Dakota

More the tree

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I think that the flurry is over, though I can't be absolutely sure until tomorrow morning. It was such fun while it lasted. I am still getting some hits from the camera union forum of either China or Japan (can you tell?). The only thing I can read on their site is "Direct Linking Prohibited". I hope that's not what I am doing.

The crowd seems to have lost interest in the Dakota Digital Camera. Perhaps it was my review . Noone seems to have fallen for the photo blog hoax either. Oh well. We're back to just you and me, baby.

Third Place

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This is a prize winning photograph. It took third place in a contest sponsored by a Conservation Commission. In first place was an exotic insect, delicately suspended on the probiscus of a wafting common weed --shot with a close up and personal lens that magnified the primal scene 7000 times. Nothing I could ever accomplish with my rudimentary equipment. In second place, however, was a photograph so mundane as to precipitate stupor. Perhaps I will post it , mean spirited person that I am, so that you can judge for yourself. I think this photo has depth, end of life reflections (note wizened berries), perhaps too grim for the committee. There were only six photos submitted, so maybe they went for cheerful, and punted.

The award was given by the conservation commission of the town where Jonathan Harr’s book and John Travolta’s movie "A Civil Action" took place. The conservation commission in that town is highly motivated, needless to say. The awards ceremony was a gala event attended by hundreds, no kidding. Nothing like a little "contrast" (read cancer cluster around the poisoned wells) to bring forth a wave of desire, as Esther Hicks channeling Abraham would say.

The contest rules stated that the photograph submitted had to be taken on conservation land in the town. That happens to be one of the places where I ride my bike. When I take my camera, however, I get very little aerobic exercise, though I must get some muscle strengthening from climbing off and on the bike seven hundred times to shoot. I have a girl's bike, though, not as much climbing required as on a boy's, no need for that final leg fling. I am ashamed to admit, in this day of the shiny rubber biking short and Italian racing silks, that my bike also has a basket. To offset my nerdy mount, I always wear a sleek silver helmet.. I am a vision to behold. Since this is supposed to be a photo blog. I will stop there.

Web Server Statistics Laid Bare

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Thanks to Blogmentor, I have been provided with a something or other called Web Server Statistics, which gives me a vague idea about who has visited this site, how long they stay, how they got here and what they're reading, sort of. It's another way of knowing what's happening, other than messages from those of you who are kind enough to comment.

For example, I have a list of sample visits that tells me who has been here, and how long they have stayed. It comes in the most obscure code, so don't worry, I will not recognize anyone personally.

Well, Mozilla and Googlebot spend more time on my blog than I do. Whatever could they be doing? I am told they are webcrawlers and they are indexing my commentary for use on their search engine. This is why, for many months, Dakota was on the first page of information about scratched corneas . I sometimes had as many as ten disappointed visitors daily, straining their damaged eyeballs, looking for information about how to treat their painful condition. It must have annoyed them terribly when I popped up. Somehow, they have vanished from my statistics. I think, and rightfully so, that I am no longer on Google's page one about scratched corneas. Masai sneakers/cellulite is the search term that has moved into prominence in my statistics.

When I did do a little, overworked submission for the Belle du Jour contest and Sashinka mentioned my name as a possible porn star (I am honored) on her blog -- a few visitors arrived.

And now this. More than eight hundred people guided erroneously to me yesterday, thinking that I am offering the infamous digital disposable. I, of course, am thrilled, mostly by our amusing manifestation, but also by the inadvertant exposure. I'll bet they're not.

Photo note: This is Montreal. Symbolically, little old me, set against large, modern corporation.

Dakota Digital Disposable Camera

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Here is the review from the BBC about the Dakota digital disposable camera that has probably caused most of you to land on my humble blog. If both of my faithful readers will bear with me, I would like to comment on this new innovation. I might even buy one, though I'm not sure they're available in the US.

While the idea of a digital disposable camera seems hot, the new Dakota actually throws us back to the days when we had to worry about things like the price of every shot, in both money and limited space on the roll of film, the long wait for end product, and the inability to view our pictures immediately and take another (or ten) until we get it right. Really. what's the point?

I took about four photgraphs in my life under those circumstances. I have taken 9000 photos in the last year and a half. Not all of them good, mind you, and probably 6000 are duplicates, but if you blog browse a bit, you can see that I catch something nice on film every once in awhile. Using a digital camera, of the non disposable variety, allows me to lavishly waste electrons on whatever strikes my fancy. It also, I might add, makes me look for beauty and uniqueness 'round the clock. A great way of staying in the now, for Zen afficionados, and developing appreciation, for the Abraham Hicks crowd.

The creators of the new Dakota Disposable are taking linguistic advantage of us, using all the techno jargon to seduce us into purchasing what is essentially any old disposable camera. On the other hand, I am grateful for their ruse, since, here you are!

The tree in winter

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Sorry, I'm in such a rush that I can't find the photo again to mount a larger image. You get the idea. Maybe later. Later: found it.

Just a bit of prattle to keep the snow out of the summer sunrise.

I consider it prattling for aesthetic reasons.

Kayak sale

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I'm just tossing them up, disguising myself as a photo blog. Please go to my entry about my photo secrets , should you have any questions, or want to correct my white balance, which I know could use correction. You will then begin to appreciate the level of my photography naivete, and. should you comment, keep it simple.

I think I will have some photography tourists visiting. We may have more in common than those with scratched corneas who are always happening upon me via Google.

Tree in autumn

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One of the blessings in my life is the little Japanese Red Maple in my yard. For many years it grew along a fence, which was removed to reveal the structure of the trunk, in all its complexity, tipped perfectly by all those years of sitting on the fence (I can relate).

Manifestaton for me!

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At the The Abraham-Hicks Discussion and Manifestation Group feast yesterday, I was asked what I wanted. I said that I wanted to manifest more influence (over what I am uncertain, but I might as well have it). without having to do any more than I'm doing.

Guess what happened today! A new disposable digital camera has been launched, and it's all over dpreview (the info site for us shuttterbugs). The new camera is called Dakota. I had 600 hits on my blogette yesterday, up from two and a half. An improvement.

I am posting some pretty pictures in hopes that the shutterbuggers will think this is a photo blog. Ta ta

My Abraham-Hicks Discussion and Manifestation Group Meets

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One might think that after spending much of the weekend with my Pesso group, I would have been on group overload. But, no, I definitely had room for one more. Last night, my Abraham-Hicks Discussion and Manifestation Group met for a gala birthday celebration honoring our members -- two in particular, with birthdays in the last week. The Scorpio and the Libra ate cake and blew candle too.

On this special occasion we were invited for an exquisite meal to the charming, wharftop home of our Italian Scorpio. She made scrumptious Zucchini Risotto, before our very eyes, in the midst of major distraction.

Our in-group technowhiz brought along her birthday gift, a tiny, shiny, new silver laptop. This was a present from her paramour. He is most fortunate, because high tech presents warm her heart, and he doesn't have to shop outside his box. This probably would not be true for the rest of us, but we are grateful for her interests. She has programmed a different tune on her cellie for each of her loved ones. She can set up an international conference call on her phone, while simultaneously taking photos, and then email the photos and the powerpoint presentation to missing parties. This is a girl who can read dircections.

I bet you thought I was digressing, well, for once, I'm not. Over a glass of wine, we had an exchange about new learnings and successful manifestations since last we gathered. As the wine flowed, our hostess was lightly questioned about her interest in manifesting a romantic partner. She was not adverse to the idea, so we set about performing our first group manifestation.

Using the sleek silver laptop, we logged onto a legitimate meet-another-person-in-your-age-range-who-might-not-suffer-from-a-major-sexual-perversion site, and began. First we created a handle (required). We all felt an Italian flavor would be important, due to the ethnicity of our hostess, but we wanted to eliminate any stripper overtones. We decided on Angelique -- romantic, spiritual, Italian, not too old-lady-with-black-bubushka . We also conjured a surname of equal brilliance, which I will not reveal here, due to six degrees of separation concerns.

We answered the required survey questions: Latest books read, trying not to intimidate with the truth of deep psychological texts and shamanistic practice handbooks. We decided on the ever popular "DiVinci Code", and Ekhardt Tolle's "The Power of Now", lending a light spiritual flavor. (We will prep her, if necessary, on the DiVinci plot, since she doesn't read nonfiction.) We made up a great list of five things she can't live without including "my view of the harbor" (see photo, and that's only her back porch vista) and "silk...... " (subtle, sensuous, suggestive). I could go on and on.

We took her photo using the embedded, laptop camera, coquettishly posed in front of an earlier photo of herself, with enough body to show her slenderness. (All these guys want someone who weighs 100 to 120 lbs. They have no idea what real women over five feet weigh).

All the while, she was making the risotto. Our Angelique is a real multitasker. Or, to quote someone in another group of mine "she has her beaters in both bowls". At last, having honed an amusing but truthful profile, we submitted, and sat down to dinner.

Over dessert, which I shant describe, except to say that its only redeeming, nutritional value was the fruit flavor (as in, not chocolate), we plucked a few men from the tree of possiblity. There were several "hot picks". Number one, age 69, fluffy white hair, retired investment banker who had recently read a book about Islam, practiced yoga and had a bedroom with a view. Another strawberry blonde, engineer, won our hearts with his "Where do you rather be?" answer - "Here, now".

So, after spending at least two hours filling in blanks, (mind you, there were four of us working on this), we were abruptly confronted with the fact that a payment was required in order to write a note to a possibility. Noone would stop now, would they? There was, of course, an introductory offer, twenty five responses for $25.00. Since we are an Abraham group, and we allow abundance, money is no object, and we all pitched in to buy twenty five chances for perfect partnerhood.

