Today Gideon recounted another dream: It involved the three of us getting on a choo choo train that drove in the water. Then a dog pooped all over it and we had to get off while it was being cleaned. We got back on and when it was our stop, we had to pay $15.

I really hope that was his dream and not his plagiarizing another cartoon, cause I'd feel pretty disconnected if it turned out that's what he's watching on TV in the wee hours of morning.

I'm officially "reconnected" and back to life.

It was a really phenomenal summer, yet I'm happy for it to be ending, looking forward to returning to my schedule, sending Gideon to school, see the leaves change color.

I intentionally did not write a single poem over the summer. I take creative energy breaks between writing projects to recharge. I'm feeling recharged. I also just took on another project, one that is the equivalent to adding my name to the sign-up sheet for grief. I'm doing it because I feel strongly about it. More about that later.

Gideon will be doing two "activities" this fall: soccer and yoga. At the beach, he saw a cousin do yoga and was interested. This fits into my life too. We can do it together. I'm switching from pilates back to yoga in September. After Gideon was born, I switched to pilates because it was more "result" oriented. But I don't think I feel as good after pilates. And it's too loud and busy. A bunch of yack yack yack. I'd rather be somewhere quiet. I haven't told the pilates studio yet. I've been going there for 4 years and I feel like I'm dumping a friend or something. I think I'm just going to tell them that I miss yoga and only have the budget and time for one, which is the truth. I'll tell them that I'll still practice pilates at home, which will be a lie.

I've been doing some meditation, mind exercises and active imagination. I lost 8 pounds since April. The meditation and imagination stuff wasn't to lose weight, but that's been one of the pleasant side effects. Apparently I was storing a lot of people's negative energy in my ass.

I just caught up with all my blog reading and most of my email correspondence. I already feel the heaviness attaching itself. Time to visualize sending certain people to burn in the Earth's core.

It's OK, it's not really them bursting into a million flaming pieces. It's just their unwanted, poisonous energy.

No poets are harmed in the creation of this visualization.

Spending very little time online and only responding to time-sensitive emails. My internet connection is sketchy which is fine because I'm a bit weary of it all anyhow. Had some bad withdrawal symptoms this afternoon. Well, those weren't internet withdrawal symptoms, they were triggered from a hot dog. I eat like one hot dog a year and well, I think that's going to change from one a year to one a decade.

While Hurricane Bill hasn't hit the NC shores, it has affected the beach. We haven't been able to go in the water for the past two days and likely won't be able to tomorrow either. The waves are 10 and 15 feet high. It's amazing to watch. Today we took Gideon to the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse and he walked all 257 steps to the top. I underestimated him. I didn't make it all the way up. I was going up the hot-ass spiral stairs, crammed with breath-heaving people and stagnant air -- and some kid coming down looked at me and said, "you're almost half way there." I thought, only half way there? Fuck that. I turned around and went back down. According to Chris I was only 31 steps from the top.

If I ever find that little bastard . . .

I've been dreaming a lot about the ocean, waves, the heat, babies, fainting, cars, ultra-violet lights on an airplane, throwing a fit at Gideon's preschool and Christian spies bugging my hotel room at a feminist conference. The one thing almost all my dreams this past week have in common is some kind of gender motif. Can't we all just get along? On the upside, only three poets have appeared in my dreams since I've been down here, which is a really low number. One of those poets is a close friend, so its only two "random" poets. So this seems to be a vacation for my psyche as well.

It's good to disconnect, even if that means I have to barf up a hot dog.

All clear in the western ear

Gideon hasn't stuck anything else in his ear, so I haven't had much to write about. I have two tarot readings to do tonight before I leave town. It was a great promotion, sold over 40 books in one weekend which is pretty awesome. It's also a time-consuming offer, but I'm not complaining. I'm in much better psychic shape now than I was two weeks ago. Here, feel my psychic muscle, go on, feel it. Like an armadillo, I tell ya.

I dreamed that I wrote a psychology book that sold 200 copies in one month--and some of those were hardcover!

I also dreamed about Phil Collins. I hate dreaming about Phil Collins. Cause when I wake up I have to ask "what aspect of myself is like Phil Collins?" Some aspects of ourselves are just too painful to ponder. This was a sweaty, pit-stained Phil Collins. I don't want to integrate my sweaty, pit-stained Phil Collins into my psyche. I think I'll sweep that image right back where it belongs, into my shadow of all things unacknowledged and continue projecting that aspect onto others.

Yes, I think will. You all are sweaty, pit-stained Phil Collins, not me.

