Wide Awake in Wonderland

We’re only dancing on this earth for a short while

Faith is like electricity. You can’t see it, but you can see the light. November 28, 2008

So I’ve just started reading the book, “The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity.” A few unrelated people mentioned it, and the ideas got stuck in my head. Before I knew it, I was on Amazon putting it into the shopping cart. I’ve only gotten through the first couple chapters, but already it’s quite clear that the author is a major advocate of an idea she calls “morning pages.”

Get up each morning – every morning – and write three pages in your own handwriting. They can be about anything so long as it’s three pages. And if you have nothing to say, you can write “I have nothing to say” over and over until you fill three pages.

That’s a little bit how I feel today.

I have nothing to say.

I have nothing to say.

I have nothing to say.

On the other hand, I haven’t started my morning pages process yet, so (in theory) starting tomorrow I will blow your little mind with the intensely creative and amazing things I will have to share. Allegedly.

I also must warn you that I am (for reasons unknown) entering into yet another ‘out there’ period of my life. I have been ‘out there’ more than once,  but I always seem to gravitate back to the (boring and predictable, but non-strange and thus strangely comforting) middle. The norm. However, the mere fact that I felt compelled to purchase “Mastering Remote Viewing – Remote Viewing, Third Eye, & Astral Projection” should serve as fair warning that my interests are once again moving toward the fringe.

I have a real love/hate relationship with the fringe. I love the idea that there’s magic in the world and so many things that we cannot easily perceive or sense or know, but that can be accessed if only we knew how. I love the idea that we’re all here with a purpose and to some extent the meaning of our lives is to discover and uncover our gifts in order to share them with the world.

At the same time, I hate that I have no proof. Nor does anyone else. I can’t see it or touch it or validate it beyond a shadow of a doubt. To believe in ‘the other’ (any other, really. Including that widely accepted by milliions) requires faith. And faith requires courage.

That stated, I am nothing if not a courageous soul. So I think in the end my curiosity will win out. I may never gain infallible proof, and I may end up believing in things that other people regard as kooky or even nuts, but a little mystery keeps it interesting. And if it turns out that there really is a whole magical world out there? What a wonderful ride that would be…


An open letter to the kid who keeps crank calling my cell phone November 16, 2008

I have the same taste in TV as a 13-year old boy. Don't even get me started about how much I loved "Rob and Big."

I have the same taste in TV as a 13-year old boy. Don't even get me started about how much I loved 'Rob and Big'.

Look, I get it. When I was a kid, I was an inimitable crank caller. In hindsight, I may have even been an addict. It was my #1 pastime in the seventh grade, and I looked forward to going over to Kim’s house and lighting up the phone lines. I would even argue that I was quite good at it – people would stay on the line for an incredible amount of time, or hand the phone to their co-workers or housemates saying, “You’ve got to hear this!” My two best routines were:

  1. “The company potluck”
    1. I’d call and immediately start in about, “Hi. It’s me. I just don’t know what to bring to the company potluck tomorrow.” Then I would rattle off a variety of options at lightening speed, and then – depending upon my mood – I would go into a whole bit about how I might bring fruit salad and should I put bananas in it and what if people don’t like bananas and how should I cut the bananas? You get the idea. Extreme speed talking wherein the other person cannot get a word in edgewise was critical to the success of this call. When I finally would pause to breathe, usually what they had to say was either vulgar or hilarious (and often both).
  2. “Darth Vader is in my house”
    1. This one was admittedly stupid, but it still makes me chuckle to myself. In this case, you call in a real panic repeating that Darth Vader is in your house (which is very confusing to the other person) and once they finally understand and say, “What? DARTH VADER?” you put your accomplice on the phone who does the heavy Darth Vader breathing and maybe a “Luke, I am your father.” I don’t know if the people getting these calls think it’s funny, but I sure did.

(Side note: You can also substitute Darth Vader with the Hamburgler. In that case, your assistant needs to get on and say, “Robble robble” or however you interpret whatever it is that the Hamburgler says. They must do this without bursting into uncontrollable laughter, which is actually a lot harder than it sounds)

My fall from grace came because I put too much faith in my co-cranker, Kim. You see, she developed a crush on a boy down the street (let’s call him Dwayne, which I believe may have been his actual name), and since I always let her do the dialing as I psyched myself up for my audience, what I didn’t realize was that we were calling his house again and again and again. This was in the late 80s, so it wasn’t too hard to figure out where the calls were coming from. All I remember is my mother’s red and enraged face after Dwayne’s mother came by our house to yell at me. Oops.