We crafted a sincere note to our investment yoga, inquiring more specifically about his practice, while expressing interest in his reading selection. Light, breezy, authentic, you know, the works. Our technowhiz who is the only one of us who has utilized the internet for purposes of seduction, did the final editing and pushed the button on our first group project.

If this works, we plan to hire ourselves out as a team. Did I mention that we laughed, and laughed.

They asked me if I would blog about this. How could I disappoint them?

Photo note: This is the view Angelique cannot live without. The sun rises upon this scene each morning. If I lived there, I would be on the balcony every morning wasting electrons with my camera, not my blog.

The Woodpecker Manifests

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I ask you, did I not say that I had visualized a woodpecker in that knot of eminence (a Tui Na term used by my practioner-- I have no idea what it means) right behind my right scapula.

Since Friday was our first truly beautiful day here in the frozen North, we took our lunches to the cemetery , which is also a famous horticultural sanctuary, to picnic. Just as we finished the cemetery ranger patrol pulled up with a beautifully printed list of rules, which included no food, drink or sunbathing, all three of which we were actively pursuing. No photographing of funerals, posed professional shots, or films either. I figured I slid easily under the wire on that one.

We obediently vacuumed up our crumbs and walked instead. One in our midst, a birder from boyhood, pointed out this woodpecker to us. No use trying not to think about woodpeckers.

Ballet

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Skimming along the top of sleep at 4:30 AM, decided to get up and blog.

Ballet last night. Again? Yes. The company is saving money by mounting a "small production" between two weeks of larger productions. A potato chip sandwich for subscribers, in my estimation. (As in, too much of a good thing, too close together.)

I was a lovely evening, though: a Mark Morris, with floppy costumes that badly distorted the line of the dancers; a Balanchine, precise and yummy. Finnish choreographer, Jorma Elo premiered an extraordinary piece called "Plan to B". Dancers did things in this dance, that I have never seen before. Most remarkable was this position achieved by two balladondos. Imagine two archangels in tights leaping up to the position of lying head to head, on their sides, up in the clouds, looking down. Now, take away the clouds, and have the guys, holding that postion, point their toes and flutter their feet continuously for thirty seconds, then land with a bounce. That's what they did. Impressive. There were also some body jokes; the lasso gesture, the slow motion run by the ballerina carried aloft across the stage by a balladondo, and some corn on the cob nibbling of arm.

You will be pleased to know my neck snapped but once, and my lips, not at all , as I remained conscious for almost the entire performance. I am convinced that the sugar in the Mike and Ike's (that I had not the discipline to refuse, when they were offered to me), caused the severe sweats of the last performance . The sweats began again after my tenth Mike N' Ike this evening, and, feeling the discomfort, I was able to stop putting them in my mouth. Ah..h..h, a signal that worked. Be careful what you wish for.

Photo note: This is a piece of a New York City Bouquet, Bird of Paradise (I do so love a website with dramatic sound) against a black, mirrored wall in the hotel lobby, at night. It's as close as I could get to ballet, since it is forbidden to take pictures in the auditorium during a performance. The flash might distract the dancers. This is always part of the "turn off your beepers" announcement.

The structure

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Today and tomorrow my Pesso-Boyden Psychomotor Group is meeting. We meet once a year for three days. This might be our 27th anniversary--- I've only been doing it for about twenty two years.

Al Pesso leads this group personally. If you look on his website at his international teaching calendar, you can see just how blessed we are. It makes me weep with gratitude. Poor guy has a dreadful cold. Even guzzling elderberry syrup hasn't helped. He was, however, undaunted, and worked with all of his exquisite attention and brilliance right behind his runny nose.

There were originally ten of us in the group. This year, sadly, there are only five, due to a number of unusual circumstances. Just imagine having nine other, highly trained, very smart, insightful, loving people-- not even including Al-- who have witnessed your development and healing over time. I trust their counsel implicitly.

The work is done through the vehicle of a "structure" Al leads them. Each of us does one, and the others participate as contact figures and audience.

Over the years, the general level of athleticism in structures has changed from three men pushing against a twin-sized Sealy mattress, helping the guy on the other side to contain some monumental energy, or running up and down the stairs twenty times, lightly holding the top of someone's shoulders, gently limiting their hyperactive child aspect (it has become apparent over time just why that child was "hyperactive"), to sitting in one place on the floor, enrolling nuts, kleenex and cups as symbolic figures. We are still doing precise body therapy. As Al has made discoveries and refined his theory, I have been able to embody more and more of myself through the vehicle of his structures. I have actually been "cured" at least three times. For me that means establishing a sustained connection with universal life force energy. One time it lasted a good three months. Al works in smaller increments these days, helping me to "ego wrap" the internal changes I make in structures, so that they do not disappear, rather, they integrate and build upon one another.

You will be interested to know that my structure this year was about my blog, currently the leading edge of my creative expression. What can I say, a girl's got to start somewhere.

First we laid out the turf. I put the printed out pages that I had brought along on the floor in front of me. Al asked me who sees my blog. Then we represented both of you, my dear audience, with various objects (there was a time we used people for representation, but the group was small, and we had to save humans for other purposes.) Of course, no layout would be complete without Reynoldo , the troll , of "you're wasting electrons on the internet". I represented him with a styrofoam cup, and tipped it over with some satisfaction. Take that, Reynoldo. Al "accomodated" for Reynoldo, the styrofoam cup, by groaning.

As I laid this out, I began to experience some shame about "bragging", worrying what others were thinking. Al asked me to check out my projections with everyone. People were either associating to their own process in relation to creativity, and/or were delighted for me. It helped to notice reality. My head knew that, after all, these folks have loved me well for twenty years, even at my most most repressed, lunatic stages. But my amygdala , my little ground hog brain, was on orange alert, dendrites poised on the red button that either turns off the thought/language option, or makes adrenalin surge. It takes away all the fun when that happens.

Moving right along, I had a memory of being with my mother in the locker room of a club that my family belonged to when I was a child. As we were dressing, a woman complimented me on my hair ribbon. I said thank you, and mentioned that I had an even prettier ribbon at home that had two bows on it instead of one. Well, that was a mistake. For that comment, I was first verbally shamed, then put in my mother's ice chest for the evening. (Cutting connection is a very cruel thing to do to a child). I can still feel the panic of having inadvertantly crossed her line. (My amygdala , rearoused, sends visceral signals)

In response to that association, we enrolled an ominous, black chair to represent the negative aspects of my mother, and, out of another chair topped by a fuzzy red blanket, fashioned a classic antidote, an ideal mother who wouldn't have punished me for my pride and excitment.

All the while, Al was continually monitoring my body, taking clues from it for direction. Indeed, my body was responding to the material. For example, I licked my lips when describing something that was pleasing to me, and he noted that, out loud -- asking if I was tasting the pleasure.

But I digress. I imagined having an ideal mother who would have delighted in my excitment and creativtity back then. I could feel the visceral relief. We had her say a few things like "If I had been your mother back then, I would have shared your excitment/ been delighted by your cuteness" I can't remember exactly, but you get the idea.

Then some anxiety set in. I had my hands wrapped tight, holding the kernel of my creative energy. I opened my hands abruptly, into a ten finger splay, while I talked about my concerns about becoming grandiose, getting "too big for my britches" (a mother homily). Al immediately knew that I needed help from a containing figure who would allow my creative energy to flower rather than explode. This time, I enrolled a real human being as a "containing figure", an extention of an ideal parent. Al instructed my containing figure to hold my hands and provide some resistance as I unfolded them, so I wouldn' t feel the need to limit my own energy. The containing figure said things like "I'll help you handle your energy, so that it will be safe for you to bloom."

At the end of my structure, I remember extending my arms out and then in, the back of my hands lightly held by my containing figure saying "Rest and create, rest and create". I could feel a visceral relief in my body, a trust in my own rhythms. I actually felt my hypervigilant-hyperarousal level drop ten notches. I could really rest. In fact, I fell asleep during much of the next structure. I hope I didn't snore.

Al later said that, as a child, not only did I have to be alert for critical assaults, but I had to monitor my own excitment and energy for fear that it would get out of control.

So that's it for another year. If you ever want to do something like this, there are always a few open groups in the summer in New Hampshire. Al has a beautiful new place, designed for the tastes of world leaders and rock stars who have an inclination to heal themselves.

Actually someone should let George W. know. (Six degrees of separation and all--- I might as well put it out there, now that I no longer worry about my grandiosity) He could bring his own Group. I'm sure Al would make time.

Photo note: Another into-the-window-reflections-what's-really-there-and-what-isn't picture. Although I cannot fully see the connection to this piece yet, the photo seems to want to be here.

Blog or Body, Body or Blog?

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Shall I write about hatred. (heard three stories around the campfire today that aroused the feeling) or Body Flex ? Esther Hicks channeling Abraham would say get into the best possible vibration, and milk it for all it's worth. Perhaps I can do both.

Greer Childers (why didn't I think of that name?) is the Body Flex inventress. She is quite the cookie, age 52, (perhaps even older now, my tapes are used) and the mother of three. I hope they're boys. Any poor adolescent girl who would have to bring boyfriends home to the likes of Greer, has good reason to kill herself.

Surprizingly, it's hard to find a good picture of Greer on the net, this was the best I could do. You can see why she might sell alot of fitness tapes, at any rate.

Those of you who watch TV may have been subject to her infomercial. I, personally, heard about her "system" from an compatriot in Mexico, who saw her infomercial quite by chance. My dear compatriot has lost many inches due to her dedication to Greer. An inspiration, in other words. Inspirations create desire.

