How to Get Everything You Ever Wanted

I picked a book up from the library with an irresistible title, How to Get Everything You Ever Wanted. I mean, how could I not pick it up with that kind of promise?
As silly as the title is, it's pretty cool. I think. The subtitle is Complete Guide to Using Your Psychic Common Sense. It's written by Adrian Calabrese, Ph.D, a woman with 2 doctorates (Psychical Research & Metaphysics - oh, to get a doctorate in those!) and big hair. It's a handy 6-step guide, one less thing to deal with than Stephen Covey, better for us lazy folk.
Being lazy, I've only jumped about it a bit, opening here and there. Don't ask me what the six steps are, haven't read even the table of contents. But I found part that's totally cool and have to share it. (Printed without the author's permission, but I think the Universe doesn't count this as plagiarism.)

Here's how she suggests we put together what she calls affirmations. Some of us might call them wishes or mock-ups or manifestations. The examples are taken verbatim from the book. The components are:

1. Request: I am the owner of a new 1993 black Jeep Cherokee. I am able to afford it, I have the downpayment, I get credit easily, and payments are low and easy for me to meet.
2. Express gratitude: I thank the Universe (God/Goddess/the Source, etc.) for this Jeep, which is already mine...
3. Protect: ...and has come to me in a safe and loving way...
4. Remove limits: ... I receive this or something better, in my highest and greatest good, and that of all concerned...
5. Acknowledge: ... in accordance with divine will and the free will of all concerned...
6. Finalize: And so it is!

I don't know. This just makes sense and sounds really cool, aside from the specifics of the Jeep, of course. Creating's pretty groovy and I'm kind of into it right now. The Universe feels pretty open and responsive right now. Doesn't it? Is that just me or are other people feeling it, too? Are we on the cusp of a major shift in human perspective or am I just on my personal spiritual journey?
But even more importantly, I'd like to know if my dreams about zombies reflect anything other than my fear of zombies? I need to know these things.

Sadness versus Depression

I've been kind of sad these last few days. It started on Thursday night by kindly knocking the wind from my lungs and my legs right out from under me. Those nasty little voices that say horrible little things to me, which I work so hard to ignore, decided to gang up and create a cacophony of emotional abuse. In an all-new low thanks to my aging, the voices actually started mocking me about my own death. "If you died," they taunted, "sure, people would be sad and miss you, but it wouldn't really matter in any significant way to anyone. You've got no one depending on you." WHAT?! Oh, yes. That's right. An all-new low and a brand new demon to shout from the sidelines on those hormonal, lightless or otherwise yucky days. I actually considered the impact of my own death on whether or not my life has value. The upside of this is it shows a great deal of creativity for those voices. I mean, they didn't go to the "just a secretary" place or tell me that I'm fat and/or ugly... just that I don't really matter. So I cried. And I called friends. And I got the loving support I needed. The rest of the weekend was a bit better, though my psyche seemed to have purchased a wristband for unlimited roller coaster rides. Up, down, loop-to-loop. The breaks between swings, of which there were many, gave me a little time to think about this whole sadness versus depression thing. After careful consideration, I have decided that depression, though much more serious and potentially dangerous, has it over sadness in a few key areas that shouldn't go unnoticed. First of all, depression, once past the initial stages, generates numbness. Awful numbness, but numbness nevertheless. Sometimes not feeling anything is better than feeling shitty. It can also be easier to just check out when depressed. Go to bed at 6 PM, put on that one movie you can't stop watching, drink booze, whatever it is. If you're a good depressive, you've got something that does it. Mine used to be Buffy but now that show is so strongly associated with a particular depression, that it has lost its generalizability. (If you have any suggestions for good depression check-out tools that don't involve ingesting something, please let me know.) Secondly, depression collapses one into total victim mentality. And once you're a victim, you don't have responsibility for your situation. Depression relieves you of the possibility that you can make things better. And if you can't possibly make things better, there is nothing you have to do. Easy. No work. No effort. Just be. Sadness, on the other hand, may not do this. It may merely make you painfully aware of how things can and should be changed. You aren't numb, so you still care. And you're not a victim, so you do have the power to make things happen. Pain and work. Pain and work. Not that I wish I were depressed or anything. How twisted would that be? I'm just saying, it's important to have a good perspective on things.

Maiden Voyage

OK. So people keep asking me why I don't have a blog. And I get it. I'm quite clever at times and I can string a good sentence together now and again. But what these good-meaning people don't realize is how masterbatory these things can be.
I used to journal. Well, I should say that there have been moments in my life when I have tried to journal. What a nightmare. They should be burned. Strings, endless, meaningless strings of sentences beginning with "I". Self-absorbed bunk that would embarrass even the most pathetic thirteen-year-old. My fear is this could collapse into such drivvel.
It is up to me, to be sure. But it's a matter of what drives me to the words? What kinds of things do I feel compelled to disclose.

So, here it goes. I don't want to be selfish and disappoint those folks who have requested this.

Maiden voyage. A title chosen for its triteness. Tonight's theme? The joys of singlehood.

This morning I woke up on time, amazingly enough. Not sure how that happened. At the foot of the bed on the 'other' side is a pile of clothes that continues to grow each night. I look at it and it makes me mostly sad, although part of me enjoys the fact that I can just let it be there and not worry about it getting in anyone's way. Bed - mine! All mine. Would I give up the pile for a steady body on the other half? In a heartbeat. So what is that pile? A statement of ownership? A little lemon juice in the papercut of being single? A heavy sigh of resignation? Or, and this might be the key, a visual aid of how lazy I am when I'm sleep deprived from going to bed way too late for days on end. Yes, let's call it that.

When feeding George I spilled a bunch of his food. I was in a hurry to get out the door and didn't bother cleaning it up. I justified it by saying that nibbling off the floor might be fun for him since his life is so disturbingly boring right now. God, did I actually think that to myself? Yes, in fact I did. (Sometimes I wonder if George has any idea what myriad of decisions he's involved in in my life.) Today, upon my returning from my meaningless and completely uneventful day at work (for another posting), the food was still there. George hadn't eaten any of it from what I could tell. And why would he? Sheesh - he's got a fresh bowl nicely placed at neck height. Another pile I was able to ignore because I live alone, because I'm single and because I know no one will be visiting tonight.

But so what? So what that I have piles of cat food and clothes laying around in places they shouldn't be. What's that about? Instead of framing it as pathetic, sad, a sign of my fading grasp on the things most important, why not reframe it as liberation. That's right! Piles of liberation. The cat food of liberty. The clothing pile of freedom. No one has to know. They're my piles and they are deeply intimate. They are my life right now. People all over wish they had the ability to just leave piles.

OK, just let me believe that. Let me believe that these piles represent something better than what they appear as. I need it. I need to love those piles. It's November in Minnesota. Despair is gearing up for a heady blow as the tempertures drop and the daylight fades to nearly nothing. If making positive meaning out of my domestic misfirings gives me even a tiny bit of comfort, let me have it. Please.