Right & Left: the Space Between

A daytrip resulted in a broken arm. It’s not too long a story – may I start at the beginning? There are funny moments, but you kind of had to be here for those.

I tripped over a concrete parking block (also called a parking stop, a curb stop & more.) It’s that concrete thingie installed in parking spaces . And, in a spasm of ironic humor, it was a HANDICAPPED block – but then, blue is my favorite color. We were in a rest stop near Silver City.

I have a mental vision that my body whipped forward in a crack-the-whip motion, my right arm & my nose landing simultaneously. I have a slow-mo impression of bouncing on the tip of my nose, my head snapping back to have another go at landing, this time fully face-down. I now call it my “asphalt exfoliation.” I could feel my nose dripping blood. Pat, my travel companion, rushed to help me, as did another man but before they could touch me, I growled, DON’T! I drew myself up to a sit, carefully positioning my face forward so as not to bloody my clothing.

Inside, I sent up a fervent prayer, Don’t let it be broken!! I rushed through the door marked Denial in my ringing head. I got myself up somehow, re-entering the bathroom where the water pulsed in a slow trickle. I looked in the mirror & choked. I dabbed carefully at my face with a rough paper towel. I figured, It’s done, might as well go on.

My friend & I continued to Silver, discussing whether to go to urgent care or a hospital. But I was reluctant. I asked Pat to fashion me a Girl Scout sling to support & immobilize my arm. I kept sending up smoke signals of prayer (“not broke, not broke, not broke”) I knew on a deep level: broke for sure. This experience was, after all, a revisit to a 2002 event in which I landed on my right elbow.

We had lunch at an outdoor table as (of course) all indoor venues are closed. After half a tuna sandwich & a fruitless search for a store Pat wished to visit, we stopped at CVS for an arm sling. The passersby in Silver City offered ice, help, care, directions to the hospital… We started home. I was in that space after a traumatic injury. Nothing yet hurt, but I wasn’t exactly planning on breaking out in the Macarena. The ice melted in my lap wetting down my shorts thoroughly, adding a level of comedy…oy! Wet pants on top of everything else.

Since I’ve broken this arm before, at the elbow, I had a preview of the immediate future. I groaned inside as my Medicare card does not include doctor fees, but relied on the fact it does include hospital care. Next piece of irony up: the hospital treated me as an outpatient so I now face bills in four digits for a 15-pound plaster bumper, a 4-pound “ski” to seat the injury into & no fewer than six ace bandages tying the whole thing together. I left hospital with an offer of oxycontin (NO!), a bloody-scraped face which they didn’t even offer to put a cool cloth upon, a CD of the break & a prescription for an orthopedist in Las Cruces.

I barely fit into my tiny car with my cement block arm. I learned that slings of any kind are not forgiving of DD bra size or having a straight neck. I adopted a tilt to balance the weight, learned to meditate about moving no matter how urgent the call to do so. Slithering seemed to work when standing up was involved. Dishes, washing, food prep, dressing, climbing the steps & descending backwards…

Friends gathered every day to help with all of the above. From feeling faraway while up close to my surroundings, I was gathered in a bubble of love & help that brought more relief than tears, tho they were not far behind as it turned out.

I am not even a month after the event. This morning I opened a jar, cut my eggs, buttered toast, washed in the shower (hair, too!). I dressed carefully in real clothes – finally free of the single caftan that I could squirrel into. I am typing with both hands, my right elbow tucked in close to my hip.

The tip of my nose is still pinker. My arm bears a stripe of discoloration which may never fade. My elbow looks like a small ball has been shoved into the joint. The injury – supracondylar transverse fracture of the humerus – heals well under the infrared lamp, constant Reiki & much mental conversation over the future.

My career as a Massage Therapist is likely over with this being the second injury in the same area. A whisper of possibly changing careers in these unusual times has become a steady hum. I finagled a couple of payments for the hospital & the doctor who earned $608 for looking at me, recommending oxycontin, insisting on a CT scan for what he was convinced was a broken nose, then disappearing to peck at a computer behind his decorative mask. (Since a CT scan would provide nothing to enhance what might become a prizefighter’s cauliflower nose,  this I also refused.) Not a bad night’s earnings when it was early on Friday evening with the weekend rushing in. I’m not even gonna talk about the hospital bill. They could have admitted me so the bill would have been covered, after all.