Anyway, kids will be kids, and I don’t have a problem with the occasional crank call. It’s karma. However, I do have some standards if you’re going to waste my time and my cell minutes. So to the adolescent boy that keeps calling me, I offer some free tips:

  1. The #1 rule of crank calling is never give up. If you get a live person on the phone, you keep them on for as long as humanly possible. That’s the whole point. THEY’RE supposed to hang up, not you.
  2. Do your research: If you want me to believe my number is on Craig’s List as selling a gun from the Civil War, don’t claim I’m asking $30 for it. Have you never seen “Antiques Roadshow”? Turn on PBS and check it out. A gun from the American Civil War would be worth at least thirty THOUSAND (that’s $30,000, Einstein) dollars.
  3. It’s never to early to learn to curb your “ummmmms”. When you get older, people will start counting how many times you say “ummmmm” and laughing at you. They may be doing this already. Since you obviously cannot think on your feet and use “ummmmm” in excess to fill the gaps, maybe consider writing a script before you call me?
  4. Speaking of which, could you please rent a couple ‘Crank Yankers’ DVDs and learn what it means to be funny? Calling and leaving me messages that your ‘wife has breast cancer and is really freaked out’ isn’t funny.  First off, you don’t even get to hear my reaction, so what’s in it for you? Second, and perhaps more importantly, It’s twisted and maybe a sign that your parents should get you a child psychiatrist.
  5. I have a cell phone plan with limited minutes, so could you maybe call the land line at my house instead? Much obliged.

Your dreams may toss and turn you now November 11, 2008

So I woke up this morning with Cat Stevens playing in my head (just in my head, not on the radio or anything), which is kind of weird really. Nonetheless, seeing as it was out of nowhere and strangely apropos, I took it as a sign and decided to update the tag line on this blog. And the ‘about me’ was adjusted too. And even my outgoing voicemail message on my cell phone. Reality has settled in. Although I still haven’t fully unpacked my backpack, I also haven’t strapped The Beast on in over a week. It had to happen sometime. Elvis is back in the building.


Meanwhile, I’m still grappling with a serious case of jet lag. Thus, 7:00 this morning wasn’t the first time I woke up. I also woke up at 4:00 in the middle of a dream that I was hooking up with George Clooney. If you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have described that as pretty much the perfect dream, and one I’d be sorry to see interrupted.


However, it turns out having it cut short wasn’t as bad as it sounds. First off, in the dream I was dismayed to find that I was only wearing a sheet, and I was concerned that might send George the wrong message about what kind of girl I am. But that wasn’t all. You see, George had some rough breath. Dumpster meets outhouse meets rotten egg rough. And after I got over the shock and dismay, I was desperately trying to figure out how I might get him some Altoids or even just a TicTac (and maybe a pair of panties for myself). A dab of toothpaste. Some floss. Anything.


And I think my duress at the ultimate opportunity turned gross situation caused me to tune into the fact that my sleep hypnosis CD had gone nuts and in the real world, a male voice had been saying, “Anything is possible” for almost five hours.


You see, I somehow got my hands on a couple sleep hypnosis CDs earlier this summer. They open with this guy with a strange accent talking you through how your feet are relaxing and your shoulders are relaxing and then once you fall asleep, he rattles on about how “Anything is possible” and “It is. You know it. You accept it.” This I know because I had it on my iPod during my trip in Europe, and it was one of the only tracks that didn’t get wiped out. It was my hope that it would help me fall asleep or fall back asleep when the general ruckus that is a hostel dorm room competed with my beauty sleep. However, sometimes it had the opposite effect. The droning voice itself would keep me awake and I would lay there and listen to the parts you’re supposed to sleep through. Anyway, the point is that the positive affirmations are only to go on for an hour, but somehow my CD got stuck on the phrase “anything is possible” and repeated that until it wormed its way into my conscious mind.


But maybe in a way that was the endless repetition I needed? Because I woke up again a couple hours later ready to work and ready to write and feeling energized and excited and enthusiastic and like, well, anything is possible.