I'm Shakira dancing in a glittery vagina-like tunnel.

Gideon reads his mother's cards

"Don't go into the fortress or you will die."

Devil in my attic

One piece of advice that's appeared in several readings I've done so far, is for the readee to acknowledge, accept and embrace her demons. Depending on the placement, that's what The Devil card can mean. The idea is that once you accept a part of yourself that you'd rather not acknowledge, you become free of its hold over you. You'll stop projecting those aspects that you don't like about yourself onto other people.

Last night I dreamed:

There's a devil statue in my attic. A man approached me and offered his help to get rid of it, but I had to be careful because the devil statue could hear everything I said. Then I became suspicious that maybe the man was trying to trick me to get close to the statue. 3 people I know (1 poet/writer, a past co-worker of mine and one of Chris') were trying to build a machine to wake up the devil statue. I tried to stop them. I tried to hide parts they were using to build the machine. But it was no use. They were gonna wake up the devil.


Guess I better practice making my devil kissie-face. Today I mediated on the devil statue waking up. He slid down a fireman's pole from the attic, danced on stage with a top hat, then he turned into a frog. I kissed the frog.

Who's my devil frog prince you ask? Hah hah.

Meditate on your own devils, why don't you.

Less Humorous

This evening we pulled this blue button out of Gideon's ear.



I held his head down, while Chris extracted it with tweezers.

It was almost looking like another one of those wacky emergency room visits.

The button was in there pretty good.

There was no explanation as to why Gideon crammed a blue button into his ear.


I also forgot to feed TB's cats this weekend.

I know, if I was really psychic I would have felt their grumbling bellies.

How does one make that up to a cat?

A Humorous Sunday Morning Play

Chris: [to Gideon] I have an idea. Let's wash Mommy & Daddy's cars.

Reb: Oh good, cause it looks like a dust bunny took a crap on my car.

Chris: Or three.

Gideon: Or a hundred! I never saw that before. Hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah

[END OF SCENE]

Oracle to the Poetry Buyers

Thank you to everyone who helped spread the word about the No Tell Books free offer.

So far NTB has sold 21 books. The offer has also generated at least one book sale for my publisher, Coconut Books. Thank you to those who have purchased books.

The offer will continue until tomorrow night at midnight.

Somebody suggested that I make the offer permanent. I don't think I'll be able to do that. Each reading takes 30-45 minutes. Sometimes if the reading is about something particularly stressful, I get a tummy ache and have to lie down for a bit. But who knows, it may be an offer I pull out a few times a year.

Yesterday I did 5 readings. I have 3 scheduled for this afternoon and expect additional offer redemptions to arrive later today (a number of people haven't yet specified if they're taking the reading or dream interpretation).

I think I found my post-2012 career. Chris will be a massage therapist (healing hands, remember). As for Gideon, well, he's a bit directionless at the moment, but there's still some time to figure out his post-apocalypse calling. We will travel around the country offering our services in exchange for nuts, berries and shelter.

I can't begin to tell you what a relief it is to have plan.

Looks like I'm going to be working on Tarot readings and dream interpretations this weekend. At last, I finally figured out a way to sell a few poetry books.

So I send you here while I'm off being psychic.

?

Is Reb Livingston unethical?

Today's milestone

This morning Gideon asked for the Stockholm guidebook I used on our trip.

He used the title on the cover as a guide to type "stockholm" into the Google searchbox on his laptop.

He did it perfectly.

But then only one result came up.

He was typing into the searchbox on the Gmail help page. (No he doesn't have a Gmail account).

I took him to the main Google page and we searched on Stockholm from there.

He's making plans to go to another Stockholm.

One with REALLY BIG buildings.

Straightening

All my dreams are relevant and timely:

Chris' 'healing hands' are successfully realigning people's backs. He realigns poets' backs, poets who I believe have lost their way, poets who I feel have hurt me. They all suffered serious back pain, but with a few deft adjustments, Chris fixes that. I make a joke that these poets should pay him homage--that Poet 1 should draw him as a statue with a very large penis and Poet 2 should give him a golden cow. Chris tells me he's a little tired. In addition to the poets, he also realigned 15 other people's backs during his walk on the beach this morning.

The way

"That's just the way it is." I think we all hear and think this a lot. Unfair, messed-up, twisted situations seemingly out of our control, trapped in fucked-up systems, rules that don't help but hinder, entities bigger than any one us. Often we have little choice but to make the best of it.

You can't fight city hall.

