Psychic Readings

In bed very early last night with a migraine, my dreams were plentiful and scrambled and very little remained at the surface like cream to skim off into the internet-dimension when dawn broke.  I was at some kind of an event that I can't help but feel involved a play.  At the event was a man who was capable of conducting psychic readings on a person, using palms, natal charts, interviews, auric readings, all of it, and deducing the type of "soul" the person had.  Everyone who participated was given a thick book that contained all of the types - there were several per "age group," of which there were close to a dozen.  I ended up in the age group that was second to oldest, aptly titled "Wrinkles."  The chapter on who was therein had something to do with being silly, of all things, being playful and entertaining.  This surprises me upon waking, but in the subconscious realms it didn't surprise me at all.

A calendar-type-thing graced the first page of each chapter, and in certain squares, symbolizing certain things; certain symbols were stamped into the relevant squares that possessed certain meanings.  Out of 30 squares or so, I maybe had 7 stamped - special spots that were unique to the type of soul I was marked in ways unique to that type that elucidated exactly what I brought to the table and in what ways.  It was the most personalized, detailed reading imaginable.  The esoteric little stamps were invisible, no less, to all but the wearer of some magical glasses that were issued with the book (this was to protect the intense privacy of the soul - after all, if it wanted to be revealed in plain words clear as crystal, it wouldn't be hiding, invisible, subjective and mysterious, itself).

I became under the impression that a man leaving the event had a very similar read-out to mine, or that he could help me significantly in understanding my path.  I stalked after his car as it drove away very slowly, so slowly that I was able to follow just by running.  However, stopping suddenly at a light, I crashed into his car head-first, and was knocked unconscious.  When I came to, he and his wife seemed concerned that I had been following him.  I demanded to know what his book revealed about him, but he guarded the information intensely.  So I pulled out a long pool stick, and challenged him to a duel.  He did the same, and the next thing I knew we were in a bar, a pool table being set up, and him ready to blow me out of the water.  Which he would; I was chewing my lips thinking, "why did I choose pool?  I can't play this game."

I ended up wandering off and away from this scene through a series of convoluted events.  I ended up alone in Boston in June, waiting for Ian to get out of his conference so that we could explore together.  In the mean time, I was having an incredible time by myself.  Possibly in direct contrast to waking reality, everyone I met was nice.  I was near a large university campus, but couldn't for the life of me figure out what school it was.  Riding around on the bus, I was meeting many students, but older students, closer to my age, and very, very intelligent and interesting.  When Ian finally arrived, I was thrilled to tell him that I'd been having a wonderful time, writing in the sunny lawn of the school and talking to welcoming strangers.

Again, a tangle of events.  The last thing I remember is being with Paul McCartney when he was a bit younger and his hair was impossibly poorly styled.  I was under the impression that even though Paul McCartney was still alive, I was in fact speaking with a ghost - the ghost of mulleted Wings-era Paul McCartney.  He told me to not worry about my creative abilities so much.  He told me that (vaguely referring to the soul-book I'd received many dream months earlier) I should be able to learn from my past lives and my obsession with death to not worry - to produce freely rather than to wash my hands of producing anything, knowing full well that, from a fatalistic standpoint, it didn't matter.  He told me in these words, "if you wrote a song in your past life, you would have judged it and torn your hair out over how bad it was.  Every time you would have heard it after that or had to play it, you would have cringed.  You would have been haunted by it.  But, given that now that would have been a past life, you would be free from caring now, and that song would be free as well of its worst critic and judge.  Now that song would be the same for everyone that heard it: just a bittersweet, sad, sentimental song.  No one's worst nightmare.  That's the real difference that death makes on art."  He had me know that I should feel obligated to write my story, if for no other reason that to give it a full life after I am dead, condemnation and all.  As he spoke, I couldn't resist playing with the fluffy top of his amazing mullet.