Life & moving on. I am left to do right in future, to repay the care & love I’ve been shown. Soon I will be driving again – maybe I’ll get to Silver City to thank the people there, too.

 

 

Moving Closer to the Moon

I thought T or C would be my stay-place: my spot to live out my 70’s (which, by the way, I’m just getting comfortable in.) However, now I’m told to move on. And that I’ll move three more times after this one!

There is a total allure to relocating. Higher mountains, closer to the moon, furry pines to breathe, colder winds & much more snow.

Truly, I love the adventure & discovery of life Somewhere Else. I enjoy arrival, the three turns of settling in, the capability to love more, whether friends, a lover or a slice of scenery.

There is much to be said of love: life with it & without it. Oh, not the love of friends, but the Love of that self-offering where shields can be put aside & the whistle of warning becomes a coaxing sound. The dance opens to my steps.

I move away from love towards love. As I reach 72, perhaps I’ll settle  into this decade of 3D time. And still so much to explore.

Are transigence & intransigence the most fallow for me? In many senses & tenses, just “yes.”

The spear of Sagittarius rising arcs across my heart, defining yet another new path. Since 2013, I have lived in Ruidoso, Ocean City, Berlin, West Fenwick, Hillsboro & T or C. That arc is a goad & a lodestar at once.

My goals are to be in a higher elevation, a smaller, welcoming population base, reinventing myself there & renewing my attachment to the terrain of mountains. I want to live more of my dreams aloud with permission from this me through Higher Self.

I see me on a deck, overlooking the play of light on trees, the moon darting between, shy now we are in propinquity. I smell that distillation of fir-scented air & chill, ground from stardust. I walk steeper paths on frosty floors. I grow accustomed once more to bracing cold.

While nowhere near, I am already there…give or take a year.

8/7/20

 

Seahorses In The Rodeo

I have named it: Mask Derangement Syndrome! On my morning walkabout, I used to leave my house like Rocky gritting up the last two steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum, “Gonna Fly Now” ringing in my ears. Now I slip out the front door, look both ways & up, then slip around the building for the alley-streets.

I will admit that I wasn’t ready, & then I was. Ready for masking. I knew when I reached the point of not letting it possess me, that I had won my victory. There is a reason why humanity is letting this get to them with such unhinged fear & it cannot be only of this fear.

In The Exorcist, the sound of angry bees was layered into the soundtrack as a subliminal. People were up out of their seats without knowing why, attributing it to the horror of the story. A young girl, possessed by demons… our very spines react in fight/flight. But how much of it was simply our nervous system vs. the sound of angry bees?

A whole world, possessed by fear of a virus born suspiciously of ill intent from a beast of darkness. We aren’t computer programs;  we don’t need constant viral updating & then “vaccine fixes.” (My real computer returns from each Microsoft “update” a bit more befuddled than before.)

While healing is not a business, although it is mistaken for one, it can neither become a whip with which to beat us. We take our chances with illness – we always have. Virulent, mild, all the in-between, all the symptoms & cures have been experienced & taken. What works is a bit of each & more common sense than all else.

Quarantine the sick, the healthy are needed out in the world to help them get better. Stop this masking. Your spit won’t make me sick & mine won’t you. This topic, plus the 6′ distancing are from books about fictional outbreaks, not from the current symptom list.  They were novels.

Sooner or later we all die. If I need to chance the death statistics of this one, I’m up. Because so much out in the public domain is lies laced in with damned statistics.

Can the doctors recover a reputation for truth in medicine if they report the truth of this? Is it worth believing them now when we could not before? When they endorsed Camel cigarettes? Do you believe the hospitals reporting a plague status, or the nurses all dancing in a complicated routine around an IV pole? Do you watch the empty hospital ship motor off while patients requiring isolation are walked in the back door of the local senior care centers to join the general population?

Where are you? My capitulation is announced by the mask on my face. I await the turn of circumstance that will return my world, whatever new scars it bears, back to me.

Recuerdo

I am tired of my own face.

I cannot avoid mirrors.

Once I was younger; I have never been this old before.

How can I ever find myself, lost so long ago, now bathing in memories I have never had? What made me think I could live alone so long & never be lonely? I can check my closets & my drawers & never find who I am. I can see how I held love at arm’s length. I can feel the bubbling truth of of days & nights with no one nearby.

