Wednesday, September 23, 2009

A story from last night and many thanks to a hooker named Marilyn

First of all: One story from last night.

At the end of the show, I was tired. Two nights in a row of reading cards plus the days both days--was getting run down, and quickly. A young woman came to the table and asked for a reading. I said, as I've started saying, "How can I help you?" She wanted to know about the future. Then, she revealed that both her parents had been murdered a year before. What was she to do, now? Mother of fucking pearl....I said to myself. I am not trained to deal with this. Please, please God. Don't let me say anything stupid.

First thing's first: I shook the deck and said, "You will not find an answer as to why this happened in this reading. I wish you could, but it's not going to happen. What I can try to do is give you a few tools as to find methods to heal yourself. Will that work for you?"

She said yes. As per usual, I can't remember what I told her, but she walked away smiling--which is a hell of a lot better than when someone gets a reading from me and goes to lock themselves in the bathroom either to cry or eat pills. However, when she did walk away, I put my head in my hands on the table. How the hell do these things happen to people??? And why???

The next guy came to my table and just wanted a general reading. He looked at me blankly the whole time.

"Does this have any poignancy for you?" I asked.

"Not really," he said.

"Okay, then," I reshuffled the deck. "I'll tell you what has happened. I'm out of psychic juice. I am happy to give your money back." He kindly declined the refund, so I tried something else. I fanned the cards, face down, on the table.

"Pick one," I said. "I'll tell you everything I know about it symbolically, and you take from it what you will. Maybe there will be some kind of message for you."

He liked that idea and drew a card. When I told him everything I knew about it, he walked away smiling. So, even if it was probably the lamest reading ever, he didn't go to the bathroom for tears or drugs and I got to keep the five dollars. I did the same thing for the next dude, who again let me keep the five dollars even though I was out of juice, and was happy with the "Here's the symbolism" reading.

See, fellow readers? It's best to be honest with folks. When we're done, we're done. Likely, they'll want to get the cards to tell them something anyway.


Saturday night, I had two dreams.

The first was of KM. I still dream of him on a regular basis. Sometimes, we're laughing at the situation we're both going through. Sometimes, we're fighting. Last week, we were on the dream phone and all I could say was "WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY???" The call kept dropping before he could answer. Saturday night, I don't remember the scenario. But I wasn't happy with whatever it was we talked about, and I remember him not being happy, either. I left him there, staring at the ground, and "came back" to whereever I came "from," arriving at an airport with my friend Mike. My ex-lover TM had come to pick us up, for whatever reason.

I must have said this before--but I'll say it again. NEVER name your Coven "Nymphs of Pandemonia." We were disorganized. Everything started three hours late. But our parties were awesome and we got laid a lot, as to be expected. And also as to be expected, we blew apart over a penis. This particular penis happened to belong to TM. He and my now Ex-Coven sister ended up together and thereby ended the "Nymphs of Pandemonia."

Oh, well. If it didn't happen one way, it would have happened another. It feels like a high school complication, looking back on it. People are people. People hook up. People go away. People come back. Covens have short shelf-lives and something named NOP was a miracle for lasting the 18 months that it did. I think we're all in better places now. Novices of the Old Ways was born out of the dregs of the old Coven, and for it I'm incredibly thankful.

But in my dream, the former coven sister, Phoenix, arrived at the airport with TM. I was furious and wouldn't speak to her. She pulled me aside and said, "Have you even noticed that I'm here?" I replied, "What right have you to return? Why would you insert yourself into my thoughts." Then, I said some very, very mean things that made her cry. Before we could to back to our male companions, when they would see she was hurt and know that I'd made that way, I tried to smooth things over, but couldn't pull up an apology when I had none to make. "I'm glad I said these things to you here, and not in waking life," I said. And then woke up.

Then, I was mad.

Why was I still dreaming of KM, TM and Phoenix? I don't want to think about any of them. I avoid talking about all three of them because it only makes me mad. I scribbled in my journal all the way up to Inwood. Cursing and pissing on the pages. "Leave me alone, dumb thoughts!!!"

Then, I was interrupted by a hooker named Marilyn.

She saw me writing in my journal and complimented my cursive handwriting.

"God bless you! You have a gift. I wish I could write like that. I wish so I could write like that...."

I always got reprimanded in school for having shitty-slanty cursive writing. I appreciate the effusion. I wrote her name down on a piece of paper in the cursive, and gave it to her. Her name was Marilyn.

She went on and one about her blessings. Her new shelter. Her shower. Being clean. Having clean clothes. Having eight children, though she doesn't see them anymore. Being HIV positive, but still alive. Having made it on her own in the streets. She was alive. She said she was blessed. Beaming smile radiating from her, I knew it was true.

The woman on my left was all dressed for church. She looked spectacular in a green dress and a hat that looked like a fabric fountain. She looked up from her Bible a few times to acknowledge Marilyn and then went back to her reading. Marilyn liked her outfit and wanted to talk to her about it. But the lady wanted to read her Bible.

I'm not a saint. I honestly wanted to just scribble in my journal and be left alone. I'm giving a lot of justice to Marilyn's speech, because it isn't easy to follow the thought-process of a subway-riding street person. But, really. Wouldn't the Gods prefer I give this poor woman my ear for just a few stops than to scribble about what I think the Gods might want from me in my coffee-stained, ass-printed notebook? Certainly, the Christian lady's God would have preferred she help that woman than sit there and read about what Christ wanted from her. The woman on the other side of me gave Marilyn a little money. I had none. But Marilyn didn't ask for it. Just wanted to show me her poetry. Which I read. It wasn't good, but it had soul. I was happy to have met Marilyn.

When Marilyn left, I was thankful. Wow. My only real problems are me not being able to figure out my stupid emotional baggage. But Marilyn was the blessed one because despite her fatal illness, separation from her children and tenuous living situation, she was indeed blessed. I counted my blessings the rest of the ride home. I was ready to honor the Gods at Mabon.

Last night, to top it all off, I dreamed I was reading a Pagan writer's biography alongside The Goddess. "All these so-called accomplishments," She said, pointing out the number of books the writer had written, c.d.s recorded and Conferences taught. "What this doesn't say is what this person does to better their fellow man. That's what this biography should be full of." I woke thinking of Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol, "ManKIND should have been my (motherfucking) business."

Okay, Lady. I'z done hearded.

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