought me. It turned me unto a path I never would have taken. Happiness is knowing that I actually have strength and courage I didn't think. I can be thankful, in some ways, for the torment I endured.

Happiness is having a day without pain, a day I can walk naturally, a day where I feel emotionally as close to what one might consider "normal".

Happiness is realizing I have a smile on my face just from looking at LOL cheezburger cats, or experiencing something on YouTube I never would have consider worth watching until that moment, thanks to friends and family for sending me the links.

Happiness is going through sixty years of old photographs, having my Grandparents histories, wondering about old timey things about which I haven't a clue.

Happiness is knowing who my ancestors were, learning about their culture, geography and history of where they lived. Knowing where I came from made me feel connected to the past for many generations. It made me feel more than I am, more than one person, alone on this planet, more than just one set of DNA.

Happiness is having a digital camera so I can take as many pictures as I want without having to worry about the cost of having them printed, deleting all the unacceptable ones, and finding that one perfect picture I didn't realize I had managed to catch with my camera. Those are the kinds of pictures I want printed and framed.

Happiness is being aware I've got a smile on my face that was not there before, a smile I have when I'm by myself and not triggered by someone else, a smile that is my very own. Those smiles are so important to me, especially because of a lifetime of not smiling, of living with depression. Smiles are like little dancing sparkles bursting from my heart and warming me inside and out, even if they only last a minute.

Happiness is my 20 year old cat looking eye to eye with me while the universe and we became one during her last moments. Naturally, there was grief and sadness involved, but that experience is etched in my soul forever in a kind of deep "knowing" that truly is indescribable.

I think I would be bored if I was happy all the time. I would have nothing to compare it to, nothing to make me cherish it all the more because it is so rare and precious.

 ~~~
Present in the group photo above are: from left to right starting at the top row; Clint Mountain, David J. Deane, Bill Reuter Sr., James Deane, xxxxxx?, xxxxxx?

Bottom Row, Clint's son or nephew, Suzan Deane,  Bill Reuter Jr., Genevieve Borden Deane, Roger Deane, and last but not least our dog, Tammy

~~~

The picture of the young man on a Youtube page is my adult son, Xavier who works in the video game industry.

~~~
From the old time picture from 1911 My Grandmother's sister, Anna Evans in Thompson car in front of Ned O. Tarbox's store. Cattaraugus County, New York

~~~

The picture of the calico cat is Keli as described above