I may have made a good nun if I could have convinced myself God was enough. I could have been someone’s truth, a shout instead of a whisper. I could have closed my eyes in someone’s arms & rested. But I didn’t quite get it right this life. Not that I regret a word of it, but it might have been so much larger.

I can feel the love spilling out of my heart, I can see the flowers I grew. I could have built cathedrals instead of this beautiful, empty chapel on a hill, open to the wind blowing out candles. I listen to the bells that never rang for me. I re-live the moments I was loved, but these are faint now & lack color.

All the love I had came out my hands as I worked on bodies. All the roads I walked led me here to this now. It would have been different, once. I could have walked forth as a woman who loved a man…instead of the mirrors showing me, they could have showed her.

Instead I have shared with strangers the touch meant for another & each massage I gave could have been an afternoon in bed stroking Love. We learn each day what is needed in its time. I was born for leaving yet if I had only stayed.

Shadows & whispers gather with the dusk. Another night, another book to read; a clock to watch. It might have been I would have recognized love had I known what I was looking for.

I have done well. If I enjoy where I am, am I lost really? If I choose to live with ghosts & memories, am I in lack? They do comfort me, insubstantial as they are. My lucky life lived from the outside in, late now to bear this fruit. I will watch this careful blooming watered with salt. I will keep the control I’m famous for, except until I can no longer do this.

I could say I don’t want this heart anymore. I want a transplant to a woman who still has life in her womb… or I can stand by these choices & simply go on.

Mother, lover, woman, wife. All the storms I never reaped the rainbows from condensed to my present. I see them in the corners where I have chased them. It was not my fault, why this guilt? I learned early not to love, that I was unworthy of it, that it would never find me if I only hid hard enough.

Tomorrow I will be stronger. Tomorrow the mirrors will know me better. I have not let go of the dream tho it may seem so. I will be watching for it all now & when it comes to me, I will never let it go.

 

 

Arms Open

Time is the Great Engagement we make with life. To attain earth, you must agree to obey Time – you get to return as a tick or a tock & the rhythm of your life is set.

For example, I have six clocks but three mirrors. Only recently, in entering the no-time of lockdown, I note the pressure Time wants to impart. Fortunately, I can withstand all of it. I realize I could do a better job at this if I were to adopt a regimen which rubs very closely to “regime.”

I’m enjoying freedom in a more engaged & altruistic state of self. Prevented from Service to Others, I return to Service to Self. I can be gentle to myself; I can be kind as I would be to a stranger. I can offer alternatives to me just as I would offer choices to another.

I am still reacting to an implant, a blocker, but it is melting down in the new vibration that I shift to. Cosmic shift. I made it through the Matrix & Creation both…this far. Some of my lives were hijacked but I am coordinating more carefully with life, now.

I know the blocker was the price for admission & I knew it coming in. I also knew this lifetime I would grow out of it. Best keep on with it, yeh?

Read, Write, Learn, Repeat

I know I have written up this topic before…not that I could show you where & when in the moment. All’s I know is this exact thought hass occurred to me periodically all my adult life. So I will write about it yet again, let the definitions flow – the ones of how I define things now as compared to / repaired to at other times.

It has taken this long to grow into this me. And she still looks over her shoulder at the other Me’s, wondering if this growing thing is okay. Well, it may have been easier before, but I’m not really sure how much so. Simplistically, each place I was before I needed to be in. Like later, I’ll read this & think it immature & weenie if compared to the place I am then.

I came into this life knowing exactly what I wanted & even more exactly, how to become that. I got sidetracked by so many events, relationships, suffering joy & enjoying suffering. I grew up with metered laughter when I knew what was missing was unmitigated joy. (I go for “relatively jolly” now. }

I was too early groomed for the life my mother lived. It was her best life & she couldn’t think of anything better to imbue in me. She gave me the basics I needed to be myself. What I was trying to remember was overlaid with her tracks. When I followed them, I got to her life.

As a child, you do not abdicate control – you do not really have control as to those around you. My generation (Baby Boomers) was kind of subjective to parental whims & laws, societal “rules” & a scholarly “obedience” that included very little learning.

What a prep course for the 21st Century!

I was, I think, peculiarly malleable. Craving only approval, I was repeatedly crushed in that regard. I still hesitate to send my roots to the center of the earth, just in case I’m not to her liking. When I next check in about this very topic, I expect to be over that.