What makes this system different than all other systems? For me? 1. Greer uses yogic breathing techniques -- and you know I'm crazy about those anyway. Of course she doesn't say they are yogic breathing techniques, nor does she credit her facial aerobic "Lion" to yoga, but he's dead anyway and won't care. 2. She does yogic breathing while she holds an isometric pose. 3. She has a piece of equipment, like a bow (as in Indian totem) with a bungie cord for a string, that can be adjusted easily for different resistances. It collapses into something halfway between a water bottle and a rolled up yoga mat, two of our more fashionable carry along items. 4. You can sit down for the whole thing, which, for those of us with planar flexed forefoot is greatly appreciated. 5. It worked for a friend, which helps with the "belief" factor.

As you can see, Greer Childers, is a little gift from heaven for me. Did I mention that she's probably a blonde for spiritual reasons too?

Of course, I rushed right home to order my complete set, Level 1 and Level 2. And look what I found. Greer is being sued for false advertising, duping millions of overweight people, and her products are no longer available. .

Did I let a little thing like that dissuade me? Of course not. Thank goodness there is the History Channel for Consumers on line: ebay. I never used it before, but I was determined. Moving right through the ebaphobia, I ordered four videos and a bow and arrow without the arrow. I worried that I might have ordered more, because I punched alot of the wrong keys doing it, in my inimitable ADD impulsive way. I even opened up a PayPal account.

I did my first training yesterday. I liked it alot. I am not doing my training session now, which is not a good sign. I forgot and ate breakfast. You aren't allowed to eat before you do Body Flex. A good plan, in that you aren't allowed to eat for some portion of the day. Hopefully, you don't feel like eating after you do Body Flex either. I'll let you know if I ever do it again.

Photo note: Look who turned up again! Ganesha , the destroyer of obstacles, among other things. Haven't seen him in quite some time, and he was all over my day last Friday. He could use some work on his abdominals.

For your spare time

Here's an amusing little thing to do, should you have run out of ideas, and you're reading blog anyway ---.reverse astrology

I came out very Libratarian, because I am. Balance, peace, harmony, beauty, you name it, Buster. Would that all of the feisty little parts in my internal family system would get with the program.

In my meanderings in and around the pretty test, (it is so pretty, you must click) I was directed to the following site. James Randi , Skeptic.

How does the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle work with this stuff anyway? It says that an attempt to observe or measure something, changes it. The very act of observing changes the observed. How much of our reality do we create with our observations?

Here's a cute comment from the site of the skeptic.

"Apropos your update of a week ago regarding the mind-boggling ramblings of Mr. Gordon-Hall, I was reminded of a Feng-Shui column written by some self-styled "Guru" in a local newspaper. It claimed that books should not be placed anywhere near the toilet as their "knowledge is drained away." Experiment of the week: I placed a Feng-Shui book on a shelf in the loo [bathroom]. A day later, I read it. It made no sense. I guess I'm a believer now.... Keep up the good work."

Photo note: Just a little something from the prop closet, in honor of Libra.

Serving Democracy the Dakota Way

Really, what is Israel thinking? A nation of trauma survivors. I guess they really showed Hamas . Now Hamas will really have to show them, and probably us. It is difficult not to get hateful about all the hatred. Such a waste. Energy used for destruction rather than creation. Somebody's got to do it.

Spent yesterday doing my part for democracy. Jury duty . Really, there was a dry, but quite inspiring video about the importance of the judicial system to democracy, and the contribution to that system made by those of us who are called upon to serve as jurors. Cut my resentment in half.

Actuallly the court was a small, friendly one. There were only twenty of us in the pool --that made me worry that I would definitely be chosen, since the pickings were so lean. The last time, I was one of two hundred. I actually got into the courtroom last time, but wasn't chosen because, unbeknownst to me, a dear and close personal friend was an expert witness in the case. He was coming to my house for dinner that night, in fact. Synchronicity.

(Maybe I'll just make the initials for "But I digress", BID; that way I can say it when necessary, and you won't have to cancel your subscription.)

We, the jury, were allowed to wander around the basement, and even smoke on the front stairs, as long as we didn't speak to anyone else who was also smoking on the front stairs. The implication was that they might be a criminal. A reformed smoker, and preferer of central heat in the winter, I spent my time in the cafeteria, now the vending machine room, where I could rest my elbows on the vintage "50's chrome and formica tables, and ease the pain of sitting on those awful chairs. In the caf, there were electric plugs for our laptops too. I don't have a laptop, so I was unable to report directly from the scene. Soon, though, I'm in the market - My Wild Divine Game arrived. BID

About noon the jurors were "called". It was very serious until the court officer whispered to me how much she liked my scarf, and I sympathesized with her for having to wear black and white all the time. I also threw in that it must be nice to have a job so near the mall.

The case at hand was a small claims issue between a landlord, calling himself a realty trust, and a thirtiesh couple. A jury of six was required. When asked if there were any reason any of us shouldn't sit on the case, five of us got up. We then whispered to the judge and the parties why we shouldn'r be chosen.

The judge was really cute. I told him that I didn't know whether being a landlord was sufficient reason to disqualify myself. He asked me if I had had good experiences as a landlord or bad. I said both. He said "Stick around, we'll put you on ice, and if we run out of candidates we'll call you last." He told me that the three men before me in line were all landlords too.

I didn't get called. By then I wouldn't have minded sitting, since the trial was likely to be over by the end of the day. A long trial would have been a hardship. When the court officer who liked my scarf, dismissed us at 1:00, she winked and said that as far as the state was concerned, we were all here until 4:30, so we can tell that to our employers, and feel free to take the rest of the day off. There is a huge difference between being employed and self employed.

I have now done my duty for the next three years. In a week or so I will have a formal letter from the state, so that if the computer makes a mistake, I have proof of service.

It is really nice to have the opportunity to do something concrete to serve democracy these days. The Constitution is being seriously eroded by this administraton under the guise of protecting us from terrorism, and I often feel helpless in the face of that.

Thank goodness for Al Franken . Michael Moore , Paul Krugman and Robert Kuttner .

Photo note: Doesn't this look like a jury box? I have used this photo before, but I thought it too perfect not to republish. I could erase it from December 8, 2003 since it is unaccompanied by significant text, but that would be cheating, not that I feel I need to adhere to those blog rules of never editing backwards.

Napping with Belleruth Naparstek

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I have never been a napper. In fact, until I was hit with Hormone Deficiency Insomia (I just made that up, but it's good), I had no need for one.

Actually, I have a bad association with naps, that has prevented me from partaking in the activity. On my third or fourth birthday, I fell asleep, and woke up after it was dark, with the dreadful realization that I had missed my entire birthday. It was awful. I decided, at that moment in time, that I would never miss something important again because I was napping. And I haven't. Yet.

Napping, however, since HDI (initals make it sound so official) has set in, has become a necessity. Because of my disturbing nap history, I alway awoke churlish, unrefreshed and petulant. This has all changed since I discovered that I can nap with Belleruth Naparstek.

Belleruth (that's her real name, bless her, not a made up frivolity, like Dakota, but almost as funny), makes these wonderful visualization tapes. She has something nice to say about everything that is happening in your body; the shiny red molecules coursing through your bloodstream, the tiny, sparkling particles of energy surrounding you, the stalwart enzymes escorting fat cells somewhere other than your thighs --you name it. (She has yet to speak to the unaroused, internal Native American animal totems, but I know she'll get to that. )

Actually Belleruth has a tape for every condition ; weight loss, high blood pressure, autoimmune disease, diabetes, chemotherapy, and they all begin with a delicous progressive relaxation visualization.

This is what I do for napping. I pop a Weight Loss (using my time efficiently, since it is something to which I should attend) in my walkman, and stretch out on the couch, only to awaken half an hour later, refreshed, alert and cheerful (but not thinner, oh well). No residual fuzziness, no grumpiness. Highly recommended.

Photo note: This is a piece of a New York City Restaurant Bouquet. There is nary a one that does not takes one's breath away. I chose this for it's soporific effect.

Look what I found!

I found the Mayan folding picture I was looking for in February.

The reason I couldn't find it was because I took the picture in Florida, not Montreal. I should know that I rarely throw anything away . Sometimes it pays off. Especially if I'm only saving electrons. They're little.

As you can see, I made up a very good story for myself (and both of you). As I recall, confabulation is a sign of brain dysfunction, not to be confused with false memory syndrome .

Asleep, thunk.

It's a little after six and I am up but not chirpy, which is most unusual. No leap from the bed to the fleece, no songs to sing. I'm tired and it's after 3 AM. What could this be?

More unusual occurrences. Last night at the ballet, I fell asleep as predicted. Not only was I snoring, I was snapping my neck so that my lips smacked, in a vain attempt to pay attentions, and I was hot. So uncomfortably hot. Not hot flash hot, Sahara at noon hot, constant. Noone else was hot like this. The ballet was not so hot.

Although the principal dancers were breathtaking, the scenery was discount, (what there was of it, was well done), and the costumes too muddy, hiding body parts doing graceful things, against the black backdrop. Thank goodness there were several bedroom scenes when the principals wore white nighties and shirtsleeves.

In addition the woman sitting in front of me had the only beehive I have seen in the city, in the decade. Pray that she doesn't have season tickets, or that she just had a bad hair day and decided to put it up with ten dollars worth of product. The beehive took centerstage. Fortunately there was alot of to and fro, and I was mostly prostrated by my internal fire.

This morning when I pried myself out of bed at six, The Trail Head reported that I was sweating profusely last night. He, more understated usually, suggested malaria. I was fast asleep, so I wouldn't know.

I suspect that this is the result of the work I did yesterday morning with the Angel of New Mexico and Missouri. She comes to town intermittently to do somatic repatterning for her flock. I am honored to be on her list.

