Pisces 27° (March 17)
I used to be really good with a sort of energy work in my younger days. That was a sentence that appeared in yesterday’s Blague and, instead of following that tangent, feeling it might be big, I left it as a single paragraph….
St. Patrick’s Day was fun when I was a kid, in New Jersey, because, having parents who were the opposite of the helicopter sort, what would you call them?, more like zeppelins drifting off in their own directions, unawares, and I would skip school and take a bus, maybe, or a train, though that doesn’t sound right, to NYC, to get drunk. That was pretty much the extent of it. Nobody watching, nobody cared. Me in a lined windbreaker, prematurely garbed for spring, ordering beer after beer, day drinking at fifteen, sixteen; in those days they never “proofed” you in NYC; we didn’t say carded, or as we say in New England, cahded, we said “proofed.” I can still picture one bartender like from a movie wearing his white shirt, sleeves rolled up, black pants and suspenders, grey hair, pouring beer after beer in his bar that began with Mc, making bank as fast he could, not stopping to asking who was underage. In 1980 in NYC there was no under age. I suppose I would have told my parents, ahd they ventured to ask, that I went to see the parade. But I’m sure they didn’t know I wasn’t in school the whole day. They might be curious why I’m home from school at nine o’clock, shit faced at that time. I remember making a phone call to someone from, yes, my private phoneline in my bedroom—what, you think I was raised by wolves? (I was in many ways which is why they compensated with perks like my own private number—unlisted, thank you.)
…. I used to be really good with a sort of energy work in my younger days. Before we talked about such things, or I knew of something called Reiki or whatever, when I was still a teenager, or maybe twenty, I became aware of a certain ability I had with my hands. No I know why I wanted to write about this: I sort of forgot the fact—that this was part of “my thing”. I keep stepping away from writing about this I’m not sure why. The visual that comes up when I alight on the topic is of being in Stella’s studio apartment on Beacon Street, our senior year, back from our study abroad in France, and “doing stuff” with my hands. Now, I’m not talking about sexually, only, but that was an interesting part of it: to discover that I could, how shall we say, affect an outcome without actually touching, but rather “touching the energy” surrounding the body. It sounds hokey I know but I didn’t know that “energy work” was a thing so I thought it was only me who had this particular talent. Anyway I do remember doing this to people if they had a bad back or they injured themselves or just felt a little stressed or nutsy, I would just sort of …I dunno…work their aura? Or something like that. Meanwhile I’m not the one who sees auras in the family. Oh no she didn’t. I hate myself for that last sentence. Okay now I understand why I didn’t write about this—it was because of its boudoir elements; and I am, despite heaping evidence to the contrary, quite the prude.
I chalk up everything woo-woo about me to being a Celt. Without proof, I know that it’s that blood line which has given me any power of this kind. And I’m at the place in my life now where I really want to cultivate it. At first I dismissed it, then I accepted it rather dispassionately, not wanting to “bill” myself as some kind of psychic or intuitve of any kind; and now suddenly I find myself wanting to nurture this side of myself and really find so many creative and intellectual ways to explore this pretty wide range of, lets just call it esotericism, in its myraid forms, and to let my interest in astrology and counseling and theater and art and design and study and discourse and body and mind and spirit all come together more cohesively now. Just like all the once-considered scattered bits of myself, what might have been labelled dilletanteish (by others and even myself) pursuits that seemed to split me—well those are now each of them pretty much risen enough on their own accord to come together, like building blocks of my being, moving forward.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day. I bought this book in Ireland twenty years ago. It gets one star, which unstuck itself and fell from the ceiling.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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