Steve put up this point system. It's both funny and accurate. Although unlike Steve, it does not amuse me to accept po-biz as a big game. It repulses me. It's probably healthier to approach it as a silly game and make the best of it. Laughter is good medicine. I do really enjoy laughing. I probably should be laughing. It would certainly be more practical to go with the flow. I am certainly capable of playing the game. I would get more sanctioned respect.

Except I don't want to be practical with my art. Not in that sense, at least. I have to be practical with everything else, just like everyone else. Sometimes I do things that others consider impractical, but I consider things like happiness and sanity to weigh pretty heavy on the practicality scale.

So when I asked below how people would imagine creating, learning about and sharing one's art, I'm really serious. Even if it could "never happen in real life." I want to be able to at least IMAGINE something different.

Sorry for being weird, but I'm feeling a lot less Bruce Hornsby and a lot more John Lennon these days.

Oh wait, I just looked over "The Way it Is" lyrics and Hornsby sings "Some things will never change / That's just the way it is / But don't you believe them"

I forgot about the "But don't you believe them" line.

CORRECTION: I am feeling both Hornsby and Lennon these days.

2012

It's appearing legal intimidation may have not been factor. That is a great relief.

Moving on . . .

Scenerio: It's 2012. The end of the Mayan calendar.

Apocalypse.

Every single MFA program, workshop, consulting firm, literary magazine (print and online), press, lit blog, lit website, lit radio & television program, endowment, foundation, organization, scholarship, contest, club, listserve, message board, reading & lecture series explodes into fiery flames.

All that's left for writers is paper, ink, keyboards and screens. Perhaps a few wooden planks and some cotton balls.

We still have all the poems, stories, books, essays, etc. -- the art remains, but not any of the past infrastructure.

It's a blank slate.

How do writers recreate their world and communities? How do we share our work? How do we create our work? How do we learn? How do we nurture our new writers?

Another one of those days.

It's going to be over 90 degrees here and Gideon has already nixed the pool, a movie and the library.

He's playing the guitar and singing.

Very loudly.

Last song: "My Language is Better than Yours"

You go, little boy.

To the pool.

We'll be going to the pool today.

Some, Those & Them

Some have a right to criticize others' projects and ventures.

Some have the right to accuse others of destroying, tainting or attacking something like poetry.

Some have the right to question things like ethics and motivations.

Some have the right to be scathing.

Those who defend the criticized are sycophants, toadies, opportunists or moral relativists.

Those who defend friends or people who helped them are themselves tainted.

Unless the tables are turned.

Those who create their reputations from outspokenly criticizing the projects, ventures, ethics and motivations of others are immune from such critiques on their own projects and ventures.

Because they are ethical whereas others are . . .

?

Those who self-create their role of authority on a particular subject are not open to the same criticism as other "authorities" and "culture capitalists."

Because they created their own authority, through their own hard work and dedication, whereas the others were born to poet princes and verse-y gumdrop fairies.

Those born into poetry wealth wear magic rings that others have to kiss to gain consideration.

Whereas the ethicals charge very reasonable rates.

Some people's intentions are pure and others' intentions are corrupt.

Some people's ventures are a service and not open to debate or criticism.

Some ethicals are very good at squelching dissent.

Some ethicals might be considered to be downright intimidating to those without easy access to lawyers.

Dissent and criticism are for the ethicals, not for all.

In this world some are pig farmers.

Some are pig fuckers.

Some eschew pork all together.

Some stick strange objects in their orificies.

Others just like to think about it.

God bless all of them!

Those who share and pass on unfair criticisms for discussion and debate are trouble-making flame fanners.

Whereas those who share the righteous criticisms are helping get the word out about unscrupulous behavior.

Sometimes it's difficult to be clear on who is who.

Other times, not so difficult.

Gideon is still on Stockholm time.

He woke up at 3 a.m. this morning and fell asleep at 6 p.m. AT dinner.

It was a good trip.

I'm very glad I took Gideon.

He's a good traveller.

For a 4 year old.

Two things I saw in Stockholm I certainly wasn't expecting:

1. A guy dressed as an American Indian, with a feathered headdress running around in a fountain. A crowd with him yelling that "sound" that old movies portrayed Indians making.

2. A little boy wearing a Confederate flag shirt.

American parents who hope the South will rise again?

Unaware Europeans who purchased the shirt during a vacation without any understanding of how that flag is perceived?

Ironic hipsters?

I'll never know.

* * *

Catching up on things.

Reminded today, in several circumstances, how much I hate bullies.

I do believe in karma.