Since I am no longer in chronic fascial pain, we were able to work on what I call "my bullet hole" because that's what it feels like. It's a spot deep inside my thorax (the hole aspect), with a point of entry right next to my right scapula.

The area of concern, the knotted chi, is at the juncture (some of you won't be at all surprized) of the meridia of the small intestine and gall bladder Ahhhh holding resentment about love. We muscle tested up a storm, and more was revealed. The problem, in the Chinese system, was wood. (Wood is something not so nice when it's out of balance, which I have blocked because I still prefer to think of myself as a nice person, after all this.)

I also had an image of a woodpecker residing in that spot. A book of animal symbols was suggested. "The woodpecker is able to find food hidden under layers of bark and wood. Woodpecker energy is associated with prophecy and the ability to see deeper than surface lies." I was hearing woodpeckers outside my door a few days ago, too, which I noted in my blog.

It's always hard to remember exactly what happens, (tape recordings fail) but the treatment came down to releasing the hatred and shame that were projected onto me when my mother nursed me, in addition to my resentment about this, since she was supposed to be connecting me to life force energy during mealtime, and that wasn't happening.

My mother, bless her heart, nursed me in the modern age of sanitary bottle feeding. She was a contemporary, extraordinarily clean, woman, convinced by her nursey friends that breast feeding was best for baby health. She was completely disgusted by the messiness and insterility of the process. It was also always hard for her to sit down, especially if there was anything out of place in the house. A killer combo.

In my first meeting with the Angel, three years ago, she asked me if I liked being human. (I think that's a screening question she always uses). She thought I had alot of energy in the great beyond, which I could not bring into my body. She reminded me that I had said that I was beginning to like it. Now I feel like I could really get into this thing called being human.

Anyway, yesterday, we did a bunch of releasing of "old identities", patterns and beliefs. The Angel suggested that I set some new intentions too. One had to do with forgiving my mother, which is easy now that she is unplugged and pretty much pure spirit, without "improvement" commentary. I do want to increase my sphere of influence, effortlessly, without doing one more thing than I'm already doing. A blog is a good base for that. I forgot to clarify what am trying to influence. Hopefully it will come to me.

The Angel said that when she first discovered her work, she asked that people find her, who could benefit from her services. That sounds good.

Denoument: I do not think I have malaria. I think the treatment I received from the Angel yesterday changed something big --perhaps my metabolism--- keep your fingers crossed.

Maybe it was just that I succumbed to the Mike N' Ikes that were passed to me. I usually never eat sugar.

My March Ladies Group

Small ladies' group yesterday, missing two nouveau shamanettes. Desperately missing two nouveau shamanettes, in case one of them is reading this. Very productive, however -- lots of American Indian presence, as our leader would say.

The bad news was that our dear percussionist had her sonnet squashed, and temporarily lost contact with the muse. We took some time to restore the connections. She is planning to write a poem about the pit bull who snatched her sonnet in it's drooling jaws, which I will post here, as soon as it's channeled.

Usually it's the Tibetans who are hanging around me, but yesterday, probably in honor the the emergence of my bear , the American Indians were chanting and dancing. How do I know this, you ask? Well, remember that cliche wowowo chant the Indians do in old cowboy movies? That's what was coming out of my mouth. I also did alot of growling, with enthusiastic encouragement from our leader.

I do so need a bit more bear. Bear energy is about boundaries. Saying no. Standing up for yourself. People automatically know not to muss with you, lest they rouse your bear energy. GRRRR...RRR...RR, Babycakes.

Photo note: This photo is simply illustrative, not pretty. (lest you think I thought so). These are the instruments available for shamanistic play. The print, enlarged, is a bear totem. Sorry I was a little short on pixels, but you get the idea.

Blue Bottles

When I put up this picture last night, I didn't know that my circadian rhythm would be playing the bongos at 3:40 AM. Chirpy good morning!

I will be a cranky, resentful, but polite, companion to my mother-in-law as she shops for shower curtains this afternoon. (In Chinese/shamanic terms, that would be my liver chi (qi) leaking, because my totem bear guide has not been fully expressed--- guess where I was yesterday?). By six I will be a psychotic zombie, and, worst of all, I will probably snore through the ballet. (Thank goodness people sit in twosomes, so they can nudge one another--some nights it would be a cacophany)

I will have written a blog entry though. What else is a girl going to do at this hour. That is, a little old lady, middle class housewife, new age blonde girl? There I said it! With an emerging totem bear guide.

Of a snowy morn

The Doubter confronted me this morning. "What were you doing in bed last night?" A puzzled expression yielded a demo: head moving rapidly from side to side, lips flapping causing a slurpy slap.

I laughed.

The Doubter remained serious.
"I was sooo mad when I saw that."

The inquiry. "This is not one of those Yogic breathing things you're doing, is it?"

I frankly cannot imagine what it was, perhaps frustration.

The path from housewifery to glorious goddesshood, is a rocky one, mysterious and fraught with resistance from those who really liked it the way it was. The same kind of feelings that Martha Stewart's usual guests will have next Thanksgiving.

Addendum: Just as I was about to publish this, my dear, pseudonymous friend, Weidra, called to report progress with her partner, The Computer Genius. This morning, he inquired about her Internal Family Systems Training (Level I), which begins today. (I just couldn't bring myself to sit on those little, hard, convent chairs for six weekends, no matter how wonderful the material. I wouldn't mind going to Mexico again, though.) The CG asked if he might be able to read something about IFS. (Fortunately, there is a spiral bound manual, written especially for the laity.) Weidra suggested that he might help her by becoming a practice subject.

This is manifestation happening before our very eyes --- right out of "The Esther Hicks Channeling Abraham Manual". Weidra has worked tirelessly on maintaining her positive vibrations in the relationship, and he has responded in kind. We are simply thrilled

To give you an idea of the starting point, Weidra is an international teacher in a couple of other mind-body areas, about which he has never inquired. This takes a certain amount of curiosity continence. Fear is a great motivator.

I shall make a greater effort to do the same with The Doubter. I am changing his name to The Trail Head, for the purposes of positive manifestation, in honor of the potential power of my vibration.

Photo note: Another little white line on the right margin. Sorry. It offends me too , but I don't know quite what to do about it. Serves me right for photoshopping.

Lucky duckies

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There are some on line contributors who lead inherently interesting lives. Take Belle du Jour and Bigdeadplace (though that doesn't qualify as a blog). Who wouldn't want to hear about being a sexy London prosititute or living in Antarctica?

This is in no way meant to diminish the brilliance and hilarity of their writing. There are plenty of prostitutes (see Belle's list), and Raytheon employees (you'll have to find your own list) right here in virtual city who could put a person into deep trance in less than two sentences.

I am just commenting on the fact that neurotic little old ladies have a harder time attracting an audience. That's all.

Addendum: Enter Belle's contest. Think I will do just that.

What's cookin'?

As long as they're available and in season,
I might as well make
blueberry scones
with words.

Patted into place
All in a Row

Filling crusty sentences with strawberries
and cream

Luscious flavors licked
from the points of pens
dipped into the mixture

Dark brown sugar,
clumped,
ready to sweeten
the truth

In the bowl,
on the verge of a stir
a brand new batch
ready
to be
plopped
on the page.

A conceit?

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Snow. Cancellation. No Laptop. Write a poem.

WAITING

For the babies to be born
For the biopsy results
For the trip to Norway
For the Sox to win
For the race to start
For the package to arrive

For your lover
For your salvation
For your muse

For the first step
For the pain to end
For the sun to rise
For the film to start
For the light to change
For the sky to fall
For the phone to ring
For the spring to come
For the other shoe

to drop

For your mail
For your retirement
For your just desserts

Forever.

What ever became of now?

March blizzard predicted

Yesterday I took what was supposed to be a quick run to the market, only to find long lines of little old ladies thwarting me. When will I get it through my head that I am a little old lady?

Well, I was there, but for youthful purposes-- orange juice. This was 2:00 on a Monday afternoon, why the crowd? Sure enough, a snow storm was predicted for today - six to eight inches. Who among us keeps our cupboards so bare that we cannot gastronomically survive a March snowstorm? I can answer that question; single gentlemen. There were none in line yesterday. They all drive Jeeps.

And it was getting so balmy. We will appreciate the contrast of spring all the more --an Abraham-Hicks perspective, if I ever heard one.

I shall wear fleece to my day job, stay cozy, and enjoy all the cancellations. That's why I need a laptop.

In keeping with the snowy theme, brunch with an arctic afficionado on Sunday yielded the online humor magazine of the contract workers in Antarctica, Big Dead Place Highly recommended. Here's a sample, entitled "Complaining":

"In the constellation of complaints, food and mail are the brightest stars. There is little you can say about either subject that has not already been whined, moaned, or groaned about already. In the interest of craftsmanship, it is best to remember that if you are going to complain, then you should do so in a way that entertains those around you, because no one really feels sorry for you anyway. All anyone really wants is to forget the miserable horrors of their mundane existence, if even for a few fleeting moments of laughter. Some people call any critical statement 'complaining' only when they do not agree with it, but are otherwise happy to complain about the food or the mail. Some people are tired of hearing those people complain about complaining."

Do explore, it will help you appreciate your surroundings-- and your boss, for that matter.

I Had Brain Surgery, What's Your Excuse?

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"I Had Brain Surgery, What's Your Excuse?" is the kind of book that I would have ordered by now, pre meditation, pre Abraham-Hicks, pre blog, pre fourth and fifth dimensional healing.

In that past way of being, I savored every book I could find about surviving, coping with, or dying from a major illness. A bit preoccupied with the subject, I'd say. What do we know about this, Dakota?

