Girl walks into a bar


“In my first book, I wrote about the Sages, who are highly advanced souls that are still incarnating on Earth even though it is unnecessary for their own personal development. I am told they are skilled linguists with the ability to phrase words in vibrational tones that deeply touch people. These wise beings are here because it is their mission to help humanity in a direct physical way. They are unobtrusive and may wish for no public attention.” —”Destiny of Souls,” Michael Newton

I detest calling attention to myself, yet I crave a kind of recognition so long as it’s not forced.

During my trip to Arizona over Thanksgiving, a drummer friend of ours introduced my husband and me to the featured singer at a jazz gig. I was perfectly content to nod, continue looking around, generally tuning out. For seven of the nine days of our trip, we were severely sleep deprived, and it was catching up to us.

Just as I thought I was gonna get away with staying under the radar playing tourist, our drummer friend brought me up as this fabulous jazz writer and maybe this singer had his last album available for me to review.

I know the drummer friend meant well, but I wanted to sink in my seat, crawl into a hole, disappear.

I realized that I prefer staying under the radar — even when I need to toot my own horn for a potential job. I don’t like to write with a crowd gawking at me, waiting for my every word. I prefer to surprise people with a nice thing to say about their efforts, whether it’s a recording, performance, or customer service, display of kindness, whatever.

Maybe a lot of that is my effort to avoid disappointing people with high expectations.

I always respond to a surprising opportunity by looking over my shoulder, as well. Who me? You must be joking. Wouldn’t you rather enlist a qualified [fill in the blanks] instead?

I’m about a quarter into Dr. Michael Newton’s “Destiny of Souls,” and I’m only now starting to grasp some of what he’s nattering on about. Admittedly, reading this next book in his series is taking on a serious “Urantia” vibe. I couldn’t get through the first five pages of that book. The “writer” stacks so many ideas in a single sentence, I get lost halfway in.

The only parts that are making a dent involve a vaguely familiar outline of the spirit world in all its incarnations. I remember them primarily from dream recollections. Only in these dreams, I mistake spirit memory with earlier childhood fears, like dropping into a university or high school setting without a clue where my classes are or why I am there again when I’m 52.

I also recall the unsettling feeling of eternal irrelevance as an aimless ghost who has been left behind by her parents eons ago. As this ghost, I’m forced to watch boring, rich, vapid strangers window shop at a fancy mall days before Christmas, for an eternity.

This past week, I’ve been visited by one or two interesting energies. I humanize them as best as I can, but what I feel in the dreams is their energy. It’s what gives them identity, not what they look like at the time — or what physical attributes I choose to imagine to fit the energies and/or memories of similar personalities, if any of this makes sense.

Bryon, whom I mentioned in a previous dream post, was the easy one. His physical form and energy matched the Bryon I know in this life.

The other one came before, with shades of an English professor in college blended with a high school cartoonist, some Gordon Ramsay action and maybe a little Anthony Bourdain — none I really am attracted to, save for the English professor when I first became enamored of his “Wuthering Heights” facade.

This one came with the full marital baggage. In fact, a friend and I were visiting their apartment when he cornered me in the middle of his living room, his wife on the other side of a balcony overlooking a place that reminded me of Vancouver’s Robson Street.

He did a full-court press on me, his entire body shaking and dripping with primal sweat. I found myself attracted to the intensity of his energy, yet terrified of the moral ramifications in his spectacular subterfuge (duplicity, another thing I detest). I also worried he may be a sexual deviant, a serial predator. Yet, that excited me at the same time.

In the middle of his pleas, I reached out my left hand — the one that is the strongest in dreams, but weakest in reality — as I whispered, “I can’t, give you what you want.” Then, my hand hovered an inch from his chest before glancing it.

The energy emanating from his chi almost threw me back in its feral familiarity. However, he was the one who flew across the room.

Before I could find out who he really was to me, my moral compass took over and the script flipped. I succumbed insofar as to agree to meet him in a bedroom where he acted outraged about a doorknob not working so as to change the lock for me only.

That’s when I found myself suddenly standing outside of their apartment building, staring up three floors at his wife laughing at me on the balcony and him pretending to. I think.

Duplicity is a bitch. I’m not very good at it.

It had all been an act, only I wasn’t a part of their passion play.

I felt both ashamed and relieved.


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