Gold in them thar hills

 

I was dreaming of prospecting with my friend Bob on his property. We knew that the rocks on his land were rich with crystal and gold, so I picked up a hammer and started whacking away at some giant boulders. They were coming apart upon impact, and I was finding some pinkish mineral. Where there's that pink stuff, there's gold was my thinking. I kept whacking away and found some amazing crystals being loosely held in the compacted composite rock. 

 

It attracted Bob's attention, and he came over to get in on the action. I found a cache of this type of rocks under a boarded walkway. I was able to grab rocks from under it with ease, while Bob had to reach under blindly from the topside.

"Careful of black widows," I cautioned him half out of general concern, but half to slow him down, as I scooped up as many as I could before he could get to them. 

 

Sure enough, I did start seeing black widows after that. One of the little buggars came flying out straight for my face, causing me to brush myself frantically. I guess that evened things out, I thought, as Bob continued his slow, steady picking.

 

Anyway, we'd gathered enough crystals for the time being, and I began to discuss the statistical analysis of someone's love life with them. It was some girl whose face and name elude me. The only thing I remember vaguely is the stat "three out of five of my lovers..." 

 

Then the dream started to collapse like an inflatable circus tent. I was contemplating how I could stay in it, but reality was already making the structure unsustainable. So here I am, pocketful of nothing and a scant recollection of a conversation. Blah, blah, blah. Boring huh?

I could tell you about the real world, I guess. The past few days I've been having nice talks with my psychic friend, J. She's been a real comfort to me in the past, and also now, as I'm going through another one of my mini-health crises. It's nice to have people around to show concern when you are in a frightful situation. 

This time it's just another weird abdominal pain originating from the gallbladder area. It's been here for a while off and on, but it's gotten worse in the last couple of days. I was almost going to get checked out, but I talked to my mom, and she seemed to think I could wait. I wasn't at the threshold of pain that made a visit to urgent care imperative. 

Meanwhile, Lesa is is having her own issues, migraines or something that she is dealing with, so she's been a little quiet lately. Quiet is not in my wheelhouse, apparently, so I'm glad I have other people I can draw strength from by reaching out and chatting. Besides, it is unseemly to put all of that onto one person to bear. I can be a lot.

I listened to a tape that was recorded at a house party in 1982 in which I played for a punk band called Malicious Mischief. The tape was sent to me by Jeff Gross, the guy at whose house the party was held (and the guy who stole my guitar at said party).

Ha! I didn't let him forget that I knew that he knew that I knew that it was him, although it had gotten resolved years ago, with him returning the guitar sheepishly. No harm, no foul. I was just glad to get my hands on this tape which, although terrible, is a reminder of just how much fun you can have with a lot of innocent enthusiasm (and a shitload of beer). 

I digitized it and made it available on Facebook, but I'm guessing it won't be the most listened to recording of the year. It is 18 minutes of anarchy with a few crappy songs thrown in. But as bad as the sound quality and the playing were, I kinda like the vibe. Raw and edgy and full of "who gives a fuck."

Oh, and I forgot to mention, Sharon has been appearing to my psychic at random times during my chats with her. Perhaps, not too random. She seems to be expressing approval and sending me encouragement and love as I exhibit some tendencies toward evolving as a person. 

I've been trying to help J out of a funk that she's been in, utilizing my own experience with distorted thinking patterns. In trying to help her, I've been helping myself. I had the thought that maybe, just maybe, I could put the struggles I've been through to use in some way. Perhaps a job as a counselor or therapist of some sort. 

I need to find out what the minimal credentials are. I do have that minister's license from the universal life church that Sharon signed me up for online. So, legally, I can marry people, I guess. As long as I don't claim to provide any real psychological services, maybe I could use that cheesy new age angle and weasel my way into a career as a spiritual advisor. Ha! I'm just as lost as you, but I can give you comfort because I'm at peace with my existential angst.

Or I could go back to school and try to go about finding a legitimate career path in more conventional counseling. But I am loath to promote any party line sort of psychology. Maybe Cognitive Behavioral Therapy or Dialectic Behavioral Therapy, as it has evolved into these days. I'll need to educate myself enough in these subjects just to know if they are something that I could conscience promoting. At first glance, they have seemed to be helpful tools in unraveling the rat's nest of my own negative thinking. 

Meanwhile, back to surviving my stomach ailment...