(Note: I will provide a major illness reading list. at some point in the future. "Planet of the Blind" , "A Whole New Life", "The Body Silent" I won't even start down that path.

There is a part of me that feels it is dying, or at least hurting very badly. If I weren't so scared of this part, I wouldn't have developed another part, probably a "manager", in Internal Family Systems talk, who reads books about exactly what's going to happen, when something bad happens. Guess what, it has already -- what I fear the most, has already happened. Reading books like this helps the "manager" part of me to stay in control, and control my environment Big job for a small part, if I do say so myself.

Going right along with IFS, however ineptly, I ask that "manager" part of me to step aside, so that I can talk to the "exiled" hurt part that really runs the show. (literally, a projectionist - playing a film of my own chosing onto the blankish screen of life - I say blankish, so as not to deny that there is reality. Most of us can't see much of it.)

So what does that squeaky aspect of myself who is/was dying, have to say?
It would say, with great perturbation, "Finally, Fred, where have you been?" if it were not so diplomatic and empathic, or it became offended easily by being called squeaky. But no, this is my spiritual core self, my true self, all of who I really am, the part of me that is connected directly to life force energy. It has grace and diplomacy.

It says that I grew up under spiritually neglectful circumstances. Actually, there was a rather successful campaign waged to kill my spirit. My mother was quite the manager. I have one of those managers in my internal family who took the hits directly from mom. If you read the beginning of this blog, her shadow is more in evidence. I was projecting being slammed by the world for what I had to say.

What really happened is that I got slammed once, I got some heartening encouragement and mostly I got ignored. Being ignored is a big relief to the part of me that was scrutinized for everything I ever did. My mother was terrified of differentiation, and had to squash it whenever it raised it's ugly head. Catching those signs of deviance was a full time job, squashing them was recreational and satisfying.

I no longer want to be ignored. There I said it.

I want to be Martha Beck and Anne Lamott . I hope I have the attention span.

Maybe I'll just wait until that book comes out on tape.

Photo note: I really should save this for my next haircut , but it was both brain-like and Mexican, so I used it here. Check out Anne Lamott's hair too.

War on Terrorism

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And now Spain. When will we understand that protection from terrorism is a delusion. They can go anywhere. We are not "safe". We will never be safe until we can make the world a more equitable place; where people have enough; where people are satisfied and want to preserve their way of life; where differences are accepted with curiosity and interest. Until then, we must work globally, cooperatively to minimize risk. The group that runs George W. has done nothing inspire other nations to help us. It seems that they have done quite the opposite and built a good deal of resentment worldwide.

I do not mean to trivialize, but terrorists are like the Indian meal moths that regularly invade my kitchen. They can so easily permeate impossible places, through sealed cellophane, for example, and turn up, to everyone's horror, atop the cream of wheat -- completely insidious, and impossible to to control. Forgive me for taking this analogy a bit further, but my meal moth problem was cured with with pheromones (mounted on flypaper). Sometimes love is the answer.

A woman in the IFS Mexico group told me that she had been attending a Thich Nhat Hanh workshop on 9/11. (He is a Buddist monk, and a peace and human rights activist.) You would think that the people who signed up to hang with him wouldn't have been so outraged when he suggested trying to understand why the terrorists were angry; some of them actually left the workshop.

Retaliation only begets retaliation. The nicest people get infected the "disease of violence", as Nelson Mandala would say.

Last night I saw The Battle of Algiers". This movie was made in 1965 by Gillo Pontecorvo, and features some real Algerian nationalists (handsome as movie stars, I might add). It was evidently screened this August at the Pentagon as "a field guide to fighting terrorism". I'm not sure what handy tips they thouoght it contained. Probably they just saw alot of Arabs, and thought it pertinent on that basis alone. I bet nobody bothered to identify with the increasing sadism of the French, or with their ultimate demise. Maybe they should run that movie for the folks again.

here is the trailer

Update

Listened to the birds (wood pecker, cardinal, bob white), breathed the air, watered the plants, tossed the corpse of a neglected cyclamen, put in a load of laundry, made coffee, bumped my chi machine and made it growl (you would think I was a conscientious housewife) -- now I can take a seat.

It's very light this morning -- spring is almost here. My body pain is much improved. I can manage the energy I call more easily. That means, unlike some who have to spend inordinate hours at the gym, I have to spend inordinate hours doing this.

Lest you think I'm a total slug, I did take a 20 mile bike ride yesterday, and will do it again today. It was brisk, 36 degrees, and uphill half way too. I am a little proud of myself.

Had the best soup last night, stracciatelle , at a neighborhood Italian restaurant. It meets my requirements of four ingredients or less, (for those of us who purchase our "homemade" chicken stock from the finest gourmet manufacturers). Last night, the spinach was baby, in a bag, and the grated cheese, parmesan.

Fact dump alert! No Denoument, but the soup recipe was important to some part of me.

Photo note: This is not Mexico, it is a neighborhood restaurant, not Italian. The Italian restaurant falls below visual aesthetic standards, but the food is great. I will make it an assignment to find something visually beautiful in the Italian restaurant.

I already have! Forgot all about this one below. Tomorrow, back to Mexico, probably.

Just
a few words
to keep
the wedding dresses
out of
the Italian food.

The Wedding section

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Today is Sunday. I will read the Wedding section of the New York Times, which I have been compelled to do every Sunday of my adult life. It won't take that long, since it's March. May and June are major time committments. Doing this faithfully for forty years must mean something. Here are some of the trends that I have observed.

Gay marriages came out in the Wedding section at least two years ago.

Grooms are included in most of the photographs now, and almost noone wears a wedding dress for their Times announcement anymore. Out in nature, with the betrothed, hair blowing in the wind, seems to be the latest.

There are also more marriages between socioeconomic classes. The newly weds usually meet in some top notch grad school, so they're undoubtedly intellectually well matched.

There are more interracial/intercultural unions too. The last three or four years, Rabbi Posner (society's Rabbi, he does everyone who's anyone, who's Jewish in the Times) officiates with Pandit Singh, or the bride's second cousin once removed, or the bridegroom's sister, who is a Congregational minister. Surprizingly, I cannot recall one fundamentalist ceremony, Christian or otherwise. Fundamentalism hasn't infiltrated this crowd. That's hopeful

People are getting married less in religious buildings and more in botanical gardens, museums, old mansions., lofts and restaurants. Probably because they provide a more neutral setting for the intercultural matches.

Women are educationally nose to nose with men. Medical School, Law School, Business School --women are there. One rarely sees a groom with two or three Ivy League degrees marrying a bride with an associate's degree from a junior college anymore. That is, unless the groom is forty years older than the bride. There are a number of those May-Decembers, but not as many as you would think. In those instances, the groom is usually famous, and the bride exceptionally beautiful.

Today's parents of the happy couples reflect the past. Fathers are surgeons, provosts and CEOs. Mothers are head teachers at the synagogue day care center, real estate agents and board members of charitable organizations.

In the last decade, everyone has at least a master's degree, maybe two or three. There has also been a massive decline in marriages of PhD candidates at major universities. Probably because they cannot afford to start families on their adjunct faculty salaries, and have to work at Starbucks for their health insurance. Hardly anyone is studying philosophy or history or English lit. They did it undergrad, they even got their master's degrees at fine institutions here and abroad, but they are not making it their profession.

Older people are announcing in the Wedding Section. The editors always tell you about past marital status. "The brides's previous three marriages ended in divorce". I find these announcements particularly engrossing, because the parties involved are usually quite evolved, have accomplished alot separately, and somehow crossed paths. It is alway heartening to me that eighty-year- olds are falling in love and marrying, especially when it is to another close in age.

Often there is a juicy "how we met" paragraph or two included in an announcement. The juicy ones are inclined to be much longer than others, and, therefore, can be easily spotted. More people happen upon one another as a result of their mothers' persistence than ever you would expect. The mother-matched couple always mentions their extreme resistance to this successful intervention.

The internet does not seem to be responsible for much of the action--- except to keep couples in touch who meet just before one of them moves to Singapore on an exotic assignment, leaving the other behind a desk at a Manhattan investment banking firm. Explanation. You cannot smell another's pheromones over the internet.

Did you know if you cannot detect someone else's body scent, the two of you are probably a good match. I shall start a dating service based on body scent. I'll need someone to develop the technology. Instead of a photo, you will receive fifty prescreened, scratch samples of the scents of possible partners. The samples will be like the ones found in perfume ads in women's magazines. Sample collection devices may be a problem.

So, you see, I wasn't wasting my time after all.

Mexican signs

I neither ate a shark taco, nor made a wise investment. Figured one act cancelled out the other. I'm sure there were other interesting signs, but they were all in Spanish.

When I travel, I love to visit the supermarket. It's a fabulous place to find inexpensive, unusual gifts to bring home to friends -- you know, twelve small cans of lizard tongues, and a couple of bars of local soap for the vegetarians. I never got to this one, but I bet it was great.

Lesbian Soccer Moms

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So, I will be going to a few weddings on May 17 when all of my gay friends are stepping through the narrow window of legitimacy that has been provided by the legislature, onto the altar--- to the horror of those who are out to save the institution of marriage from cootie contamination.

Aside: Cooties were very big in my childhood. I think they have since fallen from favor. Boys thought girls had cooties. I spent many an hour manufacturing Cootie Catchers at my desk during class, and catching cooties with them during recess.

I recently saw cootie catchers for sale at the toy store, under plastic, with a spiral bound direction book. What has happened to all those traditions that were passed along through the kid-to-kid network. Hopscotch, cat's cradle, jacks, Chinese handball, all the verses to jump rope songs, hand patting/ clapping games? Complicated stuff that took a long time to learn, if I do say so myself. We have commodimized it. (as in lobotomize). Maybe now you teach your friends how to IM and burn CD's instead. End Aside.