I can take it.

I most recently am in the process of learning to be easier in my life circumstances, both less driven (by accomplishments) & more driven (to accomplishments.) I am learning the real violence to others is not to try to teach them how I do non-violence, but to let them live out theirs. That can hurt.

Yet this comes from the sure instinct finally fully supported, that I cannot change anyone’s course through direct direction. We must all understand the immanence of self-responsibility. I believe I came her with the intention to recover from all the other lifetimes. This one’s a culmination, folks. I don’t have to come back unless I want to & that’s huge. All these words are in service to the platitude “Live & Let Live.”

I am witness to the pressures of other’s wishes as matched with my self-expectations. This is, however, what refined me to my current humanity.

After reading There is a River by Thomas Surgrue, I demanded of myself to “create no Karma!,” Then I went about pushing Karma forward with my damn nose as what I did not wish to create, I experienced.

Holy Hell!

If I had to define my place right now, I’d say I just might be getting the punchline of the joke life was made for me & others while we were watching TV. Thing is, it’s not until now I’ve been able to simply laugh about it – this releases the connection to it in a delightful way.

My apologies smear the hurt I’ve caused; they don’t erase it. I cannot erase the pain I’ve etched into another’s heart or soul. I can only heal my own.

It’s a marvel, but I’m learning how to be the I AM I came here to be.

Horizons Go Horizontal

Facing Beginnings & Endings

I think it is best to learn how to face & save face with these since they follow me like clock hands searching time.

I am surfeit in my pleasures: bread & butter for breakfast, delayed coffee…Boy Howdy! Belly warm & feet comfy, music to one side & an open window with a breeze to the other.

Where will I be a year from now? I don’t know, I just feel the leverage of life prying me loose. Maybe I can find a writer’s camp to work in…but it all starts here. How will I change? I’ll need to be in a bigger town if I’m going. Or out in the desert far from anything but cactus, hopefully with hot water & indoor plumbing.

What I see once again is possibility opening to bid me enter. I want to celebrate with others & write about it. There is much catching up for writing – my proof of life.

What do I want? To laugh, to be respected, to be relied upon, to care for others who will, in turn, care for me.  Sad to abandon the thought of being loved, left on the side of the rode like a suitcase I can no longer sit on with my thumb out.

These are best guesses in this moment & unreliable. I’m not really sure overall.

From the specific to the general…whole populations are moving. Will there be another Great Resettlement? Will America become an ideal again in terms of all of us leaving for a “better place.”

I am gone again. Time to go smaller & less populous? Or be alone in a city? I find I’m content in my own company on good days. It’s at night when the shadows crowd ‘round & I realize I’m not enough for myself anymore.

I thought I had created a refuge here. Pressing words into sentences is my favorite but cannot be my only pastime.

My finger’s on the trigger. Where is the gun pointed?

POWER, FORCE [& LOVE]

There’s a Ren & Stimpy song where they sing of too many candles on the cake for a birthday, of the fire department standing by. Were I to have a cake with candles, I’d need a sheet cake so as not to be a fire hazard & somebody who counts higher than I dare these days.

I wrote this back on my birthday which is already more than a half-year ago. Happy Birthday, Me! Indeed, happy birthday from my island in timespace, from the celebratory bundle of cells & thoughts that is my Be Here Now.

I was told recently I am quite immersed in power & force. Funny that this might be a fresh insight & not one anyone has heretofore shared to my face. Now I could go a bit irritated or even drippy with insult. On reflection, I see it as a good insight & depiction of my need to have it my way. But anybody out there who doesn’t want it their way can stand in a very short line, yeh?

I’ve described my own self as “imperious.” As a child, my Mom called me “Queenie” and meant it. No nobility of note here…just an American woman of Italian persuasion. I love laughter, good conversation, great food & the sensation of travel. And I’ve arrived here at 71 with limbs intact, a cheerful demeanor & a plethora of skin tags.

I know the Power & Force thing about me to be true, tho. It fit right into an open slot on the description board. It explains so much! Yet I started as an Independent in a nest of Catholics, a spirit malleable only to a point. It wasn’t easy, but they never penetrated all the way into my soul tho they knocked it about a bit.

I thought I was offering a bare-knuckle friendship. But more than once I was stirring a fishwife stew, hollering at him as though I had a relationship involving a ring.

