If You Think To Ask
I am a dirty hippie. I can tell because in moments of despair, I close my eyes and quote the free-will astrologer, who tells us that the universe is conspiring is shower you with blessings. Last week's blessing came in the form of snot, because the universe is inscrutable and a little bit mean. This week's blessings come in the form of Gram Rabbit at the Red Devil Lounge, and some boy trying desperately to take me home at the DNA, and Caroline singing for Sunshine Blind, and lunch with my painter, and groping my way through the Tactile Dome at the Exploratorium in celebration of a photographer's birthday, and a Yuri's Night party in a house with many cats, and comedy and drinks with a hyperactive New York entrepreneur and an editor from The Onion, and the ability to make it through my aerial conditioning class without being sore the next day.
The universe has some very flexible and inventive ideas about what constitutes a blessing.
I have mended my clothes and taken the Chuck Sperry poster in for framing. I have been patient and kind to the crazy people and found attorneys for the people who are not crazy and need legal representation. My Mysterious Employers are pleased by my work-related blogging. I have received fan mail. Last night the street in front of the Concrete Bunker was blocked off because the police had shot a woman who was swerving around in her car, deliberately running it into things, and I feel a little bit better about abandoning my former loft. So far, the police have not shot anyone in front of Bunker 2.
Next week, the universe may conspire to bless me with music for my aerials act, and the name of a person who has a spare severed head I can borrow. The universe is definitely conspiring to bless me with tickets to Public Image Limited, and a brief cameo at the Hubba Hubba Review, and a meeting to discuss costume plans for May. And I know that sometimes the universe conspires to bless me with torrential rain or stabbing eye pain or some unflattering glance of myself in the mirror or a phone call from my landlady or the nagging feeling that I might have accidentally made someone angry and there is no way to repair it -- it is a quirky universe -- and the only thing to do is to hug those blessings to my chest and say "Thank you, universe, for thinking of me."
So thank you, universe. Now, if you don't mind, I am going to make an appointment with my optometrist.
The universe has some very flexible and inventive ideas about what constitutes a blessing.
I have mended my clothes and taken the Chuck Sperry poster in for framing. I have been patient and kind to the crazy people and found attorneys for the people who are not crazy and need legal representation. My Mysterious Employers are pleased by my work-related blogging. I have received fan mail. Last night the street in front of the Concrete Bunker was blocked off because the police had shot a woman who was swerving around in her car, deliberately running it into things, and I feel a little bit better about abandoning my former loft. So far, the police have not shot anyone in front of Bunker 2.
Next week, the universe may conspire to bless me with music for my aerials act, and the name of a person who has a spare severed head I can borrow. The universe is definitely conspiring to bless me with tickets to Public Image Limited, and a brief cameo at the Hubba Hubba Review, and a meeting to discuss costume plans for May. And I know that sometimes the universe conspires to bless me with torrential rain or stabbing eye pain or some unflattering glance of myself in the mirror or a phone call from my landlady or the nagging feeling that I might have accidentally made someone angry and there is no way to repair it -- it is a quirky universe -- and the only thing to do is to hug those blessings to my chest and say "Thank you, universe, for thinking of me."
So thank you, universe. Now, if you don't mind, I am going to make an appointment with my optometrist.