Gays who didn't even want to get married before, are absolutely determined to do so now. The fundamentalists among us have succeeded beautifully in pointing out just how disenfranchised gays have been. As Esther Hicks channeling Abraham would say, they have created a powerful well of desire, where there was none before. Kind of like how Humvee's have gained popularity in the suburbs. Like Humvees, powerful waves of desire are hard to stop.

Some of my lesbian friends are socially slippery these days because they have morphed into soccer moms. You have hang with them at the edge of the field, or in the van between birthday parties. It's amusing to me that I am now the one sprinkling stardust and having out of body experiences. (Just a turn of the phrase; you will be the first to know, in greater detail than you'd ever care to, when I have an out of body experience. I am waiting until I can figure out a way to make it tax deductible.)

I have such a hard time understanding why the idea of gay marriage is so threatening. I would think that a married gay person would be less likely to seduce your spouse than a single one. Maybe the people who are so adamantly preserving the institution of marriage, are letting us know, unconsciously, about the fragility of their own unions.

Addendum: Cooties, I am surprized to find, are alive and well in virtual reality. There are many visual versions, usually wiggling, and they're all very cute. There is even a blog .

Swimming in the Karmic Stream

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Yesterday there was a call on my machine from a woman, looking for a man with whom I once shared space. (Sitting together space, not living together space.) Though we are fond of one another, we don't often cross paths these days. I hadn't spoken to him in a least a year.

I called him to let him know about the message. Unexpectedly, when he heard my voice on his machine, he picked up the phone and said he had something great to tell me about. He's into neuropsych, strokes, ADD etc. I said, "I know what it is, Journey to the Wild Divine ". He didn't seem surprized that I guessed, but I was.

He says he uses it before he goes to bed every night. He thinks it improves his life, it's infinitely fascinating, and he loves it. He has a distributor discount number, which I failed to take down because I thought I could buy it for $129, and it's $159. As soon as I get that number, I'm ordering two, one for me and one for a present.

I think I will have to buy a laptop upon which to play the Wild Divine. It will probably be good to have one anyway, in order to capture all the inspired thoughts I have during the day. Now I will be able to talk on my cellie, listen to Abraham-Hicks , drink coffee, yogic breathe and blog at traffic lights. It's called spiritual efficiency.

Finally a Diagnosis

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The Collyer Brothers are the bad boys, nay, the archetypes, of Clutter.
When I happened upon the link Disposaphobia while searching for their story , I got a litttle worried, but also I found relief. If worst comes to worst, I can always hire these folks.

Advertised as solutions for Clutterers, Hoarders, Pack Rats, Messies, OCD's ADD's and the depressed. Also for smart people who cannot to make good choices about what they need. Sadly, I could identify with the FAQ. I personally think that I'm a Messie ADD with Cluttering tendencies. I loved the parts about respecting the person who has made the mess. It was very compassionate.

Esther Hicks channeling Abraham would be delighted, since viewing this site changed my vibration. It brought me relief. Now that I know what my problem is, and that there's help for sale, by people really understand, I will probably be able to begin clearing out all by myself. I can also compare my piles to those pictures on the site, and feel some satisfaction that most of my clutter is inherently more beautiful and aesthetically arranged.

My good friend's husband had this problem in spades. She always said, laughingly, but it wasn't funny, that he had a "penchant for rust". He would attend auctions recreationally, and buy army surplus bayonets and antique printing presses. When he died, my famiily was willed a number of nuclear warheads (A comfort to me, just in case I need them for a prop. They are quite a sleek. At his Memorial Service, there were two rows of nuclear warheads outlining the entrance to the auditorium. It was a joke. That was before I had a digital camera. )

My friend was convinced that there were treasures in the mess that he left. I'm absolutely sure there were. I, personally, coveted his button collection -- boxes of button samples circa 1920 sewn onto cardboard cards. I know he had a huge box of brass Victorian bathtub accessories and a famous piece of ambergris .

My friend is convinced that his kids, by his first marriage, took all the good stuff. I doubt they could have found it. Unfortunately, my friend could never trust a dealer to come in and take a look, so two weeks berfore she moved, four strapping adolescent boys with an eye for antiques, filled two, five-ton dumpsters with stuff. It was a tragedy. Even when they spotted something of worth, and pulled it from the jaws of junk, they had no idea how to deal with it properly -- the architectural books, drawings and artifacts, or the 60's Peter Max posters -- much of it was tossed.

My friend's husband had ADD and OCD. She has been depressed since he died -- her new house is as cluttered as her old one.

Photo note: Artfully arranged clutter, Mexico.

One more sunrise

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See that little guy, he was so persistant.

I missed a photo of the armed soldiers in camoflage with rifles patrolling the beach at dawn, probably for drug landings. They were friendly to me. I didn't have the presence of mind to shoot them as they passed. Oh well, a narrative will have to do.

Clumping the Sunrise

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In my day, I have been disparaging of sunrise pictures, I know, but these are Mexican sunrise pictures. And that sweet little man kept posing for me, once with bird.

Too bad it rained for five days of the seven I was there.

I am the Queen of the Sunrise Shot because my hormone deprived sleep disorder has me eagerly awaiting the event daily. I only have access to a great vista in the summer, but that hasn't stopped me from packing my hard drive to bursting with sunrises. My relatives will have to clean them out, like the Collier brothers upon my death.

I have posted four of them together, because, though mundane, they are too yummy not to publish.

Palm

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I have to blather a bit for aesthetic reasons. When there isn't enough text between photos, they aren't separated sufficiently to be viewed individually on screen. Therefore, I must write something, but I am not inspired this morning.

Why I hated being a stockbroker

The hot tip was Arkansas Valley Industries This was back in the late 60's when any decent human being of consciousness was out demonstrating against the war in Vietnam. I was trading Arkansas Valley over-the-counter market at a tiny brokerage house. I like to think I have evolved.

Arkansas Valley was named something more down home, like Turkey Trot, but they changed it's name when they changed it's imperial ambitions. It was going to be the first turkey corporation, using agribusiness techniques down on the turkey farm. A visionary plan. Everybody wanted some of the action.

Just about September, close to Thanksgiving, the poor turkeys came down with some blight, maybe mites. The corporation sprayed the cages where the poor turkeys were confined-- pioneers off the free range. The spray was toxic, turkeys fainted all over the place. Eventually, all of the turkeys had to be destroyed. Arkansas Valley couldn't even sell the turkey corpses to Kennel Ration, it was so bad.

Not a hot tip after all.

From the front in the rain, with beach and palapas

I could have gone on with these until June.

From the back, with hammock, ocean and palapa

Do I seem obsessed with this subject? I did take the pictures, I'm not sure why I find it necessary to publish them all, but I do. Bear with me.

chair after chair

Whipping right along, sparing you the commentary.

Regrets

It is the kind of snow that rests lightly on the world, giving everything an outline, a delicacy. It is also the kind of snow that will not have to be shoveled. It will not turn into mushy gray mounds that must be mounted with pitons in order to drop a quarter in a meter. It's so photogenic. Alas, we are not through with Mexico.

Photo note: see the jaguar?

the return of skunk girl

As I stepped out onto my little back stoop into the dark morning air today, for a few Yogic breaths, something brushed against my leg. I was a little spooked, thinking, for a moment, it was a racoon, but I did not have an adrenalized response, as is usual under the condition of unidentified animals nuzzling me on my porch.

I could feel a fluffy tail and heard a little bell and quickly came to the conclusion that it was a neighborhood cat. Although I feel a friendly admiration for cats, I am terribly allergic to them. (Interpretation of that will have to wait for another entry, I know it means something , but I'm not sure what.) Allergies prevent me from doing the cuddling and petting that leads to deep affection and attachment, with cats, that is. This cat hung around, sweetly, waiting for a kinestetic response that was not forthcoming, while I told it good morning, and came back inside.

Ms. Synchronicity couldn't leave that one alone. Why a cat? What was the message? It was a cat, because a cat wouldn't be frightening, like a skunk, for example. Skunk! Sure enough I remembered a dream that I had last night.

Larger context: Last summer I had had a series of dreams and encounters with a skunk. I identified an aspect of myself that I called "skunk girl". The part of me that sprays toxins all over my environment? Shame? Can't remember exactly. I wrote it all down, but it has temporairliy slipped from consciousness. I was going to write about it awhile back, but I couldn't find the material when last I looked in my yellow pages, where I kept my notes before I went direct.

Here's my dream Sunday night March 6, 2004.

I am standing outdoors behind something solid like an open car door, and I am aware of animals playing on the other side. Cats and a skunk, at least. It's dark, and I cannot really see them. Then, a pure white skunk comes around to my side of the door. Lest I be worried about being sprayed, my dream provided the pure, white skunk with a little, white velvet bow in her hair, following the style of Maltese groomers. (I could take hours to find the image for this, but, lo, I have a little something in the archive --- shoot, no bow) My dreamer knew that this skunk was domesticated because of the bow, and didn't worry about being sprayed.

Got it! Got it! The repressed material that I recovered about skunk girl last summer, after I almost stepped on one, in the dark, in my front yard at the cottage.

I grew up in the country suburbs of the midwest. Everyone had at least two acres. We played Captain Video in the swamp, climbed the weeping willows and skated on the pond. BUT I DIGRESS -- (so, cancel your subscription). When I was nine or ten, my beloved dachshund and confidant, Pepper, was sprayed by a skunk. My mother locked me out of the house with a bucket of water and Fels Naptha soap to take care of him. I didn't know what to do. He was suffering. It was terrible. I really needed some adult assistance. I can't remember what happened after that. I know Pepper was not himself, hiding under tables and in corners for weeks. He smelled like skunk on rainy days forever after. It broke my heart.