So what’s the problem with Power & Force? Should I give in to the black pearl of life alone & despairing? There are times this terrible beauty is most attractive. Should I stop helping or offering the graces I also otherwise possess? No, not happening. And if my lifestyle of success, blessing & laughter doesn’t suit you, go dress somewhere else.

Yeh, I’m my own Cult. Yeh, I’m aggressive & righteous for my personal brand-name. Yes, I’ve dared the fields where angels feared to roam. I was loved into life, appreciated by others who dared to do so.

I’m a real woman, imperfect of sight & bearing. I do Tinkerbell as a nuclear device. I accomplish what is mine to do (once I figure it all out.) I learned early to dog-paddle & never surrendered it for swimming aloud. I can tuck Power & Force into my superpowers pack & move on.

Wish me tame trails & New Mexico skies, the suggestion of rivers at a distance, of life beneath the life on top. Your qualifications to handle power & force are your own; I won’t disturb these.

Come, my Kingdom, my mismatched blessings! Come lovers & liars, I will rock your world!

Cedar Chests

There is a word for loneliness tho I can’t think of it now. I am the last of my kind: the last of an odd-lot family that never quite matched up. We didn’t nest like Matryoshka dolls. We barely rotated around each other.

Mother watched over the place where we lived. I know nothing of what happened before I got there – obviously, yeh? I know little of what followed since I lived in my own skin with barely a thought for what was outside of me. I lived in books, in other people’s stories, with dogs & horses. The Black Stallion whinnied in my dreams, nuzzled me awake on dark mornings when all there was to anticipate was sitting in rooms with tall windows, in front of dark nuns & recite catechism. There was the beach to ride my bike on, the boardwalk to cruise. There were bushes to pick leaves from to fold & fold to green specks & toss like verdant spitballs.

There was homework & religion & church on Sundays, choir singing, being pulled from class to attend a funeral for a song. There was jump rope in the schoolyard but no invitations to join. There were kids making out in the coat closet, but I pushed back my glasses & walked by. There were sisters of St. Joseph, white-wimpled & less than charming, more like to rattle their beads at you like snakes, dull gold crucifixes hanging heavily at their knees. There were problems & penmanship & geography & “JMJ” on the papers for Jesus, Mary Joseph.

There were lunch bags to open although I couldn’t tell you now what was packed for a sandwich…but I remember loving the chocolate cupcakes far more than the Tastycake Junior cakes. And milk.

There were saddle shoes to tie, clothes to warm on the radiator before wearing. There were teeth to brush & that one sinking soul morning when I saw pinholes in every tooth since I never did.

My mom didn’t mean to be a non-Mom, I’m sure, now that I’ve been a lost-cause mom myself. A generation untaught in the ways of caring for children; a generation to whom a child was an inconvenience & expensive, an appetite needing feeding, a blouse needing ironing at the end of the day when all that should have been left was sleep. There was a child of me who wanted nothing more than to slip into a book & become invisible for to be noticed was to be yelled at for something.

There was a brother in the house, but no love lost or found between. There were absent sisters so much older I only knew their names & their husbands’. There was Everly Brothers music to memorize & act out…”Bye Bye Love”, “Wake Up Little Susie” – these delicious situations for which I would not be accused yet could happen in a song I could sing.

Once someone asked me about my family & I blurted: “The ocean was my mother.” How fortunate the child growing up by the sea! How unbelievably lucky to have Eternity always east of me, China securely buried underneath  – all’s you had to do was dig deeply enough. There was fog to hide in on the beach until the trash trucks rolled near & I realized how foolish this could be. There were seashells to glue fake pearls into & sell for fifty cents outside from the stoop.

There was sand to sweep, figs to ignore, clothespins in a ragged bag on a low-belly rope. There were nor’easters crying over the land, slashing an innocent sidewalk with rain making that short hop from bay to beach. There were fall-down times & climb-tree times & this is all I remember of any of it. My thoughts were filled with guilt – I was most assuredly a big sinner tho trips to confession never took more than a couple of minutes, there were hail marys to count for penance & a Pater Noster to say for stealing Hershey bars.

I had no father to speak of save the one who thought child support unnecessary so Mom would yell about that. But I could do nothing except add it to the shadow bag; somehow it was my fault he did not pay.

