Image from personal Tarot deck I Tarocchi Delle Stelle by Tavaglione “Tarot of the Stars”
While waiting for a friend at the V.A., I was drawn towards an ancient pine reminiscent of The Ringing Cedars of Russia. It offered an umbrella of shade surrounded by soft, luscious grass. My body nestled into the trunk and, from there, observed and communed. Roaring traffic was jarring and seemingly endless. From neighboring trees, a symphony of harmonies rose from a chorus of birds. Reading “How to Meet and Work with Spirit Guides”, firmly placed me in a state of communion with the eternal and infinite “now”. In that precise moment, a hummingbird zoomed underneath the canopy of cedar, hovered within two feet, looked me in the eyes and spoke “hummingbird speak”. That’s when I opened up fully to “listening” by dividing my attention. Chaotic cacophonies of cars faded as I heard birds, saw the bees, while discovering in the “Animal Speak Pocket Guide” by Ted Andrews what each meant. From there, it was a magical mystery tour extraordinaire.
Following my desires, I was led from one epiphany to another. Each built on the previous one, creating a state of awe; ahh...ah ha! Nearby, an “eccentric fellow” held 3 juggling balls in his hands, a plastic jug of spring water and a book. As I approached the “wisdom trees”, he asked, “What are you reading?” I told him. The starting gun at Santa Anita went off, as did we. Excited, he asked if I’d heard about The Mentalist’s Handbook, describing how, from imagination, to create in etheric realms. Then, he suggested “Dream Interpretation”. He went on to say that he’s practicing magic, showing me a book on how to learn various tricks, rated by difficulty with pictures. It gets better. As we shared epiphanies, he continued, “It’s easy to recognize when someone is telling the truth”. We were chatting like magpies when I saw a fully dressed Hindu man approaching; six feet plus, in full white attire to the ground, faded lavender turban, long grayish-white beard to the navel; tan, thin and elegant.
As “the Guru” began to appear within speaking distance, I said to my new friend, pointing out the “signs”, look at this! Our eyes widened as we gazed at a sight that is rarely seen anywhere in a city, let alone walking down the sidewalk in Sacramento in front of the Veteran’s Administration. We greeted him with glee and ‘namaste’ while he recognized spirit mirrored back, making gestures and sounds of delighted communion. To say we were blessed by the divine would downplay the overwhelming sense of silent awe. As we wound down from this amazing magic carpet ride, I drove to the entrance to find my friend, who was there attempting to contest the curtailing of his benefits. My new friend, the “Magician”, said good-bye and my old friend, who looks like a toothless hobo, approached to leave. Mysteriously, he said he wanted to “take me somewhere”. Continuing the unfolding journey of the never-ending present, he directed me to, of all places, a “99 cent store”. It was like being transported to another world via teleportation; enormous selection, variety and interesting products lined every aisle in all directions. Products that could have easily cost a Ben Franklin elsewhere, were a fraction of the cost.
He said that when he had been homeless, he’d seen this store go from Flinstone’s-style cars in the parking lot to the Beverly Hillbilly’s: duct tape on windows and doors, unmatched colors, dents and dings galore. Today, he pointed out, “This is a sign of the economy” as we looked at the front row of new BMW’s, Mercedes, Cadillacs and other high-end autos, lined up like an auto show in L.A. Another revelation in a day of many. Being born in Santa Barbara in 1950, I reflected upon the first huge Mall built. There was Macy’s, Saks Fifth Avenue and dozens of the best upscale stores peppering metropolitan cities. Today, those cities are rippling with McDonalds, WalMarts and Taco Bells sprouting up, dandelions in the wind. Our booby prize: we have the 99 cent Dollar Store. The more things change, the more they stay the same. During the 70’s through the 90’s, two generations observed as corporations gobbled up smaller fish like minnows in a whale’s mouth. Many watched; silent spectators caught in a spell, craning our necks to see how many died in the wreck. The other shoe or bookend which began April 20th, 2014 hasn’t dropped or been written - yet.
The evolution of devolution loomed in my sights - gargantuan gargoyles coming to life. Fifteen years ago, I would take my aging father to K-Mart for a cheap thrill as bona fide consumers: a mere 15 years. Prior, at age 10, I would take the “bumpety-bumpety bus” with my mother to the most exciting store in town. She made it sound like the bumping of the bus was really fun and a game, not the bane of lower middle class existence, which built itself upon the sands; a diet of “the dolls”, tract homes and Ed Sullivan shows with Topo Gigio. The store’s name? Woolworth’s! The sign above the entrance said, 5 and 10 Cent Store, or “five and dime”, in drug store parlance. Home-style smells of popped non-GMO corn and aspartame-free candy grabbed us as we stepped onto the wooden floor covered with sawdust. From there, I spied the swivel stools at the magic Fountain; my choice was always Root Beer Float. Mirrors gave one the chance to observe the circus from many dimensions. The same clowns seem more sinister today, cloned from the original template in Steven King’s “It”.
Back at the “fountain”, there were dancing waterfalls of sweetened exotic beverages; Strawberry and Watermelon juice, Tangerine Delight, tempting neon colors and dancing liquids. After reveling in our treat, we would go downstairs into the “dark night of the soul of Woolworth”, the bargain basement. Bins with reams of fabrics and adornments by the foot or yard, sequins, jewels, faux diamonds and a jillion dazzling spectacles waylaid us for hours. Of course, there is never enough money to truly indulge at any of these places; little did I know that 53 years later, I would be entering “the new-old paradigm”, already designed to roll out as our memories, focus and attention were whittled away. Fluoride in the water, GMO foods and chemtrails are words my grandparents, who came to California from Kansas in a covered wagon, would find incomprehensible. Today, those who awaken use another word: reprehensible. The following two generations have barely a clue, as planned. We must whisper in their ears, and some are listening. The Awakening can neither be stopped, nor is it always polite.
For “the young”, there is a special message to share: “Cherish your 99 cent stores, the cheap thrills of a not-very-cheap cell phone with texting and mind blowing “apps”. You are entering a virtual reality which bedazzles and beguiles, full of glamour and glitz. You are in the Twilight Zone. It helps to laugh a lot. Take more ‘selfies’ and get your stories into the Cloud, rising above the drone of computers: Destination Unknown. You are the new Storytellers, the Neo-Shamans from Zion. Perhaps, a few will choose an organic path which leads in another direction; ultimately, the same destination. This path is highly intuitive and marches to the beat of another drummer. As indigenous tribes and ancestors fade to black, memories inorganically fade with them. Grasp the new “talking stick” and share with honor, dignity and truth; seize the day. We are always with you.”