Dream Interpretation: Skunk girl is quite a bit more appealing than when last she presented herself. She is pure white, with white velvet ribbons, and she has been domesticated (read descented). I would say this is a progress report from the great beyond about how much light I'm allowing. Perhaps it's only hubris.

Chairs

This photo shows the location of the aforementioned jaguar. He was woven or printed onto the fabric slung on the chair in the foreground.

'it is ther_re all the time

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"I think bliss and union are built into the very nature of everything. Our cells align in incredible ways. We have 1500 processes align before our heart beats once. We are the ultimate epiphany of alignment, and we merely have to take it to the next stage and say , 'it is the_re all the time'. " - Jean Houston

I have absolutely no idea what the deep meaning of the punctuation in that last sentence is. It sounds like Mary Daly , the radical feminist theologian, who is always parsing words for new twists.

I love Jean Houston's ideas. They are right. All a person has to do, and I must admit, it is a time committment, is to get to theta every once in a while. And just look at all the fabulous ways there are to entrain the mind these days. No more dank caves in Tibet, no more monasteries, no more walking on hot coals, Babay, we got MACHINES!

Have to grab my Centerpointe Purification Level I CD. I try to play my theta daily, now, while I write, to keep my brain conditioned to that frequency. I don't know what would happen if I stopped. I had plenty of physical pain getting my body to allow theta, without clamping down. Right now I am operating on the principle that once you can get to theta, you can create. Therefore, you don't have to practice getting into theta all that much, because you already know how. The real question is, "How are YOU, uniquely, going to use YOUR time in and out of theta, in this material existence, to create, using all of the resources at your command?

We are living in the twenty first century. Buddha did not have access to a computer and a digital camera. Then again, he might have become obsessed with "stuff". (As I recall, he did have his material acquisiton period, early on) If he got stuck in the material alone, he would never have reached theta and made his contribution. He didn't have a TV filling up his brain with other people's ideas to the point of gridlock either.

I personally think I have to take a little trip to a new environment every once in awhile, to stimulate my eye. As I have said before, there are just so many sunsets you can photograph. Looking for beauty in new places keeps a person in theta, in the present, in reality. Looking for beauty in one's home environment, where one has already looked and looked and looked, and then finding beauty, in the dead of winter, is an equally good practice

And that is what this blog is all about. A before-your-very-eyes alignment process. I am near the end of the beginning. I am practicing to stay conscious as much as I can. I think it's working. You want my biggest photo tip? Get yourself to theta anyway you can. Then, use a pencil, a camera, a computer, a block of marble. recycled tires or precious stones to create. You will feel the flow of life force energy aligned, and you will have alot more fun.

A caution: (or, why this blog is anonymous). Jean Houston made a miscalculation. She writes about it in her book "Jump Time" . She got "caught" coaching Hilary Clinton to channel Eleanor Roosevelt, and was publically ridiculed. Can't blame Hilary for picking Eleanor, though. I'd pick her too, she was a goddess. Oh well, I shall have to make do with the Gracie Allen/Ansel Adams combo. Let's see what comes of that. P.S. I think Jean is channeling Sophia. See what you think when you play the game.

If I say,"but I digress", one more time, cancel your subscription. Jean Houston was shamed because the public isn't ready for some of this stuff. People can get squirmy. That's absolutely understandable; feeling the energy of the divine feminineis a lot to get used to. In the olden days, people got aggressive instead. Women were labeled witches and burned at the stake, for example.
Hilary and Jean are still cooking, in spite of introducing a concept a bit too early in collective consciousness development.

Hilary, I might add, stayed very fourth dimensional with Bill when he let his second chakra energy get way out of balance. People will be drawn to theta. Here's a precaution. When the hordes begin to notice, it's easy to get caught up in glamor and illusion, and more difficult to keep creating with gratitude and humility. Parade Mag (oh, once in awhile, I go for the hard news) had an article about Viggo Mortenson . He sounds like he's really trying. He's no longer accepting fan mail, and has a sweet letter about it on this site. Let's keep an eye on him.

Tim Robbins is a very good example of gratitude and humility maintanence. And just look at the goddess he's hanging with. He has a new play "Embedded" that sounds theta inspired to me.

No denoument today. Just Heloise's Handy Hints from high atop the theta soapbox.

Journey to the Wild Divine

As it happens I am not out of Mexico material. A generous fellow participant kindly brought her laptop along into the sand and salty air, so that we could play with her new acquisition. It was a game, but a game involving the production of theta brainwaves, one of my persistant passions.

The game is called The Journey to the Wild Divine. Jean Houston had a good deal to do with its creation. The same Jean who worked with Hilary Clinton to envision Eleanor Roosevelt, and got creamed for it.

I was the first of the seminar participants to try the Wild Divine, given my penchant for machines that do wonderful things for you. I hung out playing, past politeness, after lights out, I was so enchanted.

Here's what happens, should you care to try. First you plug in earphones and attach sensors to three of your fingers. Then, Sophia, the goddess of wisdom, in lovely red robes, (that might be Jean, but the image is tiny) accompanied by lyrical music, takes you on a stroll through her magnificent gardens, with stops along the way where you can try your hand, rather, your nerve endings, at juggling, levitation, pinwheel spinning and the like. It is biofeedback at its beautiful best. Luxury Elmer Green .

I must admit, that evening my allergy to the mold on the thatch in the rain, affected my deep breathing, so Sophia's encouragement to concentrate on breathing as a relaxation technique made me tense. As a result, it took me awhile to get things going. I can't wait to try the game in the desert of central heating in winter.

Guys, this is really fun, it's good for you, your soul and your body, and it's for sale at $129 . In my case I might have to buy a used laptop upon which to run it. Then I could take it with me to all my activities, show it to my friends, and play it in the car when I'm stuck in traffic.

Photo note: The jaguar is found in the Yucatan peninsula, and it is a totem animal there. This is the only jaguar I saw while visiting. It lived on a sling chair on the beach. I'll post that photo soon.

With blue towels, in honor of Martha

Heard this morning that Martha was convicted on four counts. What ever happened to those Enron guys? What ever happened to the traitor who outed Valerie Plame?

Note: I have been protecting the interior of my brain from outrage for the time being, (organdy curtains and tulips only) while I'm fooling around with that fourth dimension stuff. My exposure to the latest is limited to ten minutes on NPR at 5AM while I'm waking up, whatever blog visiting I do, and chatting with my friends who read editorials in the Times. Be assured, I have not given up voting.

Back to Martha. I don't think I mentioned that I was a stock trader/broker in one of my iterations, nigh on many years ago. (So was Martha, I bet she obsesses about her hair too). I brokered so many years ago that there were no computers and the pink sheets were really paper. An inch wide, longer than legal, stapled together stack of pink paper, with teeny tiny stock quotes for the over the counter market, arrived every morning. (Really, this is like my mother telling about the days before there were telephones or something. I'm old enough to be my mother, horrors!)

If you wanted to buy or sell a stock that was traded over the counter, you made a phone call to one of several brokerage firms who were making a market in that stock. I was the person on the other end of the line that made the trades for our little company. I wore a green visor (just spent a half hour looking for an image of Bob Cratchit at his desk with visor and sleeve garters, to no avail. Oh well, you'll just have to use your imagination). I actually wore mini skirts, so you can guess the era.

The real point of this is that insider trading is a slippery thing. If you are making a market in a stock, or if you have wealthy customers who are all excited, and there is a sudden flurry of activity around a certain item, you know somebody probably knows something about something you don't know about. You are sometimes tempted to ride the wave. I forget just what the limitations to riding the wave were in the olden days. I was a real girl scout, though. I only bought mutual funds.

Let me say one more thing about being a stockbroker/trader. Mention your occupation at a party, and they're all over you, pleading for a hot tip, begging for your number--- perhaps it was the mini skirt. (This is in contrast to working in a psychological area, where those at a party look at you suspiciously, ask if you can read their mind, and avoid you when you say, "Yes").

Stocks sell themselves. The thing I hated about being a stockbroker, in addition to all of those numbers, was when the market fell apart. I felt bad. All those people who twisted my arm for hot tips, losing money because of me. Not a profession for an empath. It was fun for a few years in a bull market, but I high tailed it back to school when the market turned around.

Here's my stockbroker platitude. "Be a bull, be a bear, but never be a pig".

Want to see some great photos Be persistant, they're a bit buried, but it's worth the hunt.

Look what I found when googling Underlying Reality-- advice from an old hand.

Photo note: I seem to have a penchant for shooting down corridors, hallways and alleys. I will have to watch that.

Hotel next door, minimal thatch

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This was a lovely spot. It's called Jose y Ana . It seems to be a slightly upscale, less thatched, more colorful version of Maya Tulum. One will always wonder about thatch rats, won't one?

Capturing (most of) two birds in one shot

My kind and gracious Tui Na practitioner asked me to write something about our work together. I decided that I could capture two birds with one shot, (that's PC for an old adage) and do an entry about Tui Na.

Tui Na, just in case you haven't taken the opportunity to click, is a form of Chinese massage. Mine is done lying on a mat on the floor, in loose clothing, snuggled up in a down comforter. Needless to say, I am not always as alert as I might be to the process.

Here's what happens before I lose consciousness. My dear practitioner gently pulls on the joints of my fingers and sometimes my toes, from tip to base, joint by joint, finger by finger, rotating each joint slightly with each tug. When she is finished with my fingers, she moves on to my wrists and elbows, sometimes my shoulder. She is making room for chi to flow, and a very fine job she does. Often I slide into a theta brainwave state , which, as far as I'm concerned, is the frosting on the cake .