I don’t remember much. A Barbie taken from me, so I’d not spoil her wedding dress given by an aunt who first noticed when I needed a bra. There were too-big clothes delivered by the Sears truck. There were always glasses on my face, cat’s frame eyeglasses slipping down my nose.

I wear glasses still. I live in the desert. My mother died alone in her bed, happy not to be in hospital where she thought the Filipino nurses were talking about her in Tagalog. There was a wailing phone call from my  sister in-law when Joe died in Germany. But I already knew he had crossed over as my husband channeled him before the call. My sister Rita died after telling me not to write to her anymore. Sixteen years older than I, we had nothing in common except letters & I cannot recall what I said, but I was rather a melancholic. Teri just died 1/26 but I have heard nothing at all except that she is gone & not a word of closure. Perhaps more guilt attends that.

I sleep well & if I wake for nature, I have a coffee & return, warmed, to bed. I drive a nice car which I may yet pay off in this lifetime but may not. I know nothing still. I know everything always.

My heart hurts at times with all I want to say. I can move heaven & earth with words, but I can make no one listen. I can ask for understanding, but who will tell me they do?

Time contained an endless blue joy of life & a hollow gray empty just on the other side of that.

At the end of my life, I have possessions & nothing else. I have friends but they are spun into their own cocoons. I have stories few have time to hear.

I have words for wings so I fly.

Dividing The Light

So, you can’t be sure whether to take yourself seriously in the current political, personal, emotional & polarized tidal press. Just when we thought there was enough island left for our feet, we find ourselves walking on water … or treading it.

For me, it always returns to water tho I am an Air Sign by birth. There are births to ride out, contractions to control, pangs to deliver Truth which has not been an issue for some time. I am a proud Conspiracy Theorist & have never denied this – usually debunking those who tried to present me as being reasonable.

I don’t operate there much of the time, at least not so much as I pretend. When you start your blog with green comic sans font 14…can much be expected to follow? Yet here it is, greenly growing, one word emerging from another…that birth thing. We’ve paid a great deal to do this at speed now. it takes no years-long process to deliver any longer. What have we given up getting to here? Experience. Time.

I love using power words, like, “I never!” when, in fact, I’ve been slapped with “never” like a wet fish across my salty face any number of times. Vow has fewer letters than “love” but seemingly a more powerful forcefield around it that carries forward slicing into & through that which is love in life. And I’ve got this forming idea I made that vow to me.

How many people contribute to a life & claim it, then, adopting it & modifying around theirs for that – like the old oriental mandate that saving a life is thereafter ever-helping it to live?

How many minds can you change when you realize to fixate upon one mind-set is a limitation of itself? In the sudden snapping-free from the past, I am propelled into the future I didn’t really plan out. But I feel like I’ve written enough of these out to catch up quickly. This mind is familiar: it’s one I go into when Great Change occurs. My upper lip grows cold. Your hands have become ice pops. Indicators of change falling into step with us to later walk with us off the path; this li’l bit of being together & being beige.

This time I have no intended Intent to change. I’m not fixated on much except a Now that requires a differing phase ray of awareness. This “the 6 a.m. wall when only a street light shines in the window & the air is the freshest you’ve breathed in ever your life.” This Right Now.

This.

Right.

Now.

Somewhere there is a strain of Elvis singing “Walk on, walk on with your life.” My dreams have never walked alone, no matter how isolated I felt in them.

Even with no obvious physical change, I change. Here is where I live today:

I turned my living room entirely around. I faced it inward, closing out the world while enjoying its beautiful light & benefit more. Now the light pours over me instead of my facing into it. I did not know the room could look as it does & indeed, it was strange enough to me a manifestation that I could only sit outside of it & gaze at it after making the changes. I still sit on the edges of it, rather than settling into it. (It doesn’t matter what I think if the room has actually become animate & demands to turn around – which I now strongly suspect.)

Many changes are now replacing in my life. The energy itself is chasing a tail out the door to whirl in the general mayhem of a world which most of us here will honk about being separated from. Let’s see, a Libra Air Sign in a time of wind-driven Change, in a movable landscape filled with incense bowls – my house smells of ashes at times.

I monitor my own conversations. I listen to what I say to people or write stuff down. But the only real conversation is the one going on in my head. The song of balance … the computer next to the dowsing crystal, the phone next to the cards. Full court press, indeed.