I evidently have alot of ja chi (misplaced chi). My ja chi twists around my muscles, like a mosquito net at midnight, and makes my fascia burn. In writing this piece, I actually read something about myo-fascial pain, and discovered:

"Physical stress isn't the only thing that can cause TrPs [trigger points, painful lumps of hardened fascia]. Tension TrPs can occur. These are not psychological results of tension but are physiological biological effects of long-term emotional abuse or mental trauma. If you are constantly holding your muscles tight in a "fight-or-flight" stress response, this changes your body patterns. TrPs can be caused by a surgical incision, as is often the case with abdominal surgery. TrPs may form as a result of other medical conditions. A case of arthritis may be otherwise well managed, for example, but the accompanying TrPs are overlooked. The pain load of that patient could be substantially lessened if the secondary TrPs were treated successfully. "

I am pleased to report that my fascia flames are quenched. Like the pain of childbirth, I am beginning to forget how bad it was at it's height. I still have some tension in my shoulders and feet, but they don't hurt continuously, even in bed. I can rest.

Although I do many things all at once, all the time, I am certain that Tui Na has helped my fascia the most. It is the kind of help that builds and lasts, restructures, whereas plain massage, craniosacral treatment, and accupuncture, though very effective in so many ways, do not seem to have the same cumulative, long-term effect on the fascial pain as has Tui Na.

After my ja chi is untangled sufficiently, I am going to learn some medical QiGong to keep my chi tidy from now on.

Photo note: The birds are pelicans--- we are still in Mexico.

Mexican Pewter

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I think I have a few more weeks of Mexican pictures, but tales of my Mexican adventures seem to be at an end. Content and illustration may not match for a while.

My camera technique: a technical discussion

Stand aside psychological theorists, I am about to horrify photographers. This will really make you squirm .

I use a Canon S40 PowerShot for all of my pictures, except the one of the coin with The Eye of Horus on it. That object required focus from a better camera. I have only had occasion to need a close up like that once, in 7000 photo opportunities. My point is, that whatever capacity the S40 has in the focusing arena, (I can't tell you, but we could look it up on the internet), serves me just fine on almost all occasions.

The size of my camera is very important, since I believe in carrying it with me at all times. I have passed the legendary harpist and fisherman , cameraless, on too many occasions. Painful lessons all.

I always carry an extra charged battery, and a couple of back up cards, so a shooting expedition isn't interrupted for technical depletion. My current card is 1GB. I have upgraded from a 16 to a 256 to a 512 to 1GB. I did that after I ran out of disc space in Montreal. If I had had more space, I would have kept the folded towel picture. Now I never have to play picture poker, discarding a photo prematurely, to make room for a possibility. I can have it all, for about $250. Thank god it's for sale.

Sometimes I go photo hunting, but these days, they often find me. It is, as the scouts have been telling us, a good idea to be prepared.

Don't mistake me for a mini camera fan. My camera is about the size of a pack of cigarettes (remember those, from the olden days?-- smaller than a breadbox is out too). I was originally given a tiny, little thing (with inadequate pixels) and I quickly learned that, even with my elfin fingers, the buttons were hard to see and harder to push. My S40 buttons are just right .

I didn't have to get over wasting film, since I never used film, but switchers from real cameras generally have this obstacle to overcome. Here is my digital photographer's stance: I can take as many pictures as I want, and erase any pictures that I don't like. Abundance, pure and simple. I have never been freer to make mistakes, and, (this is important, given my attention span) I can also see what I did wrong immediately, and try to correct it.

I once was trolled , and the guy said that my entry was wasting electrons on the internet. That's how I feel about taking a terrible picture --flagrant electron consumption. I am the George W. of flagrant electron consumption. I will suck up all the world's electron resources before I'm done. So What.

That is a very important attitude in digital camwifery. As a well-intentioned person once said to me, "You have taken 7000 pictures, naturally you have one or two good ones." Guess what, he's right.

And here's my next inside tip. I always take three exposures of everything. I keep my camera set on big P (programmable) rather than AUTO, and that is just what it does; snap snap snap. I probably discovered this feature by mistake (I have been so motiviated from time to time, that I have even read parts of the manual.) There are those who find it tedious to look through my proofs, as a result-- but not me. Sometimes, as in birds flying, I get something I never aimed for. I usually have the choice of three exposures of exactly the same thing, one light, one dark, one okay. I generally keep the okay one and the dark one. Dark ones can be photoshopped most successfully.

I do use photoshop on about 5 or 10% of my work. As you can imagine, I am simply a whiz at it. I can do about three things -- crop, adjust contrast, color and rotate. There you have it .

When I don't see anything to photograph, I look for the light, or change the scale.

I never look through the viewfinder to compose a picture, I always use the screen. Sometimes, on a sunny day, glare forces me to the viewfinder; then I try take into account a few more whatevers around the edges.

I have a Dazzle drive plugin (I'm just making up the jargon), which was not very expensive, that I use to upload pictures from the camera.

Until the advent of the digital camera, my considerable talent was thwarted by the level of technology available. Perhaps I have made it evident from time to time that I am no technowhiz. Having to remember all those shutter speeds and exposiure times, numbers, interfered with my creativity. Not being able to see the finished product for eight months, until the whole the roll of film was shot, was a challenge to my attention span. And then I couldn't fix anything I didn't like. Real photography was not for me.

I can learn complex things, like driving a car, if I'm motivated. I do need to see an end product I like, and work backwards. I am beginning to understand that my attention span provides guidance, and tells me when I have a passion for something. Then, learning isn't a problem. .

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Here is a good example of what comes out of my camera -- raw footage, as t'were. The lower right shot is the upper left, photoshopped. I can't see much of a difference, now that they're together. Maybe I like "before" better.

The Muse Threatens

Since landing back in my life from Mexico, I have not wanted to do anything but blog and fall asleep. (I have also wanted to stay asleep, but that, unfortunately is on my "to do" list.) I have neglected my morning practices , my piles and my accountant in a shocking way. I am about to lose my muse.

To what end. Mozilla is hot on my trail, but he's the only one. Now I'll have all the aniline dye afficionados disappointed. The scratched cornea folk never give up. I cannot even read my own stuff. I vow to post the rest of the Mexico photos and be done with useless verbiage.

Aniline dye

Looking though my Mexican photos, I am struck by the contrast between the monochromatic palette of nature and the palapas, and the vivid colors of the marketplace. Aniline dye was invented in 1856 by William Perkin. It made the production of vivid color possible. Before 1856 colors like turquoise, magenta and ultramarine blue were not to be found outside of nature, and stained glass. The Victorians were very excited by the possibilities of bright colors, and crassly overdid aniline applications for a while.

I used alot of aniline dye in my theatrical heyday. As I recall, we were warned of it's toxicity. A few granules in a garbage can full of water would be enough to stain an entire drop. Powerful stuff. It was also permanent, as in crazy glue. Once, a comrade took a microscopic bit home with her to do a piece; her Siamese cat got into it, and then groomed itself into permanent turquoise, tongue and all. The poor kitty probably suffered an early death. Coal tar. Or maybe it just cured it's psoriasis. Honestly, the things you learn on the web when you weren't meaning to learn anything at all.

My father always used Packer's Tar Soap. The revolting odor was one of the grave disadvantages of using his shower. It smelled like an oil change. He died from Parkinson's Disease at the age of 90, so I doubt its carcinogenic effects. That was pine tar, though. Just another loose association from the Dakota brain archive.

Chewing Gum for the Mind

Chewing gum for the mind is what I call TV and Danielle Steele novels. Just a little something to keep the membranes flapping. Fun for a few minutes, soon stale and ultimately tasteless.

This story upon which you had better have clicked, is from a fabulous blog, which I found via Pernicious at Sea of Humanity.com , whose name, blog and commentary on mine are also highly amusing. Pernicious is too young for me. I know I would fall short in a Heavy Metal conversation. I really want to connect with this lady, though. She too thought her hair was who she was. I'm sure there is an established procedure to make those connections here in virtual city, but I have never been a social blogger, and I don't know how. Help! Just read the story.

Commentary on the story: As you can see, mental construction is EVERYTHING. The cognitive behaviorists have been trying to tell us that for a long time. Cognitive behaviorists think that they teach people how to change their thinking. It turns out that this means more than just changing the lyrics of a thought,(words), it also means changing the underlying melody (vibration). Cognitive behavioral techniques never worked for me, because I didn't understand the vibrational part. Repeating "Don't worry, be happy"when in a funck may do it for Bobby Mcferin, but it generally leaves me more acutely aware of my misery.

If not affirmations, then what, you might ask? Esther Hicks channeling Abraham would say that first you poke around in possiblity, to find a thought that is somewhat more positive than the negative thought you are currently thinking, then,---- here's the crucial part ---the new thought has to bring with it the FEELING OF RELIEF. If you don't get that feeling, you haven't changed the contents of your mind sufficiently to readjust your vibration. Did you notice how quickly that woman's vibration changed when she realized what was floating in her toilet?

But I digress. Here's the lesson. Vibrational change can happen spontaneously, as in this story, or, you can actively work at vibrational change by finding a thought that feels better than the one you're thinking. I like to say that you can decorate the inside of the mind with black velvet curtains and spiders, or organdy sheers and tulips.

This story is about the mental construction of a miscarriage. Step it up another level, involving others, and it's called a social construction . The War on Drugs, The War on Terrorists, and the Cold War are all good examples of social constructions Speaking of the Cold War, be sure to catch Errol Morris' Oscar winning documentary, "The Fog of War" and watch social constructions, deconstruct before your very eyes.

Photo note: This is still Mexico. I'm loose associating to oral gratification, although sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and a photo is just cute.